And this, before, might I have done If I had courage—that is all. ’Tis easier now to soar than run; Up! up!—we neither tire nor fall. Children of dust, be yours to crawl On the vile earth!—while, happier, I Must listen to an inward call, That bids me mount, that makes me fly. 200 XXVI. I tumble from the loftiest tower, Yet evil have I never found; Supported by some favouring power, I come in safety to the ground. I rest upon the sea, the sound Of many waters in mine ear; Yet have no dread of being drown’d, But see my way, and cease to fear. XXVII. Awake, there is no living man Who may my fixed spirit shake; 210 But, sleeping, there is one who can, And oft does he the trial make. Against his might resolves I take, And him oppose with high disdain; But quickly all my powers forsake My mind, and I resume my chain. XXVIII. I know not how, but I am brought Into a large and Gothic hall, Seated with those I never sought— Kings, Caliphs, Kaisers—silent all; 220 Pale as the dead; enrobed and tall, Majestic, frozen, solemn, still; They wake my fears, my wits appal, And with both scorn and terror fill. XXIX. Now are they seated at a board In that cold grandeur—I am there. But what can mummied kings afford? This is their meagre ghostly fare, And proves what fleshless things they stare! Yes! I am seated with the dead: 230 How great, and yet how mean they are! Yes! I can scorn them while I dread? XXX. They’re gone!—and in their room I see A fairy being, form and dress Brilliant as light; nor can there be On earth that heavenly loveliness; Nor words can that sweet look express, Or tell what living gems adorn That wond’rous beauty: who can guess Where such celestial charms were born? 240 XXXI. Yet, as I wonder and admire, The grace is gone, the glory dead; And now it is but mean attire Upon a shrivel’d beldame spread; Laid loathsome on a pauper’s bed, Where wretchedness and woe are found, And the faint putrid odour shed By all that’s foul and base around! XXXII. A garden this? oh, lovely breeze! Oh, flowers that with such freshness bloom!— 250 Flowers shall I call such forms as these, Or this delicious air perfume? Oh! this from better worlds must come; On earth such beauty who can meet? No! this is not the native home Of things so pure, so bright, so sweet! XXXIII.