And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.

Delivered from the galling yoke of time.

Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.

Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.

But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant

A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.