INSIDE PLUM ISLAND.
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One standing eager in the prow Blew out his bugle cheerly,And far and wide their horns replied More silverly and clearly.
And falling down the falling tide, Slow and more slowly going,Flown far, flown far, flown faint and fine, We heard their horns still blowing.
Then, with the last delicious note To other skies alluring,Down ran the sails; beneath the Bluff The boat lay at her mooring.
Came they, these subtile powers, to tell The poet, at their revels,How blest to live delightful days Among these meadow levels?
Blest as to lead his lonely thought Above horizons vaster,Close to the stars, transfigured on The awful heights of Shasta!
