Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul And lap it in Elysium.
A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.
To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull Night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise.
How often from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to other's note, Singing their great Creator?
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