Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread

Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below,

Like the wild Chamois from her Alpine snow,

Where hunter never climb'd,—secure from dread?

How many antique fancies have I read

Of that mild presence! and how many wrought!

Wondrous and bright,

Upon the silver light,

Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought!

II.