18 
CONCHOLOGIST’S COMPANION. 
Proud, scornful man! thy soaring wing 
Would hurry towards Infinity : 
And yet the vilest, meanest thing 
Is too sublime, too deep for thee ; 
And all thy vain imagining 
Lost in the smallest speck we see. 
It must be so :—for He, even He 
Who worlds created, formed the worm : 
He pours the dew, who filled the sea ; 
Breathes from the flower, who rules the storm : 
Him we may worship,—not conceive ; 
See not and hear not,—but adore ; 
Bow in the dust, obey, believe ; 
Utter his name, and know no more.’’* 
Adieu!’ 1am, &c. 
* Bowring’s Matins and Vespers. 
