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28

TO WORDSWORTH.

Wordsworth, I envy thee, that from the strife
Far distant, and the turmoil of mankind,
Thou hold'st communion with the eternal mind
Of Nature, leading an unblemish'd life.
What have the bards of other realms and years
Fabled of innocence or golden age,
But, graven on the tablet of thy page,
And of thy life, in majesty appears?
What marvel that the men of cities, they
Whose fate or choice compels them to endure
The sight of things unholy or impure,
Feel not the moonlight softness of thy lay?
But thou hast fought—hast conquer'd, and decay
Flies far from thee, whose great reward is sure!