And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.

That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.

If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus famliarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to the aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.

The Eagle, he was lord above

Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.

Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.

Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?