The stars prophetic of repose.
Thou feel'st the sunny influence
Like Memnon's fabled lyre of old,
And wanderest in the beam intense
Which turns the liquid air to gold.
The spirit's bright imaginings
Ne'er soar'd to loftier spheres than thee,
And if I had, thy fairy wings,
Afar from earthly haunts I'd flee.
Insipid are the weekly themes