Look high, O soul! for what is earth but dust?
The fleet­ing sha­dow of the bet­ter things?
The heav’ns are thine if thou wilt use thy wings,
And sighs are songs, if thou wilt on­ly trust.

Aim high, O soul! for on the high­er forms
Is al­ways room, while low­er ranks are filled;
Who climbs the heights finds all earth’s nois­es stilled,
And sweet the calm and light ab­ove the storms.

Be high, O soul! scorn what is low and base;
Child of a king they call thee; be a king,
And troops of vas­sals will their trib­ute bring,
To crown thee, heir of glo­ry, child of grace.