Beneath a bower, where poplar branches long
Embracing wove Seclusion o’er the abode
Of hermit sage, what time the full moon rode
’Mid spectre clouds her star-paved streets along,
Rose on the listening air a plaintive song,
Sweet as the harmony of an angel’s lyre,
And soft as sweet; breathed heavenward from a quire
Of Beauty, hid the encircling shades among.
Of mysteries high, I ween, that sage had dreamed—
Who now, upstarting, clasps his hands to hear