Page:Prometheus Unbound - Shelley.djvu/78

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        Of the last strain, then lifts on high
        The wings of the weak melody,
      Till some new strain of feeling bear
        The song, and all the woods are mute;
      When there is heard through the dim air
      The rush of wings, and rising there,
        Like many a lake-surrounded flute,
      Sounds overflow the listener's brain
      So sweet, that joy is almost pain.

      There those enchanted eddies play
        Of echoes, music-tongued, which draw,
        By Demogorgon's mighty law,
        With melting rapture, or sweet awe,
      All spirits on that secret way,
          As inland boats are driven to Ocean
      Down streams made strong with mountain-thaw;
      And first there comes a gentle sound
      To those in talk or slumber bound,
          And wakes the destined; soft emotion
      Attracts, impels them; those who saw
      Say from the breathing earth behind
      There steams a plume-uplifting wind