The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!

But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.

Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.

Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.

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.

That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.