How sweetly did they float upon the wings
Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night;
At every fall smoothing the raven down
Of darkness till it smil’d: I have oft heard,
Amidst the flow’ry-kirtled Naiades,
My mother Circe, with the Sirens three,
Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs,
Who, as they sung, would take the poison’d soul
And lap it in Elysium.——
But such a sacred, and home-felt delight,