Of the lands which the river of Time
Had left ere he woke on its breast,
Or shall reach when his eves have been closed.
Only the tract where he sails

He wots of; only the thoughts,
Raised by the objects he passes, are his.

Who can see the green earth any more
As she was by the sources of Time?
Who imagines her fields as they lay
In the sunshine, unworn by the plough? 30
Who thinks as they thought,

The tribes who then roamed on her breast,
Her vigorous, primitive sons ?

As it grows, as the towns on its marge
Fling their wavering lights
On a wider, statelier stream
May acquire, if not the calm
Of its early mountainous shore,
Yet a solemn peace of its own.

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70

But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly!

For strong the infection of our mental strife,

Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest;

And we should win thee from thy own fair life,

Like us distracted, and like us unblest. Soon, soon thy cheer would die, Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfixed thy powers,

And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made:

And then thy glad perennial youth would fade,

Fade, and grow old at last, and die like