Iii

Thee fair Poetry oft hath sought, Wandering lone in wayward thought, On level meads by gliding streams, When summer noon is full of dreams: And thy loved airs her soul invade, Haunting retired the willow shade.

Or in some walled orchard nook She communes with her ancient book, Beneath the branches laden low; While the high sun o'er bosom'd snow Smiteth all day the long hill-side With ripening cornfields waving wide.

There if thou linger all the year, No jar of man can reach thine ear, Or sweetly comes, as when the sound From hidden villages around, Threading the woody knolls, is borne Of bells that dong the Sabbath morn.