Swings open, and reveals the thronging hopes,
Wingèd and crowned, that crowd the flowery slopes
Of Manhood’s first estate.
Yet soft and low! The door
Is closing, as ye sing, on Childhood’s meads;
The garrulous trump of Youth’s heroic deeds
Is hushed for evermore;
And shining shapes, that blaze
Like loadstars, with occasion wait to lure
The dazzled soul o’er crag and fell and moor