That portion of my story I shall leave
  There registered:  whatever else of power
  Or pleasure sown, or fostered thus, may be
  Peculiar to myself, let that remain 195
  Where still it works, though hidden from all search
  Among the depths of time.  Yet is it just
  That here, in memory of all books which lay
  Their sure foundations in the heart of man,
  Whether by native prose, or numerous verse, [E] 200
  That in the name of all inspired souls—­
  From Homer the great Thunderer, from the voice
  That roars along the bed of Jewish song,
  And that more varied and elaborate,
  Those trumpet-tones of harmony that shake 205
  Our shores in England,—­from those loftiest notes
  Down to the low and wren-like warblings, made
  For cottagers and spinners at the wheel,
  And sun-burnt travellers resting their tired limbs,
  Stretched under wayside hedge-rows, ballad tunes, 210
  Food for the hungry ears of little ones,
  And of old men who have survived their joys—­
  ’Tis just that in behalf of these, the works,
  And of the men that framed them, whether known,
  Or sleeping nameless in their scattered graves, 215
  That I should here assert their rights, attest
  Their honours, and should, once for all, pronounce
  Their benediction; speak of them as Powers
  For ever to be hallowed; only less,
  For what we are and what we may become, 220
  Than Nature’s self, which is the breath of God,
  Or His pure Word by miracle revealed.

    Rarely and with reluctance would I stoop
  To transitory themes; yet I rejoice,
  And, by these thoughts admonished, will pour out 225
  Thanks with uplifted heart, that I was reared
  Safe from an evil which these days have laid
  Upon the children of the land, a pest
  That might have dried me up, body and soul. 
  This verse is dedicate to Nature’s self, 230
  And things that teach as Nature teaches:  then,
  Oh! where had been the Man, the Poet where,
  Where had we been, we two, beloved Friend! 
  If in the season of unperilous choice,
  In lieu of wandering, as we did, through vales 235
  Rich with indigenous produce, open ground
  Of Fancy, happy pastures ranged at will,
  We had been followed, hourly watched, and noosed,
  Each in his several melancholy walk
  Stringed like a poor man’s heifer at its feed, 240
  Led through the lanes in forlorn servitude;
  Or rather like a stalled ox debarred
  From touch of growing grass, that may not taste
  A flower till it have yielded up its sweets
  A prelibation to the mower’s scythe. [F] 245