The Eagle, he was lord above

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

Dreams, books, are each a world.

Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.

Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.