The Mountain Nymph, Sweet Liberty.

Assuredly We Bring Not Innocence Not The World, We Bring Impurity Much Rather: That Which Purifies Us Is Trial, And Trial Is By What Is Contrary.

The Saviour Who Flitted Before The Patriarchs Through The Fog Of The Old Dispensation, And Who Spake In Time Past To The Fathers By The Prophets, Articulate But Unseen, Is The Same Saviour Who, On The Open Heights Of The Gospel, And In The Abundant Daylight Of This New Testament, Speaks To Us. Still All Along It Is The Same Jesus, And That Bible Is From Beginning To End All Of It, The Word Of Christ.

Where Eldest Night And Chaos, Ancestors Of Nature, Hold Eternal Anarchy Amidst The Noise Of Endless Wars, And By Confusion Stand; For Hot, Cold, Moist, And Dry, Four Champions Fierce, Strive Here For Mast'ry.

Let Us Descend Now Therefore From This Top Of Speculation.

And Fast By, Hanging In A Golden Chain, This Pendent World, In Bigness As A Star Of Smallest Magnitude, Close By The Moon.