They stream up again. What seeks on this mountain The glorified train?-- They bathe on this mountain, In the spring by their road. Then on to Olympus, Their endless abode.

--Whose praise do they mention: Of what is it told?-- What will be for ever. What was from of old. First hymn they the Father Of all things: and then, The rest of Immortals, The action of men.

The Day in his hotness, The strife with the palm; The Night in her silence, The Stars in their calm. 749. To Marguerite YES: in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us thrown.

Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live alone. The islands feel the enclasping flow, And then their endless bounds they know. But when the moon their hollows lights, And they are swept by balms of spring, And in their glens, on starry nights, The nightingales divinely sing; And lovely notes, from shore to shore, Across the sounds and channels pour; O then a longing like despair Is to their farthest caverns sent! For surely once, they feel, we were Parts of a single continent.

Now round us spreads the watery plain-- O might our marges meet again! Who order'd that their longing's fire Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd? Who renders vain their deep desire?-- A God, a God their severance ruled; And bade betwixt their shores to be The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea. 750. Requiescat STREW on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew.

In quiet she reposes: Ah! would that I did too. Her mirth the world required: She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be.