As one too long immured in courtly bower,
Such as Le Nôtre shaped, high-wrought and trim,
And of the world admired, though less by him
Whose soul hath felt the charm of Nature's power;
If chance some sunny glade, freshened with shower,
Arrest his step; sudden—eyes, heart, and limb,
Feel the delight, and pleasant thoughts up-brim
At sight of natural herb or forest flower,
Or wild brook in its freedom wandering
Thus, mine own Shakspeare, sweet it is to me
'Mid Arden's woods, with wild deer communing,
Or arm in arm with Jaquez, far to flee
My late imprisonment, ill-brooked, within
The stately garden-ground of smooth Racine.