Drinking thy favoring glance, more rudely lash 
 Their rocky bulwark?—Do thy children trace 
 Through crystal tube our coarser-featured orb 
 Even as we gaze on thee?—With Euclid’s art 
 Perchance, from pole to pole, her sphere they span, 
 Her sun-loved tropics—and her spreading seas 
 Rich with their myriad isles. Perchance they mark 
 Where India’s cliffs the trembling cloud invade, 
 Or Andes with his fiery banner flouts 
 The empyrean,—where old Atlas towers,— 
 Or that rough chain whence he of Carthage pour’d 
 Terrors on Rome.—Thou, too, perchance, hast nursed 
 Some bold Copernicus, or fondly call’d 
 A Galileo forth, those sun-like souls 
 Which shone in darkness, though our darkness fail’d