| | | 'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold. | |
| | | | But the smooth-slipping weeks | |
| | Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired; | |
| | | | Out of the heed of mortals he is gone, | |
| | | | He wends unfollow'd, he must house alone; | |
| | Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired. | 210 |
| Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wert bound, | |
| | Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour; | |
| | | Men gave thee nothing, but this happy quest, | |
| | If men esteem'd thee feeble, gave thee power, | |
| | | If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest. | |
| | | | And this rude Cumner ground, | |
| | Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields, | |
| | | Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful time, | |
| | | Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime; | |
| | And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields. | 220 |
| What though the music of thy rustic flute | |
| | Kept not for long its happy, country tone, | |
| | | Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note | |
| | Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, | |
| | | Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy | |
| | | | | throat -- | |
| | | It fail'd, and thou wast mute; | |
| | Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light, | |
| | | And long with men of care thou couldst not stay, | |
| | | And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way, | |
| | Left human haunt, and on alone till night. | 230 |
| Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here! | |
| | 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore, | |
| | | Thyrsis, in reach of sheep-bells is my home! | |
| | Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying | |
| | | | | roar, | |
| | | Let in thy voice a whisper often come, | |
| | | | To chase fatigue and fear: | |
| | Why faintest thou? I wander'd till I died. | |
| | | Roam on! the light we sought is shining still. | |
| | | Dost thou ask proof? Our Tree yet crowns the hill, | |
| | Our Scholar travels yet the loved hillside. | 240 |
| |
| | | 208 he is] is he 1866. 226 wast] wert 1866. | |