Wordsworth, I envy thee, that from the strife Far distant, and the turmoil of mankind, Musing in solitude, thou keep'st thy mind Most spotless, leading an unblemish'd life. What have the bards of other realms and years Fabled of innocence or golden age, But, graven on the tablet of thy page, And of thy life, in majesty appears? What marvel that the men of cities, they, Whose fate or choice compels them to endure The sight of things unholy and impure, Feel not the moonlight softness of thy lay? But thou hast fought and conquer'd, and decay Flies far from thee, whose great reward is sure!
