1. How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood! Tall trees, green arbours, and ground flowers in flocks; Like to a bonny Lass, who plays her pranks At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks, When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks The crowd beneath her. Verily I think, Such place to me is sometimes like a dream Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link, Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink, And leap at once from the delicious stream. Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? Festively she puts forth in trim array; As vigorous as a Lark at break of day: Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow? What boots the enquiry? Neither friend nor foe Ever before her, and a wind to blow. Yet still I ask, what Haven is her mark? And, almost as it was when ships were rare, From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there Crossing the waters; doubt, and something dark, Of the old Sea some reverential fear, Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark! 3. COMPOSED after a Journey across THE HAMILTON HILLS, YORKSHIRE. Ere we had reach'd the wish'd-for place, night fell: We were too late at least by one dark hour, Or Clock to toll from. Many a glorious pile 4. they are of the sky, And from our earthly memory fade away. These words were utter'd in a pensive mood, 5. TO SLEEP. O gentle Sleep! do they belong to thee, This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me Now on the water vex'd with mockery. I have no pain that calls for patience, no; O gentle Creature! do not use me so, But once and deeply let me be beguiled. |