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of an elm.

      O for ten years, that I may overwhelm

      Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed

      That my own soul has to itself decreed.

      Then will I pass the countries that I see

      In long perspective, and continually

      Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I’ll pass

      Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass,

      Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,

      And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees;

      Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,

      To woo sweet kisses from averted faces, –

      Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white

      Into a pretty shrinking with a bite

      As hard as lips can make it: till agreed,

      A lovely tale of human life we’ll read.

      And one will teach a tame dove how it best

      May fan the cool air gently o’er my rest;

      Another, bending o’er her nimble tread,

      Will set a green robe floating round her head,

      And still will dance with ever varied case,

      Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:

      Another will entice me on, and on

      Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon;

      Till in the bosom of a leafy world

      We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl’d

      In the recesses of a pearly shell.

      And can I ever bid these joys farewell?

      Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,

      Where I may find the agonies, the strife

      Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar,

      O’er sailing the blue cragginess, a car

      And steeds with streamy manes – the charioteer

      Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear:

      And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly

      Along a huge cloud’s ridge; and now with sprightly

      Wheel downward come they into fresher skies,

      Tipt round with silver from the sun’s bright eyes.

      Still downward with capacious whirl they glide,

      And now I see them on a green-hill’s side

      In breezy rest among the nodding stalks.

      The charioteer with wond’rous gesture talks

      To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear

      Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,

      Passing along before a dusky space

      Made by some mighty oaks: as they would chase

      Some ever-fleeting music on they sweep.

      Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:

      Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;

      Some with their faces muffled to the ear

      Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,

      Go glad and smilingly, athwart the gloom;

      Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;

      Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways

      Flit onward – now a lovely wreath of girls

      Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;

      And now broad wings. Most awfully intent

      The driver, of those steeds is forward bent,

      And seems to listen: O that I might know

      All that he writes with such a hurrying glow.

      The visions all are fled – the car is fled

      Into the light of heaven, and in their stead

      A sense of real things comes doubly strong,

      And, like a muddy stream, would bear along

      My soul to nothingness: but I will strive

      Against all doublings, and will keep alive

      The thought of that same chariot, and the strange

      Journey it went.

      Is there so small a range

      In the present strength of manhood, that the high

      Imagination cannot freely fly

      As she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,

      Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds

      Upon the clouds? Has she not shewn us all?

      From the clear space of ether, to the small

      Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning

      Of Jove’s large eye-brow, to the tender greening

      Of April meadows? Here her altar shone,

      E’en in this isle; and who could paragon

      The fervid choir that lifted up a noise

      Of harmony, to where it aye will poise

      Its mighty self of convoluting sound,

      Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,

      Eternally around a dizzy void?

      Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy’d

      With honors; nor had any other care

      Than to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.

      Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schism

      Nurtured by foppery and barbarism,

      Made great Apollo blush for this his land.

      Men were thought wise who could not understand

      His glories: with a puling infant’s force

      They sway’d about upon a rocking horse,

      And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul’d!

      The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll’d

      Its gathering waves – ye felt it not. The blue

      Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew

      Of summer nights collected still to make

      The morning precious: beauty was awake!

      Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead

      To things ye knew not of, – were closely wed

      To musty laws lined out with wretched rule

      And compass vile: so that ye taught a school

      Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,

      Till, like the certain wands of Jacob’s wit,

      Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:

      A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask

      Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!

      That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,

      And did not know it, – no, they went about,

      Holding a poor, decrepid standard out

      Mark’d with most flimsy

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