I look about; and should the chosen guide
Be nothing better than a wandering cloud,

I 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 unnatural self,

The heavy weight of many a weary day

Not mine, and such as were not made for me.
Long months of peace (if such bold word accord
With any promises of human life),

Long months of ease and undisturbed delight
Are mine in prospect; whither shall I turn,
By road or pathway, or through trackless field,
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 I, 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 came, 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 there 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 once
To the bare earth dropped with a startling sound.
From that soft couch I rose not, till the sun
Had almost touched the horizon; casting then

A backward glance upon the curling cloud
Of city smoke, by distance ruralised;

Keen as a Truant or a Fugitive,

But as a Pilgrim resolute, I took,

Even with the chance equipment of that hour, The road that pointed toward the 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 any thing but present good?"
So, like a home-bound labourer 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 pleasant 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 neighbourhood-

The self-congratulation, and, from morn

To night, unbroken cheerfulness 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 there with
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;