The soaring Lark is blest as proud
  When at Heaven's gate she sings;
The roving Bee proclaims aloud
  Her flight by vocal wings;
While Ye, in lasting durance pent,
  Your silent lives employ
For something "more than dull content,
  Though haply less than joy."

Yet might your glassy prison seem
  A place where joy is known, 
Where golden flash and silver gleam
  Have meanings of their own;
While, high and low, and all about,
  Your motions, glittering Elves!
Ye weave--no danger from without,
  And peace among yourselves.

Type of a sunny human breast
  Is your transparent Cell;
Where Fear is but a transient Guest,
  No sullen Humours dwell; 
Where, sensitive of every ray
  That smites this tiny sea,
Your scaly panoplies repay
  The loan with usury.

How beautiful! Yet none knows why
  This ever-graceful change,
Renewed--renewed incessantly--
  Within your quiet range.
Is it that ye with conscious skill
  For mutual pleasure glide; 
And sometimes, not without your will,
  Are dwarfed, or magnified?

Fays--Genii of gigantic size--
  And now, in twilight dim,
Clustering like constellated Eyes,
  In wings of Cherubim,
When they abate their fiery glare:
  Whate'er your forms express,
Whate'er ye seem, whate'er ye are,
  All leads to gentleness. 

Cold though your nature be, 'tis pure,
  Your birthright is a fence
From all that haughtier kinds endure
  Through tyranny of sense.
Ah! not alone by colours bright
  Are Ye to Heaven allied,
When, like essential Forms of light,
  Ye mingle, or divide.

For day-dreams soft as e'er beguiled
  Day-thoughts while limbs repose; 
For moonlight fascinations mild,
  Your gift, ere shutters close;
Accept, mute Captives! thanks and praise;
  And may this tribute prove
That gentle admirations raise
  Delight resembling love.