III.

There, fetter’d down from day, to think the while How bright in heaven the festal sun is glowing, Making earth’s loneliest places, with his smile, Flush like the rose; and how the streams are flowing With sudden sparkles through the shadowy grass, And water-flowers, all trembling as they pass; And how the rich, dark summer trees are bowing With their full foliage: this to know, and pine Bound unto midnight’s heart, seems a stern lot--’twas mine!