And the vault’s hoary sides to which they cling, 105 Imaged in downward show; the flower, the Herbs,[397] _These_ not of earthly texture, and the vault Not _there_ diminutive, but through a scale Of vision less and less distinct, descending To gloom imperishable. So (if truths 110 The highest condescend to be set forth By processes minute), even so--when thought Wins help from something greater than herself-- Is the firm basis of habitual sense Supplanted, not for treacherous vacancy 115 And blank dissociation from a world We love, but that the residues of flesh, Mirrored, yet not too strictly, may refine To Spirit; for the idealising Soul Time wears the features of Eternity; 120 And Nature deepens into Nature’s God. Millions of kneeling Hindoos at this day Bow to the watery element, adored In their vast stream, and if an age hath been (As books and haply votive altars vouch) 125 When British floods were worshipped, some faint trace Of that idolatry, through monkish rites Transmitted far as living memory, Might wait on thee, a silent monitor, On thee, bright Spring, a bashful little one, 130 Yet to the measure of thy promises True, as the mightiest; upon thee, sequestered For meditation, nor inopportune For social interest such as I have shared. Peace to the sober matron who shall dip 135 Her pitcher here at early dawn, by me No longer greeted--to the tottering sire, For whom like service, now and then his choice, Relieves the tedious holiday of age-- Thoughts raised above the Earth while here he sits 140 Feeding on sunshine--to the blushing girl Who here forgets her errand, nothing loth To be waylaid by her betrothed, peace And pleasure sobered down to happiness! But should these hills be ranged by one whose soul 145 Scorning love-whispers shrinks from love itself As Fancy’s snare for female vanity, Here may the aspirant find a trysting-place For loftier intercourse. The Muses crowned With wreaths that have not faded to this hour 150 Sprung from high Jove, of sage Mnemosyne Enamoured, so the fable runs; but they Certes were self-taught damsels, scattered births Of many a Grecian vale, who sought not praise, And, heedless even of listeners, warbled out 155 Their own emotions given to mountain air In notes which mountain echoes would take up Boldly and bear away to softer life; Hence deified as sisters they were bound Together in a never-dying choir; 160 Who with their Hippocrene and grottoed fount Of Castaly, attest that Woman’s heart