Nor the harsh din of congregated care;
The heart, all ruffled in the haunts of men,
Like to a quiet sea became again—
Like to the deep reflection of the skies,
Its faith-born hopes, and sage moralities.
This much, at least, my devious muse would say:
Our golden age, my friend, has passed away—
Passed, with the careless dress, and elfin looks,
That showed our books were trees and running brooks.
But something more I would awhile recall,