Lend, Lend Your Wings! I

Where'er You Walk Cool Gales Shall Fan The Glade, Trees Where You Sit Shall Crowd Into A Shade. Where'er You Tread The Blushing Flowers Shall Rise, And All Things Flourish Where You Turn Your Eyes.

Nor Public Flame, Nor Private, Dares To Shine; Nor Human Spark Is Left, Nor Glimpse Divine! Lo! Thy Dread Empire, Chaos! Is Restored; Light Dies Before Thy Uncreating Word: Thy Hand, Great Anarch! Lets The Curtain Fall; And Universal Darkness Buries All.

Hope Springs Eternal.

Then, At The Last And Only Couplet Fraught With Some Unmeaning Thing They Call A Thought, A Needless Alexandrine Ends The Song, That, Like A Wounded Snake, Drags Its Slow Length Along.

Who Know But He, Whose Hand The Lightning Forms, Who Heaves Old Ocean, And Who Wings The Storms, Pours Fierce Ambition In A Caesar's Mind.