... strangle without mercy, bring 1822.
XXII
CONTINUED
Methinks that to some vacant hermitage
My feet would rather turn—to some dry nook
Scooped out of living rock, and near a brook
Hurled down a mountain-cove from stage to stage,
Yet tempering, for my sight, its bustling rage 5
In the soft heaven of a translucent pool;
Thence creeping under sylvan[63] arches cool,
Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equipage
Would elevate[64] my dreams.[65] A beechen bowl,
A maple dish, my furniture should be; 10
Crisp, yellow leaves my bed; the hooting owl
My night-watch: nor should e'er the crested fowl
From thorp or vill his matins sound for me,
Tired of the world and all its industry.
FOOTNOTES:
[63] 1837.
... forest ... 1822.
[64] 1827.
Perchance would throng ... 1822.
[65] There are several natural "hermitages," such as this, near the Rydal beck.—Ed.