Ranter. Forth issue from his steaming mouth
These long imprisoned Alps of tow'ring smoke,
"Riding upon the bosom of the air."
Him had his inauspicious cruel stars
Destin'd to oil, to dress the flowing curl,
And with nice hand to weave the yielding hair.
But each revolving, rising, setting sun
Beheld this hero looking on his trade
With eyes indignant. His exalted soul
Launch'd 'yond the limits of his narrow sphere.