Original source not identified,
Taken from The League of the Alps, and Other Poems, 1826, Boston.
100
TO THE POET WORDSWORTH.
Thine is a strain to read amongst the hills,
The old and full of voices—by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound—for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.
Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken
To the still breast, in some sweet garden-bowers,
Where summer winds each tree's low tones awaken,
And bud and bell with changes mark the hours.
There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day
Sinks with a golden and serene decay.
Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,
When night hath hush'd the woods with all their birds,
There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet
As antique music, link'd with household words.
While, in pleas'd murmurs, woman's lip might move,
And the rais'd eye of childhood shine in love.
