And bound their wary flight in narrower rings,
And with light pebbles, like a balanc’d boat,
Pois’d through the air on even pinions float.
* * * * *
Not Lydia’s sons, nor Parthia’s peopled shore
Mede, or Egyptian, thus their king adore.
He lives and moves through all th’ accordant soul—
He dies, and by his death dissolves the whole;
Rage and fierce war their wondrous fabric tear,
Scatter their combs, and waste in wild despair.