Some quiet spot, to meditation free;—
When the Material we do not see,
Then Fancy may bespeak
Aught that she will;—the dim
And shadowy her peopled world, she finds
Forms in the darkness;—in the troublous winds
Can trace a conqueror's hymn!
Sleep has its dreams, and night
Its inspirations,—bounding, changing still,—
Imagination on some shrouded hill