"As sound—blithe race! whose mantles were bedecked With golden grasshoppers, in sign that they Had sprung, like those bright creatures, from the soil Whereon their endless generations dwelt. But stop! these theoretic fancies jar On serious minds: then, as the Hindoos draw Their holy Ganges from a skyey fount, Even so deduce the stream of human life, From seats of power divine; and hope, or trust, That our existence winds her stately course Beneath the sun, like Ganges, to make part Of a living ocean; or, to sink engulfed, Like Niger, in impenetrable sands And utter darkness: thought which may be faced, Though comfortless!"