All day with down-dropt lids I sat In trance; the present scene foregone. When Hesper rose, on Ararat, Methought, not English hills, he shone. Back to the Ark, the waters o'er, The primal dove pursued her flight: A branch of that blest tree she bore Which feeds the Church with holy light. I heard her rustling through the air With sliding plume,--no sound beside, Save the sea-sobbings everywhere, And sighs of the subsiding tide.