Nor mark’d the fanning breezes as they dy’d.
IX.
At length, Imagination, roving maid,
Though gentle sleep had fetter’d all my pow’rs
In golden chains, my busy soul convey’d
To other landscapes and immortal bow’rs.
X.
Methought I stood amidst a garden fair,
Whose bounds no sight of mortal eye could trace,
Situate mid-way, betwixt earth, seas, and air,