XIV 
Is tuned afresh to notes ot joy and praise. 
Mine, too, is strung, albeit unskilfully, 
And on its chords my trembling hand is laid: 
Yet is it mute, because unfix’d my theme; 
For, whilst my eye “ the landscape measures round,” 
Hill, valley, stream, each woos my roving glance, 
And asks the tribute of admiring song. 
Once more I gaze, — ah ! how could I o’erlook 
Yon low-rooFd cottage with its shadowing tree ? 
How pass unmark’d that grove, whose varied hues 
Do more than rival Autumn’s tints of gold ? 
Or, in the distance, waking thoughts sublime, 
Yon forest stretching to th’ horizon’s verge? 
No more I hesitate,—wake, harp of mine, 
To sylvan beauty give thy votive lay. 
“ Hail, ye patrician trees !” th’ ambitious muse, 
Who, late, in lowlier mood, did wreath her lyre 
With the wild flowers that at your foot diffuse 
Their never-cloying sweets, doth now aspire 
To do ye homage: — not that she doth tire 
Of mead or hedgerow with their varied bloom; 
But there are moments when she would retire 
From laughing landscape, to your cloister’d gloom, 
For higher, holier flights her wearied wing to plume. 
