The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,   

Are shining on the sad abodes of death,  

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,   

Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed"

The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,   

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 

Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun

Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales   

Stretching in pensive quietness between;   

Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,   

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods   

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,