Him rather suits it, side by side with thee,
Wrapped in a fit of[240] pleasing indolence,
While thy tired lute hangs on the hawthorn-tree,
To lie and listen—till o'er-drowsèd sense
Sinks,[241] hardly conscious of the influence—
To the soft murmur of the vagrant Bee.
—A slender sound! yet hoary Time
Doth to the Soul exalt it with the chime
Of all his years;—a company
Of ages coming, ages gone;