When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.

Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.

The unconquerable pang of despised love.

Delivered from the galling yoke of time.

There is creation in the eye.

The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled; And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.