And slumbering echo, like fairy fay,
Murmurs the words of his wakening lay.
But the rosy beams of the coming morn
Tell us how fast the night has worn,
How far and free the soul has strayed,
Wandering 'mong scenes in fancy laid;
And the heathcock's note, or the matin bell,
As the morning breeze brings its pealing swell,
Recalls the soul from its musings there,
To find its "Castles"—built in air.