All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.

The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite; a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.

Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.

Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.

What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?

Delivered from the galling yoke of time.

And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.