A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found,
Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round them play,
On “coignes of vantage” hang their nests of clay;
How quickly from that aery hold unbound,
Dust for oblivion! To the solid ground
Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye;
Convinced that there, there only, she can lay
Secure foundations. As the year runs round,
Apart she toils within the chosen ring;
While the stars shine, or while day’s purple eye
Is gently closing with the flowers of spring;
Where even the motion of an Angel’s wing
Would interrupt the intense tranquillity
Of silent hills, and more than silent sky.