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.