Of my own Fairfield.[66] The glad greeting given, 30
Given with a voice and by a look returned
Of old companionship, Time counts not minutes
Ere, from accustomed paths, familiar fields,
The local Genius hurries me aloft,
Transported over that cloud-wooing hill, 35
Seat Sandal, a fond suitor of the clouds,[67]
With dream-like smoothness, to Helvellyn’s top,[68]
There to alight upon crisp moss and range,
Obtaining ampler boon, at every step,