Chapter 16 No.16

By those eyes blinded and that heavenly head

And the secluded soul adorable,

O Milton's land, what ails thee to be dead?

Thine ears are yet sonorous with his shell

That all the songs of all thy sea-line fed

With motive sound of spring-tides at mid swell,

And through thine heart his thought as blood is shed,

Requickening thee wi