The visions all are fled – the car is fled

      Into the light of heaven, and in their stead

      A sense of real things comes doubly strong,

      And, like a muddy stream, would bear along

      My soul to nothingness: but I will strive

      Against all doublings, and will keep alive

      The thought of that same chariot, and the strange

      Journey it went.

      Is there so small a range

      In the present strength of manhood, that the high

      Imagination cannot freely fly

      As she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,

      Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds

      Upon the clouds? Has she not shewn us all?

      From the clear space of ether, to the small

      Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning

      Of Jove’s large eyebrow, to the tender greening

      Of April meadows? Here her altar shone,

      E’en in this isle; and who could paragon

      The fervid choir that lifted up a noise

      Of harmony, to where it aye will poise

      Its mighty self of convoluting sound,

      Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,

      Eternally around a dizzy void?

      Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy’d

      With honors; nor had any other care

      Than to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.

      Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schism

      Nurtured by foppery and barbarism,

      Made great Apollo blush for this his land.

      Men were thought wise who could not understand

      His glories: with a puling infant’s force

      They sway’d about upon a rocking horse,

      And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul’d!

      The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll’d

      Its gathering waves – ye felt it not. The blue

      Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew

      Of summer nights collected still to make

      The morning precious: beauty was awake!

      Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead

      To things ye knew not of, – were closely wed

      To musty laws lined out with wretched rule

      And compass vile: so that ye taught a school

      Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,

      Till, like the certain wands of Jacob’s wit,

      Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:

      A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask

      Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!

      That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,

      And did not know it, – no, they went about,

      Holding a poor, decrepid standard out

      Mark’d with most flimsy mottos, and in large

      The name of one Boileau!

      O ye whose charge

      It is to hover round our pleasant hills!

      Whose congregated majesty so fills

      My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace

      Your hallowed names, in this unholy place,

      So near those common folk; did not their shames

      Affright you? Did our old lamenting Thames

      Delight you? Did ye never cluster round

      Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound,

      And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu

      To regions where no more the laurel grew?

      Or did ye stay to give a welcoming

      To some lone spirits who could proudly sing

      Their youth away, and die? ’Twas even so:

      But let me think away those times of woe:

      Now ’tis a fairer season; ye have breathed

      Rich benedictions o’er us; ye have wreathed

      Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been heard

      In many places; – some has been upstirr’d

      From out its crystal dwelling in a lake,

      By a swan’s ebon bill; from a thick brake,

      Nested and quiet in a valley mild,

      Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild

      About the earth: happy are ye and glad.

      These things are doubtless: yet in truth we’ve had

      Strange thunders from the potency of song;

      Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong,

      From majesty: but in clear truth the themes

      Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes

      Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower

      Of light is poesy; ’tis the supreme of power;

      ’Tis might half slumb’ring on its own right arm.

      The very archings of her eyelids charm

      A thousand willing agents to obey,

      And still she governs with the mildest sway:

      But strength alone though of the Muses born

      Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,

      Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres

      Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,

      And thorns of life; forgetting the great end

      Of poesy, that it should be a friend

      To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.

      Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than

      E’er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds

      Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds

      A silent space with ever sprouting green.

      All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,

      Creep