364 
H. E. O. ARE Y. 
And now, when to my roving brain 
There starts some fancy, snrined 
In tints more bright than earth can claim, 
That cavern comes to mind. 
When Winter to the Spring-tide wore, 
Through slumps and sloughs I strayed, 
To list the splashing and the roar 
The mountain torrents made. 
Oh ! that was glee ; and oft I turned 
In rapture from the shore, 
And said (I know not where I learned) 
The lines about “ Lodore.” 
There was a well-filled garret, where 
I hid on stormy days, 
And built bright castles in the air, 
And conned most ancient lays; 
And through the snares that Scott has set, 
For fancy roamed with joy, 
Or, from some old and worn gazette, 
I hacked the rhymes of “ Roy.” 
In mouse-holes rare I hid with care 
Those relics of the Muse, 
And wondered who the Poets were 
That scribbled for the News. 
