door
  In not a desperate or opprobrious time,
  Albeit long after the importunate bell
  Had stopped, with wearisome Cassandra voice 310
  No longer haunting the dark winter night. 
  Call back, O Friend! [E] a moment to thy mind,
  The place itself and fashion of the rites. 
  With careless ostentation shouldering up
  My surplice, [F] through the inferior throng I clove 315
  Of the plain Burghers, who in audience stood
  On the last skirts of their permitted ground,
  Under the pealing organ.  Empty thoughts! 
  I am ashamed of them:  and that great Bard,
  And thou, O Friend! who in thy ample mind 320
  Hast placed me high above my best deserts,
  Ye will forgive the weakness of that hour,
  In some of its unworthy vanities,
  Brother to many more. 
                            In this mixed sort
  The months passed on, remissly, not given up 325
  To wilful alienation from the right,
  Or walks of open scandal, but in vague
  And loose indifference, easy likings, aims
  Of a low pitch—­duty and zeal dismissed,
  Yet Nature, or a happy course of things 330
  Not doing in their stead the needful work. 
  The memory languidly revolved, the heart
  Reposed in noontide rest, the inner pulse
  Of contemplation almost failed to beat. 
  Such life might not inaptly be compared 335
  To a floating island, an amphibious spot
  Unsound, of spongy texture, yet withal
  Not wanting a fair face of water weeds
  And pleasant flowers. [G] The thirst of living praise,
  Fit reverence for the glorious Dead, the sight 340
  Of those long vistas, sacred catacombs,
  Where mighty minds lie visibly entombed,
  Have often stirred the heart of youth, and bred
  A fervent love of rigorous discipline.—­
  Alas! such high emotion touched not me. 345
  Look was there none within these walls to shame
  My easy spirits, and discountenance
  Their light composure, far less to instil
  A calm resolve of mind, firmly addressed
  To puissant efforts.  Nor was this the blame 350
  Of others, but my own; I should, in truth,
  As far as doth concern my single self,
  Misdeem most widely, lodging it elsewhere: 
  For I, bred up ’mid Nature’s luxuries,
  Was a spoiled child, and rambling like the wind, 355
  As I had done in daily intercourse
  With those crystalline rivers, solemn heights,
  And mountains, ranging like a fowl of the air,
  I was ill-tutored for captivity;
  To quit my pleasure, and, from month to month, 360
  Take up a station calmly on the perch
  Of sedentary peace.  Those lovely forms
  Had also left less space within my mind,