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Whom an unblamed serenity

       Hath freed from passions, and the state

       Of struggle these necessitate;

       Whom schooling of the stubborn mind

       Hath made, or birth hath found, resign'd—

       These mourn not, that their goings pay

       Obedience to the passing day.

       These claim not every laughing Hour

       For handmaid to their striding power;

       Each in her turn, with torch uprear'd,

       To await their march; and when appear'd,

       Through the cold gloom, with measured race,

       To usher for a destined space

       (Her own sweet errands all forgone)

       The too imperious traveller on.

       These, Fausta, ask not this; nor thou,

       Time's chafing prisoner, ask it now!

      We left, just ten years since, you say,

       That wayside inn we left to-day.[5] Our jovial host, as forth we fare, Shouts greeting from his easy chair. High on a bank our leader stands, Reviews and ranks his motley bands, Makes clear our goal to every eye— The valley's western boundary. A gate swings to! our tide hath flow'd Already from the silent road. The valley-pastures, one by one, Are threaded, quiet in the sun; And now beyond the rude stone bridge Slopes gracious up the western ridge. Its woody border, and the last Of its dark upland farms is past— Cool farms, with open-lying stores, Under their burnish'd sycamores; All past! and through the trees we glide, Emerging on the green hill-side. There climbing hangs, a far-seen sign, Our wavering, many-colour'd line; There winds, upstreaming slowly still Over the summit of the hill. And now, in front, behold outspread Those upper regions we must tread! Mild hollows, and clear heathy swells, The cheerful silence of the fells. Some two hours' march with serious air, Through the deep noontide heats we fare; The red-grouse, springing at our sound, Skims, now and then, the shining ground; No life, save his and ours, intrudes Upon these breathless solitudes. O joy! again the farms appear. Cool shade is there, and rustic cheer; There springs the brook will guide us down, Bright comrade, to the noisy town. Lingering, we follow down; we gain The town, the highway, and the plain. And many a mile of dusty way, Parch'd and road-worn, we made that day; But, Fausta, I remember well, That as the balmy darkness fell We bathed our hands with speechless glee, That night, in the wide-glimmering sea.

      Once more we tread this self-same road,

       Fausta, which ten years since we trod;

       Alone we tread it, you and I,

       Ghosts of that boisterous company.

       Here, where the brook shines, near its head,

       In its clear, shallow, turf-fringed bed;

       Here, whence the eye first sees, far down,

       Capp'd with faint smoke, the noisy town;

       Here sit we, and again unroll,

       Though slowly, the familiar whole.

       The solemn wastes of heathy hill

       Sleep in the July sunshine still;

       The self-same shadows now, as then,

       Play through this grassy upland glen;

       The loose dark stones on the green way

       Lie strewn, it seems, where then they lay;

       On this mild bank above the stream,

       (You crush them!) the blue gentians gleam.

       Still this wild brook, the rushes cool,

       The sailing foam, the shining pool!

       These are not changed; and we, you say,

       Are scarce more changed, in truth, than they.

      The gipsies, whom we met below,

       They, too, have long roam'd to and fro;

       They ramble, leaving, where they pass,

       Their fragments on the cumber'd grass.

       And often to some kindly place

       Chance guides the migratory race,

       Where, though long wanderings intervene,

       They recognise a former scene.

       The dingy tents are pitch'd; the fires

       Give to the wind their wavering spires;

       In dark knots crouch round the wild flame

       Their children, as when first they came;

       They see their shackled beasts again

       Move, browsing, up the gray-wall'd lane.

       Signs are not wanting, which might raise

       The ghost in them of former days—

       Signs are not wanting, if they would;

       Suggestions to disquietude.

       For them, for all, time's busy touch,

       While it mends little, troubles much.

       Their joints grow stiffer—but the year

       Runs his old round of dubious cheer;

       Chilly they grow—yet winds in March,

       Still, sharp as ever, freeze and parch;

       They must live still—and yet, God knows,

       Crowded and keen the country grows;

       It seems as if, in their decay,

       The law grew stronger every day.

       So might they reason, so compare,

       Fausta, times past with times that are.

       But no!—they rubb'd through yesterday

       In their hereditary way,

       And they will rub through, if they can,

       To-morrow on the self-same plan,

       Till death arrive to supersede,

       For them, vicissitude and need.

      The poet, to whose mighty heart

       Heaven doth a quicker pulse impart,

       Subdues that energy to scan

       Not his own course, but that of man.

       Though he move mountains, though his day

       Be pass'd on the proud heights of sway,

       Though he hath loosed a thousand chains,

       Though he hath borne immortal pains,

       Action and suffering though he know—

       He hath not lived, if he lives so.

       He sees, in some great-historied land,

       A ruler of the people stand,

       Sees his strong thought in fiery flood

       Roll through the heaving multitude

       Exults—yet for no moment's space

       Envies the all-regarded place.

       Beautiful eyes meet his—and he

       Bears to admire uncravingly;

       They pass—he, mingled with the crowd,

       Is in their far-off triumphs proud.

       From some high station he looks down,

       At sunset, on a populous town;

       Surveys each happy group, which fleets,

       Toil ended, through the shining streets,

       Each with some errand of its own—

       And does not say: I am alone. He sees the gentle stir of birth When morning purifies the earth; He leans upon a gate and sees The pastures,

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