XCVIII.

The Morn is up again, the dewy Morn, With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom-- Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And living as if earth contained no tomb,-- And glowing into day: we may resume The march of our existence: and thus I, Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room And food for meditation, nor pass by Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly.