Among the olden avenues of trees,
The spirit gathered, weaving into wings,
To waft it up through space-encircling seas,
Whose waves are inspiration, and where rings
The octave of the spheres, with quiv’ring echoings.
My ever eager eyes, with quenchless thirst,
Drank in the glory of the scene. Before,
Commingling mountains, indistinct at first
And far, sublimely rose: each range would o’er
The rearward, slow-ascending summits soar,