He builds on Nature who to genuine Art
Entrusts his bold foundation: not alone
Is the soil Earth, but whatsoe'er is grown
Out of the genial vigour of Earth's heart:
The loftiest Alp which scruples not to dart
Into another world its flying cone
Springs from the humble Earth and is her own;
When the pine breaks the sod, a mother's smart,
Nought more, she feels—'tis part of her, although
The currents of a hundred feet above
Toss its wild leaves that never can be still;
Yet doth she feed it with a mother's love,
And there the heaven-instructed birds bestow
Their pensile tenements and fear no ill.