Do not all charms fly at the mere touch of cold philosophy? There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We knew her woof, her texture: she is given in the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings, conquer all mysteries by rule of line. Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine—unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made. The tender-person'd Lamia melt into a shade.