So prayed, more gaining than he asked, the Bard—­
    In holiest mood.  Urania, I shall need
    Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such
    Descend to earth or dwell in highest heaven! 
    For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink
    Deep—­and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds
    To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. 
    All strength—­all terror, single or in bands,
    That ever was put forth in personal form—­
    Jehovah—­with His thunder, and the choir
    Of shouting Angels, and the empyreal thrones—­
    I pass them unalarmed.  Not Chaos, not
    The darkest pit of lowest Erebus,
    Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out
    By help of dreams—­can breed such fear and awe
    As fall upon us often when we look
    Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man—­
    My haunt, and the main region of my song. 
    —­Beauty—­a living Presence of the earth,
    Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms
    Which craft of delicate Spirits hath composed
    From earth’s materials—­waits upon my steps;
    Pitches her tents before me as I move,
    An hourly neighbour.  Paradise, and groves
    Elysian, Fortunate Fields—­like those of old
    Sought in the Atlantic Main—­why should they be
    A history only of departed things,
    Or a mere fiction of what never was? 
    For the discerning intellect of Man,
    When wedded to this goodly universe
    In love and holy passion, shall find these
    A simple produce of the common day. 
    —­I, long before the blissful hour arrives,
    Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse
    Of this great consummation:—­and, by words
    Which speak of nothing more than what we are,
    Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep
    Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain
    To noble raptures; while my voice proclaims
    How exquisitely the individual Mind
    (And the progressive powers perhaps no less
    Of the whole species) to the external World
    Is fitted:—­and how exquisitely, too—­
    Theme this but little heard of among men—­
    The external World is fitted to the Mind;
    And the creation (by no lower name
    Can it be called) which they with blended might
    Accomplish:—­this is our high argument. 
    —­Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft
    Must turn elsewhere—­to travel near the tribes
    And fellowships of men, and see ill sights
    Of madding passions mutually inflamed;
    Must hear Humanity in fields and groves
    Pipe solitary anguish; or must hang
    Brooding above the fierce confederate storm
    Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore
    Within the walls of cities—­may these sounds
    Have their authentic comment; that even these
    Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn!—­
    Descend, prophetic Spirit! that inspir’st