Ablett, of all the days My sixty summers ever knew, Pleasant as there have been no few, Memory not one surveys Like those we spent together. Wisely spent Are they alone that leave the soul content.
Together we have visited the men Whom Pictish pirates vainly would have drown'd! Ah, shall we ever clasp the hand again That gave the British harp its truest sound? Live, Derwent's guest! and thou by Grasmere springs! Serene creators of immortal things.
And live too, thou for happier days Whom Dryden's force and Spenser's fays Have heart and soul possest: Growl in grim London he who will, Revisit thou Maiano's hill, And swell with pride his sun-burnt breast.
