With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd --
Albeit labouring for a scanty band
Of white-robed Scholars only -- this immense
And glorious Work of fine intelligence!
Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
Of nicely-calculated less or more;
-- So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense
These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells,
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
Lingering -- and wandering on as loth to die;
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality.