Aha! see now each smooth-cheeked Cyprian stoop,
And, shivering, the myrtle pale and yield!
Far in the Northland, in the sharp white light,
Its clear-cut pinnacle my palace rears;
With myriad glancing spirits of the Right,
Cleanse I the world of hopes and lies and fears!
He ceased; and all the silvered forest, trembling, bowed;
The mystic shadows vanished and the far seemed near,
Nor won the lake a charm from changing moon or cloud,
But all eternal seemed, and each in beauty peer.
Soft, and hear me, - from the East advancing,
Come I from the lands of rich Cathay;
Fair-limbed nymphs of air are ever dancing
In the gardens where I hold my sway;
Ne'er we hear of toiling or of weeping,
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