XXXVII.

‘ Tis the whole world whereon they lie,

The rocky pastures hung on high

Shelve off upon an empty sky.

But they creep near the edge, look down —

Great heaven! another world afloat,

Moored as in seas of air; remote

As their own childhood; swooning away

Into a tenderer sweeter day,

Innocent, sunny.‘ O for wings!

There lie the lands of other kings —

I Sigismund, my sometime crown

Forfeit; forgotten of renown

My wars, my rule; I fain would go

Down to yon peace obscure.’

Even so;

Down to the country of the thyme,

Where young kids dance, and a soft chime

Of sheepbells tinkles; then at last

Down to a country of hollows, cast

Up at the mountains full of trees,

Down to fruit orchards and wide leas.