A VOLANT tribe of bards on earth are found,
Who, while the flatt'ring zephyrs round them play,
On 'coignes of vantage' hang their nests of clay,
Work cunningly devis'd, and seeming sound;
But quickly from its airy hold unbound
By its own weight, or wash'd, or blown away
With silent imperceptible decay.
If man must build, admit him to thy ground,
O Truth!-to work within the eternal ring,
When the stars shine, or while day's purple eye
Is gently closing with the flowers of spring;
When even the motion of an angel's wing
Would interrupt the intense tranquillity
Of silent hills, and more than silent sky.