Fancy's spoil'd child will ever surely be
A thing of nothing in the worldly throng:
Wrapp'd up in dreams that they can never see;
Listening to fairy harp, or spirit's song,
Where all to them is stillest vacancy:
For ever seeking, as he glides along,
Some kindred heart, that feels as he has felt,
And can aread each thought that with him long has dwelt.