I look'd to find a man who walk'd with God,
Like the translated patriarch of old;
Though gladden'd millions on his footstool trod,
Yet none with him did such sweet converse hold;
I heard the wind in low complaint go by,
That none its melodies like him could hear;
Day unto day spoke wisdom from on high,
Yet none, like David, turn'd a willing ear;
God walk'd alone unhonour'd through the earth;
For him no heart built temple open stood;
The soul, forgetful of her nobler birth,
Had hewn him lofty shrines of stone and wood,
And left unfinish'd and in ruins still
The only temple he delights to fill.