And plucked the vine that first-born prophets plucked;
And mused on famous tombs, and on the wave
Of ocean mused, and on the desert waste,
The heavens and earth of every country; saw
Where'er the old inspiring genii dwelt,
Aught that could expand, refine the soul,
Thither he went, and meditated there.
He touched his harp and nations heard, entranced,
As some vast river of unfailing source.
Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed
And ope'd new fountains in the human heart
Where fancy halted, weary in her flight,
In other men, _his_ fresh as morning rose,
And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home
Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great,
Beneath their arguments seemed struggling, while
He from above descending, stopped to touch
The loftiest thought, and proudly stooped as though
It scarce deserved his verse. With nature's self
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will, with all her glorious Majesty;
He laid his hand upon "the ocean's wave,"
And played familiar with his hoary locks;
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines,
And with the thunder talked, as friend to friend,
And wove his garland of the light'ning's wing,
In sportive twist;--the light'ning's fiery wing,
Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God,
Marching up the storm in vengeance, seemed
Then turned: and with the grasshopper, who song