The Master of our thought, the land’s first Citizen!

If, here, his image seem

Of softer scenes and grayer skies to dream,

Thatched cot and rustic tavern, ivied hall,

The cuckoo’s April call

And cowslip-meads beside the Avon stream,

He shall not fail that other home to find

We could not leave behind!

The forms of Passion, which his fancy drew,

In us their ancient likenesses beget: