ii.
Lo, the delight of Nature! Ye who feel
Yourselves but slaves beneath the blind control
Of Circumstance, and bear his insolent heel
On your submissive necks, who yield the soul
To the despondent hour that wasteth it,
Forgetting how on rude and paltry scroll
Fair signs and sacred words may yet be writ,
Come to our joyous mother ! Where she leads
Her fleecy streamlets down the hillsides, sit
And let the dawning wind that wakes the reeds
Refresh your heavy lids, whilst ye behold
How sunshine revels in the lowliest weeds,
And only human growths refuse to fold,
In narrow cups their heritage of gold.
iii.
And ye who bow before the Commonplace, —
A generous peasant but a clownish king, —
Return to Nature, till the oldtime grace
Flow once again from that sequestered spring,
Deep in the dim recesses of the heart,
Where each man hides a poet. Would ye bring
