Anon out of the earth a fabric huge Rose, like an exhalation.
His sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.
No date prefixed directs me in the starry rubric set.
To live a life half dead, a living death.
The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.