And edges ocean with a fiery rim.
And while I touch, with nails ypared anew,
Thy parallel and quadrupedal strings,
May fairies brush away the vesper dew,
That else mote moist the chorded chitterlings.
And ah! full oft the learned tribe, I trow,
With baleful dews of cavil damp thy strain.
But morning shall return, the sun shall glow,
The baleful dews shall fly, the harp shall sound again.
It was a castle of turrets grey,