Like bland airs wafted from Elysian fields.
Sublime and fond illusion! This endears
The rural burial place to British maids,
Who wander there to mourn a mother lost,
Or supplicate the hero’s safe return,
Who of its mast the hostile ship despoiled,
To scoop from it his own triumphal bier.[3]
Where slumbers the high thirst of glorious deeds,
And wealth and fear are ministers to life,
Unhallowed images of things unseen,