Who blend their smiles with meadow, mound, and stream;
I am indeed a child worn out at play,
And weary of my game I long to stray
To other haunts, to other heights unknown,
And claim that Raphael’s brush as half my own.
Alas! forsaken by my Muse I turn
And backward glance—she beckons my return—
She floods the old familiar fields with light,
She bids me pause, take up my pen and—write.
’Tis scarce yet dawn, the leaves awake,