Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,

With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd--

Albeit labouring for a scanty band

Of white-robed Scholars only--this immense

And glorious Work of fine intelligence!

Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore

Of nicely-calculated less or more;

--So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense

These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof

Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells,

Where light and shade repose, where music dwells

Lingering--and wandering on as loth to die;

Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof

That they were born for immortality.