And now it would content me to yield up
  Those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts
  Of humbler industry.  But, oh, dear Friend! 
  The Poet, gentle creature as he is, 135
  Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times;
  His fits when he is neither sick nor well,
  Though no distress be near him but his own
  Unmanageable thoughts:  his mind, best pleased
  While she as duteous as the mother dove 140
  Sits brooding, lives not always to that end,
  But like the innocent bird, hath goadings on
  That drive her as in trouble through the groves; [L]
  With me is now such passion, to be blamed
  No otherwise than as it lasts too long. 145

    When, as becomes a man who would prepare
  For such an arduous work, I through myself
  Make rigorous inquisition, the report
  Is often cheering; for I neither seem
  To lack that first great gift, the vital soul, 150
  Nor general Truths, which are themselves a sort
  Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers,
  Subordinate helpers of the living mind: 
  Nor am I naked of external things,
  Forms, images, nor numerous other aids 155
  Of less regard, though won perhaps with toil
  And needful to build up a Poet’s praise. 
  Time, place, and manners do I seek, and these
  Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere such
  As may be singled out with steady choice; 160
  No little band of yet remembered names
  Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope
  To summon back from lonesome banishment,
  And make them dwellers in the hearts of men
  Now living, or to live in future years. 165
  Sometimes the ambitious Power of choice, mistaking
  Proud spring-tide swellings for a regular sea,
  Will settle on some British theme, some old
  Romantic tale by Milton left unsung;
  More often turning to some gentle place 170
  Within the groves of Chivalry, I pipe
  To shepherd swains, or seated harp in hand,
  Amid reposing knights by a river side
  Or fountain, listen to the grave reports
  Of dire enchantments faced and overcome 175
  By the strong mind, and tales of warlike feats,
  Where spear encountered spear, and sword with sword
  Fought, as if conscious of the blazonry
  That the shield bore, so glorious was the strife;
  Whence inspiration for a song that winds 180
  Through ever changing scenes of votive quest
  Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid
  To patient courage and unblemished truth,
  To firm devotion, zeal unquenchable,
  And Christian meekness hallowing faithful loves. 185
  Sometimes, more sternly moved, I would