Whose pathless march no mortal may control!
Ye ocean waves, that, wheresoe'er ye roll,
Yield homage only to eternal laws!
Ye woods, that listen to the night-bird's singing,
Midway the smooth and perilous steep reclin'd;
Save when your own imperious branches swinging
Have made a solemn music of the wind!
Where, like a man belov'd of God,
Thro' glooms, which never woodman trod,
How oft, pursuing fancies holy,