Ht With The Hiss Of Russling Wings. As Bees In Spring Time, When The Sun With Taurus Rides, Pour Forth Thir Populous Youth About The Hive In Clusters; They Among Fresh Dews And Flowers Flie To And Fro, Or On The Smoothed Plank, The Suburb Of Thir Straw-Built Cittadel, New Rub'D With Baume, Expatiate And Confer Thir State Affairs. So Thick The Aerie Crowd Swarm'D And Were Straitn'D; Till The Signal Giv'N, Behold A Wonder! They But Now Who Seemd In Bigness To Surpass Earths Giant Sons Now Less Then Smallest Dwarfs, In Narrow Room Throng Numberless, Like That Pigmean Race Beyond The Indian Mount, Or Faerie Elves, Whose Midnight Revels, By A Forrest Side Or Fountain Some Belated Peasant Sees, Or Dreams He Sees, While Over Head The Moon Sits Arbitress, And Neerer To The Earth Wheels Her Pale Course, They On Thir Mirth And Dance Intent, With Jocond Music Charm His Ear; At Once With Joy And Fear His Heart Rebounds. Thus Incorporeal Spirits To Smallest Forms Reduc'D Thir Shapes Immense, And Were At Large, Though Without Number Still Amidst The Hall Of That Infernal Court. But Far Within And In Thir Own Dimensions Like Themselves The Great Seraphic Lords And Cherubim In Close Recess And Secret Conclave Sat A Thousand Demy-Gods On Golden Seat'S, Frequent And Full. After Short Silence Then And Summons Read, The Great Consult Began.