Like the Wild Huntsman’s band. And still they live,
To those fair scenes imperishably bound,
And, from the mountain-mist still flashing by,
Startle the wanderer who hath listen’d there
To the seer’s voice: phantoms of colour’d thought,
Surviving him who raised. O eloquence!
O power, whose breathings thus could wake the dead!
Who shall wake thee? lord of the buried past!
And art thou there—to those dim nations join’d,
Thy subject-host so long? The wand is dropp’d,