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.

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.

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.

That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.

Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.

A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.