LXXXVI.
             
        Sweet after showers, ambrosial air,
            That rollest from the gorgeous gloom
            Of evening over brake and bloom
        And meadow, slowly breathing bare

        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.’