Voltaire and Rousseau, these were thy twin priests, <br />Proud Mother Nature, on thy opening day. <br />The first with bitter gibes perplexed the feasts <br />Of thy high rival, and prepared the way; <br />The other built thy shrine. 'Twas here, men say, <br />De Warens lived, whose pleasure was the text <br />Of the new gospel of the sons of clay, <br />The latest born of time, by faith unvexed. <br />Here for a century with reverent feet <br />Pilgrims, oppressed with barrenness of soul, <br />Toiled in their tears as to a Paraclete. <br />On these white hills they heard Earth's thunders roll <br />In sneers outpreaching the lost voice of God, <br />And shouted ``Ichabod, ay, Ichabod!''<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-new-pilgrimage-sonnet-xxiii/
