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.

Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.

Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.

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

And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.

Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.

Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn