The sight of a solitary cottage would draw from him those lines beginning:
“A portal as of shadowy adamant....”
Over and over again, in a voice somewhere between that of Irving and a sheep, he repeated:
“From what Hyrcanian glen or frozen hill,
Or piny promontory of the Arctic main,
Or utmost islet inaccessible....”
With a frenzy as of one who suffered wounds, insults, hunger and thirst and pecuniary loss, for Liberty’s sweet sake, he cried out to the myriad emerald leaves:
“Oh, that the wise from their bright minds would kindle
Such lamps within the dome of this dim world,