III.

So I, obsequious to truth's dread command, Shall here without reluctance change my lay, And smite the gothic lyre with harsher hand; Now when I leave that flowery path for aye Of childhood, where I sported many a day, Warbling and sauntering carelessly along; Where every face was innocent and gay, Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue, Sweet, wild, and artless all, as Edwin's infant song.