Nursed in thine arms, the vacant—void no more—
In countless numbers issue from thy door!
6.
Confusion tightly pack’d within each brain—
Or air, compress’d, distending the inane,
Thine is the gas they own, and thine the lead,
The tongue untiring, and the addled head.
7.
To pulpit and to platform see them fly,
For, wind-distracted, they must speak or die;