Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.

Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

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.

A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.

To be young was very heaven!