1.

There was a time when all my youthful thought
Was of the Muse; and of the Poet's fame,
How fair it flourisheth, and fadeth not, —
Alone enduring, when the Monarch's name
Is but an empty sound, the Conqueror's bust
Moulders and is forgotten in the dust.

2.

How best to build the imperishable lay
Was then my daily care, my dream by night;
And early in adventurous essay
My spirit imp'd her wings for stronger flight;
Fair regions Fancy open'd to my view, —
" There lies thy path, " she said; " do thou that path pursue!

3.

" For what hast thou to do with wealth or power,
Thou whom rich Nature at thy happy birth
Bless'd in her bounty with the largest dower
That Heaven indulges to a child of Earth, —
Then when the sacred Sisters for their own
Baptized thee in the springs of Helicon?

4.

" They promised for thee that thou shouldst eschew
All low desires, all empty vanities;
That thou shouldst, still to Truth and Freedom true,
The applause or censure of the herd despise;
And, in obedience to their impulse given,
Walk in the light of Nature and of Heaven.

5.

" Along the World's highway let others crowd,
Jostling and moiling on through dust and heat;
Far from the vain, the vicious, and the proud,
Take thou, content in solitude, thy seat;
To noble ends devote thy sacred art,
And nurse for better worlds thine own immortal part! "

6.

Praise to that Power who, from my earliest days,
Thus taught me what to seek and what to shun,
Who turn'd my footsteps from the crowded ways,
Appointing me my better course to run
In solitude, with studious leisure bless'd,
The mind unfetter'd, and the heart at rest.

7.

For therefore have my days been days of joy,
And all my paths are paths of pleasantness:
And still my heart, as when I was a boy,
Doth never know an ebb of cheerfulness;
Time, which matures the intellectual part,
Hath tinged my hairs with gray, but left untouch'd my heart.

8.

Sometimes I soar where Fancy guides the rein,
Beyond this visible diurnal sphere;
But most, with long and self-approving pain,
Patient pursue the historian's task severe;
Thus in the ages which are past I live,
And those which are to come my sure reward will give.

9.

Yea, in this now, while Malice frets her hour,
Is foretaste given me of that meed divine;
Here, undisturb'd in this sequester'd bower,
The friendship of the good and wise is mine;
And that green wreath which decks the Bard when dead,
That laureate garland, crowns my living head.

10.

That wreath which, in Eliza's golden days,
My Master dear, divinest Spenser, wore,
That which rewarded Drayton's learned lays,
Which thoughtful Ben and gentle Daniel bore, —
Grin, Envy, through thy ragged mask of scorn!
In honor it was given, with honor it is worn!

11.

Proudly I raised the high thanksgiving strain
Of victory in a rightful cause achieved;
For which I long had look'd, and not in vain,
As one who, with firm faith and undeceived,
In history and the heart of man could find
Sure presage of deliverance for mankind.

12.

Proudly I offer'd to the royal ear
My song of joy when War's dread work was done,
And glorious Britain round her satiate spear
The olive garland twined, by Victory won;
Exulting as became me in such cause,
I offer'd to the Prince his People's just applause.

13.

And when, as if the tales of old Romance
Were but to typify his splendid reign,
Princes and Potentates from conquer'd France,
And chiefs in arms approved, a peerless train,
Assembled at his Court, — my duteous lays
Preferr'd a welcome of enduring praise.

14.

And when that last and most momentous hour
Beheld the re-risen cause of evil yield
To the Red Cross and England's arm of power,
I sung of Waterloo's unequall'd field,
Paying the tribute of a soul imbued
With deepest joy devout and awful gratitude.

15.

Such strains beseem'd me well. But how shall I
To hymeneal numbers tune the string,
Who to the trumpet's martial symphony,
And to the mountain gales am wont to sing?
How may these unaccustom'd accents suit
To the sweet dulcimer and courtly lute?

16.

Fitter for me the lofty strain severe,
That calls for vengeance for mankind oppress'd;
Fitter the songs that youth may love to hear,
Which warm and elevate the throbbing breast;
Fitter for me with meed of solemn verse,
In reverence, to adorn the hero's hearse.

17.

But then my Master dear arose to mind,
He on whose song, while yet I was a boy,
My spirit fed, attracted to its kind,
And still insatiate of the growing joy; —
He on whose tomb these eyes were wont to dwell
With inward yearnings which I may not tell; —

18.

He whose green bays shall bloom forever young,
And whose dear name whenever I repeat,
Reverence and love are trembling on my tongue;
Sweet Spenser, sweetest Bard; yet not more sweet
Than pure was he, and not more pure than wise,
High Priest of all the Muses' mysteries.

19.

I call'd to mind that mighty Master's song,
When he brought home his beautifulest bride,
And Mulla murmur'd her sweet undersong,
And Mole with all his mountain woods replied
Never to mortal lips a strain was given
More rich with love, more redolent of Heaven.

20.

His cup of joy was mantling to the brim,
Yet solemn thoughts enhanced his deep delight;
A holy feeling fill'd his marriage-hymn,
And Love aspired with Faith a heavenward flight.
And hast not thou, my Soul, a solemn theme?
I said, and mused until I fell into a dream.