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ATLANTIS.
Their flitting shapes, from whispering cedars freed,Shall haunt as dreams our shadow-veiled retreat,Where slumber-silenced hours shall move with slothful feet.
XVII."Here while the cycles blissfully appear, Our kingly sons their steadfast thrones shall climb:Swift hands shall toil their templed halls to rear, Whose cloud-hung bells on soaring winds shall chime; No mystic scripture there shall threat of time,No voice of prophet utter woes abroad: But clang of harp and chant of lore sublime,Shall heaven's high-vaulted roofs of peace defraud:For always minstrels proud the island gods shall laud!
XVIII."Here shall the sphere-descended powers recline,
