The Pilot Of The Galilean

What Needs My Shakespeare For His Honour'd Bones,- The Labour Of An Age In Piled Stones? Or That His Hallow'd Relics Should Be Hid Under A Star-y-pointing Pyramid? Dear Son Of Memory, Great Heir Of Fame, What Need'st Thou Such Weak Witness Of Thy Name?

How Sweetly Did They Float Upon The Wings Of Silence Through The Empty-vaulted Night, At Every Fall Smoothing The Raven Down Of Darkness Till It Smiled!

Socrates... Whom Well Inspir'd The Oracle Pronounc'd Wisest Of Men.

Truth Is Compared In Scripture To A Streaming Fountain; If Her Waters Flow Not In Perpetual Progression, They Sicken Into A Muddy Pool Of Conformity And Tradition.

For So I Created Them Free And Free They Must Remain.