TO WORDSWORTH.
��Written after a visit to him.
��ENGLAND ! full of years, yet passing fair,
1 drink thy beauty with a child's delight, The tear upon my face.
Thy moss-crown'd heights,
Beneath whose base 'twould seem that Time had paus'd Like an o'erspent destroyer, and laid down Feigning to sleep, and let their glory pass, Thy proud, baronial mansions, deck'd with all That wealth can win from art, but more than these, Thy mist-encircled hills, thy crystal lakes Glassing themselves amid the velvet meads, Thy green, green hedges, with their tufted bloom, Thy cottage children, playing 'mid the flowers That make their thatch-roof 'd homes so beautiful, These well repay me, to have dared for thee The tempest-swoll'n Atlantic, though unus'd To perils on the deep.
But most of all, That I have found thee, in thy rural bower,
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