And the pale moon glides like a virgin bride

Humbly behind the footsteps of her love:

When the sweet morn dawns on the sleeping world

To bring reality to visions bright;

And on the curtain of dissolving mist

Arches the many-tinted sign of heaven?

Hast thou the minstrelsie of the wild woods,

[Pg 11]

Clear-tided strains floating along the sky,

Swelling, subsiding, like a silvery sea

Beneath the dulcet breathing of the south?

Hast thou that essence of all joyousness—

The glorious independence of the soul—

That spurneth man's usurpëd tyranny,

The power of wealth, and hapless circumstance,

And, sweeping on its own unaided wings,

Measures the circuit of the boundless sky?

What is thy wealth, that fadeth in the use,

And all the pomp and vanity it buys,

To the rich treasure of undying thought,

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