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Whence Fancy falls, fluttering her idle wing.
For who of woman born may paint the hour,410
When seiz'd in his mid course the Sun shall wane
Making noon ghastly! Who of woman born
May image in his wildly-working thought,
How the black-visag'd, red-eyed Fiend outstretcht
Beneath th' unsteady feet of Nature groans415
In feverish slumbers—destin'd then to wake,
When fiery whirlwinds thunder his dread name
And Angels shout, Destruction! How his arm
The mighty Spirit lifting high in air
Shall swear by Him, the ever-living One,420
Time is no more!
Believe thou, O my soul,
Life is a vision shadowy of Truth,
