A simple lark—this is a fable new—
  That perched each morn upon a golden ray,
  Up where the lashes of the eye of day
Sweep all night's lesser jewels out of view;
Beheld a lovely idol's shrine, and flew
Down earthwards, to that form of painted clay,
And warbled there his sweetest, purest lay,
Thinking his song might it with life imbue.
  He sang to it God's Royal Anthem—Love;
At Eden's windows he had caught the strain—
  His lay the soulless image could not move—
His melodies were warbled all in vain;
  He turned away and tried to soar above,
But never reached his morning perch again.