// Copyright 2016 The Closure Rules Authors. All rights reserved.
//
// Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the "License");
// you may not use this file except in compliance with the License.
// You may obtain a copy of the License at
//
//    http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0
//
// Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software
// distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS,
// WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied.
// See the License for the specific language governing permissions and
// limitations under the License.

goog.provide('hyperion2');

goog.require('hyperion');


/**
 * Methought I stood where trees of every clime,
 * Palm, myrtle, oak, and sycamore, and beech,
 * With plantain, and spice blossoms, made a screen;
 * In neighbourhood of fountains, by the noise
 * Soft showering in my ears, and, by the touch
 * Of scent, not far from roses. Turning round
 * I saw an arbour with a drooping roof
 * Of trellis vines, and bells, and larger blooms,
 * Like floral censers swinging light in air;
 * Before its wreathed doorway, on a mound
 * Of moss, was spread a feast of summer fruits,
 * Which, nearer seen, seem'd refuse of a meal
 * By angel tasted or our Mother Eve;
 * For empty shells were scattered on the grass,
 * And grape stalks but half bare, and remnants more,
 * Sweet smelling, whose pure kinds I could not know.
 * Still was more plenty than the fabled horn
 * Thrice emptied could pour forth, at banqueting
 * For Proserpine return'd to her own fields,
 * Where the white heifers low. And appetite
 * More yearning than on earth I ever felt
 * Growing within, I ate deliciously;
 * And, after not long, thirsted, for thereby
 * Stood a cool vessel of transparent juice
 * Sipp'd by the wander'd bee, the which I took,
 * And, pledging all the mortals of the world,
 * And all the dead whose names are in our lips,
 * Drank. That full draught is parent of my theme.
 * No Asian poppy nor elixir fine
 * Of the soon fading jealous Caliphat,
 * No poison gender'd in close monkish cell
 * To thin the scarlet conclave of old men,
 * Could so have rapt unwilling life away.
 * Among the fragrant husks and berries crush'd,
 * Upon the grass I struggled hard against
 * The domineering potion; but in vain:
 * The cloudy swoon came on, and down I sunk
 * Like a Silenus on an antique vase.
 * How long I slumber'd 'tis a chance to guess.
 * When sense of life return'd, I started up
 * As if with wings; but the fair trees were gone,
 * The mossy mound and arbour were no more:
 * I look'd around upon the carved sides
 * Of an old sanctuary with roof august,
 * Builded so high, it seem'd that filmed clouds
 * Might spread beneath, as o'er the stars of heaven;
 * So old the place was, I remember'd none
 * The like upon the earth: what I had seen
 * Of grey cathedrals, buttress'd walls, rent towers,
 * The superannuations of sunk realms,
 * Or Nature's rocks toil'd hard in waves and winds,
 * Seem'd but the faulture of decrepit things
 * To that eternal domed monument.
 * Upon the marble at my feet there lay
 * Store of strange vessels and large draperies,
 * Which needs had been of dyed asbestos wove,
 * Or in that place the moth could not corrupt,
 * So white the linen, so, in some, distinct
 * Ran imageries from a sombre loom.
 * All in a mingled heap confus'd there lay
 * Robes, golden tongs, censer and chafing dish,
 * Girdles, and chains, and holy jewelries.
 * @export
 */
hyperion2 = function() {
  hyperion();
  console.log('Published in 1819');
};
