Among the conflicts of substantial life;
  By a more just gradation did lead on 530
  To higher things; more naturally matured,
  For permanent possession, better fruits,
  Whether of truth or virtue, to ensue. 
  In serious mood, but oftener, I confess,
  With playful zest of fancy did we note 535
  (How could we less?) the manners and the ways
  Of those who lived distinguished by the badge
  Of good or ill report; or those with whom
  By frame of Academic discipline
  We were perforce connected, men whose sway 540
  And known authority of office served
  To set our minds on edge, and did no more. 
  Nor wanted we rich pastime of this kind,
  Found everywhere, but chiefly in the ring
  Of the grave Elders, men unsecured, grotesque 545
  In character, tricked out like aged trees
  Which through the lapse of their infirmity
  Give ready place to any random seed
  That chooses to be reared upon their trunks.

    Here on my view, confronting vividly 550
  Those shepherd swains whom I had lately left,
  Appeared a different aspect of old age;
  How different! yet both distinctly marked,
  Objects embossed to catch the general eye,
  Or portraitures for special use designed, 555
  As some might seem, so aptly do they serve
  To illustrate Nature’s book of rudiments—­
  That book upheld as with maternal care
  When she would enter on her tender scheme
  Of teaching comprehension with delight, 560
  And mingling playful with pathetic thoughts.

    The surfaces of artificial life
  And manners finely wrought, the delicate race
  Of colours, lurking, gleaming up and down
  Through that state arras woven with silk and gold; 565
  This wily interchange of snaky hues,
  Willingly or unwillingly revealed,
  I neither knew nor cared for; and as such
  Were wanting here, I took what might be found
  Of less elaborate fabric.  At this day 570
  I smile, in many a mountain solitude
  Conjuring up scenes as obsolete in freaks
  Of character, in points of wit as broad,
  As aught by wooden images performed
  For entertainment of the gaping crowd 575
  At wake or fair.  And oftentimes do flit
  Remembrances before me of old men—­
  Old humourists, who have been long in their graves,
  And having almost in my mind put off
  Their human names, have into phantoms passed 580
  Of texture midway between life and books.