I SAT once more within a tangl'd wood,
Beside a quiet river, on whose breast
A world of trees look'd down admiringly
At their own beauty; and the sportive fish
Leapt up, in their unviolated home
Fearless of heart; 'twas on an autumn day,
And, save the dropping of a waterfall,
Or the low plashing of a distant mill,
Sound there was none; the moss grew thick and soft,
And many a flower o'ertopp'd the heavy grass
With luscious gifts of colour and perfume.
And there I used to lose myself amidst
The tales of old Romance, with beating heart
Tremble beneath the power of Merlin's spell,
And follow where Sir Launcelot du Lac
Brav'd in the Sangreal's quest the powers of hell.
Nor less my fancy peopl'd that green wood
With the creations of his magic pen
Who call'd the centuries from their silent grave,
And bade each graceful legend charm again;
I lov'd right well each high chivalric name
By him a second time enshrin'd in fame;
Dreamt of the Monarch of Linlithgow fair,
And wept with Constance or rejoic'd with Clare.

On the still water when the sun went down,
And the flowers nodded on their slender stems,

And earth was hush'd, the angels spoke again,
And counsell'd, in their low sweet tones, to save
Adam, of God's deep love the latest born,
And his fair consort, from the snares of hell:
Or Shakespeare led me where the summer fays
Dance thro' the midnight hours beneath the moon.
Old times, dear times! no sentimental tears
Shall mourn your flight: tho' we may never read,
With youth's peculiar fresh and wond'ring mind,
Those glorious books again--from hindering thought.
And worldly care and worldly sorrow free--
Yet ever to our elder years they bring
A bright remembrance and a fitting charm,
And what we lose in childish faith we gain
In fond appreciating reverence;
While the young generations round us rise,
And drink, unslak'd, at our old founts of joy.