VII. How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood! Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks; Like to a bonny Lass, who plays her pranks At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,— When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks The crowd beneath her. Verily, I think, Such place to me is sometimes like a dream Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link, VIII. WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? Festively she puts forth in trim array; Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow? What boots the enquiry?—Neither friend nor foe Ever before her, and a wind to blow. Yet still I ask, what Haven is her mark? And, almost as it was when ships were rare, Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark! IX. EVEN as a dragon's eye that feels the stress Conversing, reading, laughing;—or they sing, While hearts and voices in the song unite. MARK the concentred Hazels that enclose The very image framing of a Tomb, In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose To mimic Time's forlorn humanities. XI. COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE DARK, and more dark, the shades of Evening fell; |