The
round of space, and rapt below
Thro’ all the dewy-tassell’d wood,
And shadowing down the horned flood
In
ripples, fan my brows and blow
The
fever from my cheek, and sigh
The full new life that feeds thy breath
Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death,
Ill
brethren, let the fancy fly
From
belt to belt of crimson seas
On leagues of odour streaming far,
To where in yonder orient star
A
hundred spirits whisper ‘Peace.’