A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.

Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.

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

Evil on itself shall back recoil.

Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss.

What call thou solitude? Is not the earth with various living creatures, and the air replenished, and all these at thy command to come and play before thee?

In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change Perplexes monarchs.