More fit with laurel to be garlanded
Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil,
Breathes of Castalia’s streams, and best Macassar oil?
They throng around me now, those things of air
That from my fancy took their being’s stamp:
There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair,
There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp;
There pale Zanoni, bending o’er his lamp,
Roams through the starry wilderness of thought,
Where all is everything, and everything is nought.