Shall with its murmur lull me into rest?
The earth is all before me, With a heart
Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty,
I look about; and should the chosen guide
Be nothing better than a wandering cloud,
4 cannot miss my way. I breathe again!
Trances of thought and mountings of the
mind

Come fast upon me. it is shaken off,
That burthen of my own unnatura! self,
The heavy weight of many a weary day
Not mine, and such as were not made for

Up hill or down, or shall some floating thing

Upon the river point me out my course?

Dear liberty! Yet what would it avail
But for a gift that consecrates the joy?
For 1, methought, while the sweet breath of
heaven

Was blowing on my body, felt within
A correspondent breeze, that gently moved
With quickening virtue, but is now become
A tempest, a redundant energy,

Vexing its own creation. Thanks to both, And their congenial powers, that, while they join

In breaking up a long-continued frost,

Bring with them vernal promises, the hope Of active days urged on by flying hours,Days of sweet leisure, taxed with patient thought

Abstruse, nor wanting punctual service high, Matins and vespers of harmonious verse!

Thus far, O Friend! did I, not used to

make

A present joy the matter of a song, Pour forth that day my soul in measured strains

That would not be forgotten, and are here

Recorded to the open fields I told
A prophecy poetic numbers came
Spontaneously to clothe in priestly robe
A renovated spirit singled out,
Such hope was mine, for holy services.
My own voice cheered me, and, far more,
the mind's

Internal echo of the imperfect sound;
To both I listened, drawing from them both
A cheerful confidence in things to come.

Content and not unwilling now to give
A respite to this passion, I paced on
With brisk and eager steps, and camé, at
length,

To a green shady place, where down I sate Beneath a tree, slackening my thoughts by choice,

And settling into gentler happiness. 'Twas autumn, and a clear and placid day, With warmth, as much as needed, from a

Sun

Two hours declined towards the west; a day With silver clouds, and sunshine on the

grass,

And in the sheltered and the sheltering grove

A perfect stillness. Many were the thoughts Encouraged and dismissed, till choice was made

Of a known Vale, whither my feet should turn,

Nor rest till they had reached the very door
Of the one cottage which methought I saw.
No picture of mere memory ever looked
So fair; and while upon the fancied scene
I gazed with growing love, a higher power
Than Fancy gave assurance of some work
Of glory there forthwith to be begun,
Perhaps too here performed. Thus long I
mused,

Nor e'er lost sight of what I mused upon,
Save when, amid the stately grove of oaks,
Now here, now there, an acorn, from its cup
Dislodged, through sere leaves rustled, or at

The road that pointed toward that chosen Vale.

It was a splendid evening, and my soul Once more made trial of her strength, nor lacked

Æolian visitations; but the harp

Was soon defrauded, and the banded host
Of harmony dispersed in straggling sounds
And lastly utter silence!" Be it so;
Why think of anything but present good?"
So, like a home-bound laborer I pursued
My way beneath the mellowing sun, that
shed

Mild influence; nor left in me one wish
Again to bend the Sabbath of that time
To a servile yoke. What need of many
words?

A pleasart loitering journey, through three days

Continued, brought me to my hermitage.
I spare to tell of what ensued, the life
In common things-the endless store of
things,

Rare, or at least so seeming, every day
Found all about me in one neighborhood-
The self-congratulation, and, from morn
To night, unbroken cheerfuiness serene.
But speedily an earnest longing rose
To brace myself to some determined aim,
Reading or thinking; either to lay up
New stores, or rescue from decay the old
By timely interference. and therewith
Came hopes still higher, that with outward
life

I might endue some airy phantasies
That had been floating loose about for years,
And to such beings temperately deal forth
The many feelings that oppressed my heart.
That hope hath been discouraged; welcome
light

Dawns from the east, but dawns to disappear
And mock me with a sky that ripens not
Into a steady morning if my mind,
Remembering the bold promise of the past,
Would gladly grapple with some noble
theme,

Vain is her wish; where'er she turns she finds

Impediments from day to day renewed.

And now it would content me to yield up Those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts Of humbler industry. But, oh, dear Friend! The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own

Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers,
Subordinate helpers of the living mind:
Nor am I naked of external things,
Forms, images, nor numerous other aids
Of less regard, though won perhaps with
toil

And needful to build up a Poet's praise. Time, place, and manners do I seek, and these

Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere such

As may be singled out with steady choice; No little band of yet remembered names Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope To summon back from lonesome banishment,

And make them dwellers in the hearts of

men

Now living, or to live in future years. Sometimes the ambitious Power of choice, mistaking

Proud spring tide swellings for a regular sea,
Will settle on some British theme, some old
Romantic tale by Milton left unsung;
More often turning to some gentle place
Within the groves of Chivalry, I pipe
To shepherd swains, or seated harp in hand,
Amid reposing knights by a river side
Or fountain, listen to the grave reports
Of dire enchantments faced and overcome
By the strong mind, and tales of war-like
feats,

Where spear encountered spear, and sword with sword

Fought, as if conscious of the blazonry That the shield bore, so glorious was the strife;

Whence inspiration for a song that winds

Through ever changing scenes of votive quest

Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid
To patient courage, and unblemished truth,
To firm devotion, zeal unquenchable,
And Christian meekness hallowing faithful
loves.

Sometimes, more sternly moved, I would relate

How vanquished Mithridates northward passed,

And, hidden in the cloud of
years, became
Odin, the Father of a race by whom
Perished the Roman Empire: how the
friends

And followers of Sertorious, out of Spain
Flying, found shelter in the Fortunate Isles,
And left their usages, their arts and laws,
To disappear by a slow gradual death,
To dwindle and to perish one by one,
Starved in those narrow bounds: but not the
soul

Of Liberty, which fifteen hundred years
Survived, and, when the European came
With skill and power that might not be
withstood,

Did, like a pestilence, maintain its hold
And wasted down by glorious death that

And clearer insight. Thus my days are past

In contradiction; with no skill to part
Vague longing, haply bred by want of power,
From paramount impulse not to be with-
stood,

A timorous capacity from prudence,
From circumspection, infinite delay.
Humility and modest awe themselves
Betray me, serving often for a cloak
To a more subtle selfishness; that now

Locks every function up in blank reserve,
Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye
That with intrusive restlessness beats off
Simplicity and self presented truth.
Ah! Detter far than this, to stray about
Voluptuously through fields and rural walks,
And ask no record of the hours, résigned
To vacant musing, unreproved neglect
Of all things, and deliberate holiday.
Far better never to have heard the name
Of zeal and just ambition, than to live
Baffled and plagued by a mind that every

hour

Turns recreant to her task; takes heart again,

Then feels immediately some hollow thought
Hang like an interdict upon her hopes.
This is my lot; for either still I find
Some imperfection in the chosen theme,
Or see of absolute accomplishment
Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself,
That I recoil and droop, and seek repose
In listlessness from vain perplexity,
Unprofitably travelling toward the grave,
And renders nothing back.
Like a false steward who hath much received

Was it for this
That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved