And now from thy demesne must haste away:
Perchance that of the aftertime,
Of nodding plumes and chivalrous array,
In aftertime I sing a roundelay.
VII.
Fair Spirit of ethereal birth,
In whom such mysteries and beauties blend!
Still from thine ancient dwelling-place descend
And idealize our too material earth;
Still to the Bard thy chaste conceptions lend,