PROCEMIUM. 



As if upon a full proportion'd dome, 



On swelling columns heaved, the pride of art, 



A critic fly, whose feeble ray scarce spreads 



An inch around, with blind presumption bold 



Should dare to tax the structure of the whole. 



And lives the man whose universal eye 



Has swept at once the unbounded scheme of thinops, 



Mark'd their dependence so, and firm accord, 



As with unfaltering accent to conclude 



That this availeth nought ? Has any seen 



The mighty chain of beings, lessening down 



From Infinite Perfection to the brink 



Of dreary nothing, desolate abyss ! 



From which astonish'd thought, recoiling, turns ? 



Till then alone let zealous praise ascend. 



And hymns of holy wonder, to that Power 



Whose wisdom shines as lovely on our minds 



As on our smiling eyes his servant Sun." 



Thomson. 



