From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging.

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.

Evil into the mind of god or man may come and go, so unapproved, and leave no spot or blame behind.

Death from sin no power can separate.

Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil.

Heaven open'd wide Her ever during gates, harmonious sound, On golden hinges moving.

A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses