Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.

Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.

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.

The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.