xxviii THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF 



IV, 



Dear solitude, the souVs best friend. 

 That man acquainted with himself dost make. 



And all his Maker's wonders to intend: 



With thee I here converse at will. 



And would he glad to do so still. 

 For it is thou alone that keep'st the soul awake. 



• 



V. 



How calm and quiet a delight 



Is it, alone. 

 To read, and meditate, and write, 



By none offended, and offending none ! 

 To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease ! 

 And, pleasing a man's self, none other to displease. 



VI. 



Oh, my beloved ny7ixph,fair Dove: 

 Princess of rivers ! how I love 



Upon thy flow' ry banks to lie ; 

 And view thy silver stream, 

 When gilded by a summer's beam ! 

 And in it all thy wanton fry y 



Playing at liberty ; 

 And, with my angle, upon them. 



The all of treachery 

 I ever learnt, industriously to try. 



VII. 



Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot shoWf 

 The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po : 

 The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine 

 Are puddle-water all, compar'd ivith thine : 

 And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are 

 With thine, much purer, to compare: 

 The rapid Garonne, and the winding Seine^ 

 Are both too mean. 

 Beloved Dove, with thee 

 To vie priority ; 

 JVay, Tame and Isis, when conjoin' d, submit. 

 And lay their trophies at thy silver feet. 



VIII. 



Oh, my beloved rocks, that rise 



To awe the earth and brave the skies ; 



