In changing columns, quick and glancing,
As if the skies, by miracle,
Were full of angel-lustres dancing.
And these in bright successive changes,
The boy, that through the woodland ranges
Beholds appall’d, and in his fear
Believes the judgment-day is near;
While duller wits are gravely set
With glass, and tube and tourniquet,
And eyes asquint,—at what they call