Ride The Air In Whirlwind.

Oft, On A Plat Of Rising Ground, I Hear The Far-off Curfew Sound Over Some Wide-watered Shore, Swinging Low With Sullen Roar.

Thus With The Year Seasons Return, But Not To Me Returns Day, Or The Sweet Approach Of Ev'n Or Morn, Or Sight Of Vernal Bloom, Or Summer's Rose, Or Flocks, Or Herds, Or Human Face Divine.

He Touch'd The Tender Stops Of Various Quills, With Eager Thought Warbling His Doric Lay.

Awake, Arise Or Be For Ever Fall’n.

And These Gems Of Heav'n, Her Starry Train.