XXII.

And he, whose heart is weary of the strife Of meaner spirits, and whose mental gaze Would shun the dull cold littleness of life, Awhile to dwell amidst sublimer days, Must turn to thee, whose every valley teems With proud remembrances that cannot die. Thy glens are peopled with inspiring dreams, Thy winds, the voice of oracles gone by; And midst thy laurel shades the wanderer hears The sound of mighty names, the hymns of vanish’d years.