Plain living and high thinking are no more.

The child shall become father to the man.

A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.

Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age; more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.

Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.

My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.

There is creation in the eye.