Here is my body doomed to tread, this path,
A little hoary line and faintly traced,[249] 55
Work, shall we call it, of the shepherd’s foot
Or of his flock?—joint vestige of them both.
I pace it unrepining, for my thoughts
Admit no bondage and my words have wings.
Where is the Orphean lyre, or Druid harp, 60
To accompany the verse? The mountain blast
Shall be our hand of music; he shall sweep
The rocks, and quivering trees, and billowy lake,