Classic Poem

THOUGHT now is like a bark,
Toss'd where the waves are dark,
Drifting bewilder'd on some nameless clime:
And so I turn my skiff,
And clear this dangerous cliff,
And anchor in the peaceful port of rhyme.

Here soothing sounds delight,
And on my gladden'd sight
Stretch emerald landscapes, sweetly summer'd o'er:
Castle, and old grey tower,
Rude ivy-mantled bower,
And harpers, rush-screen'd, trilling on the moor.

No hours so sweet to me,
With harp upon my knee,
On some smooth moss-bank, circled round with fays:
Or be it wild with broom,
Or still with solemn gloom,
'T is ever sunshine, where I chant my lays.

If from my lattice low,
As evenings come and go,
The mountain tops and purple clouds I see;
Or hear the shepherd's strain,
The wind, or gentle rain,
I'm not alone — this is enough for me!

Through the hot dust of strife,
On the broad road of life,
The rhyme-paths of my youth my dim eyes fill:
When morn, and noon, and night,
Deep vale, and dizzy height,
Wore robes song-cover'd, as they ever will.

O, bliss! to turn my feet
To some old cave's retreat,
Far from the tumult of the torturing crowd;
Where nothing meets the eye,
But sea, and earth, and sky,
And Cynthia riding o'er a snow-white cloud;

To hear the tinkling rills,
To mark the fading hills,
To watch the light wane from the marshy moor;
To catch the labourer's song,
As home be hies along,
To kiss his children, watching by his door.

Perchance, some old weird mill,
With buckets bulged and still,
May on the common, like a Druid, stand:
Whose shadow in the lake
Shall sweet psalm-dreams awake,
Leading the muser into fairy land.

O, may this joy be mine,
Even till life's decline,
At dusk of day to watch the dwindling spire!
So, take the crowd for me;
I am content to be
Alone with Nature, and her mighty Sire!