Who reach the meadowed banks, and lay them down
On the green sward, and set their faces south,
Embarked in Fancy’s shallop there,
And with the current seek the river’s mouth,
Finding the outer ocean grand and fair.
Ay, like the stream’s perpetual tide,
Wave after wave each blithe, successive throng
Must join the main and wander far and wide.
To you the golden, vanward years belong!
Ye need not fear to leave the shore: