O born in days when wits were fresh and clear,
  And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames;
    Before this strange disease of modern life,
  With its sick hurry, its divided aims,
    Its head o’ertax’d, its palsied hearts, was rife—­ 205
      Fly hence, our contact fear! 
  Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood! 
    Averse, as Dido deg. did with gesture stern deg. deg.208
    From her false friend’s approach in Hades turn,
  Wave us away, and keep thy solitude! 210

Still nursing the unconquerable hope,
  Still clutching the inviolable shade, deg. deg.212
    With a free, onward impulse brushing through,
  By night, the silver’d branches deg. of the glade—­ deg.214
    Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue, 215
      On some mild pastoral slope
  Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales
    Freshen thy flowers as in former years
    With dew, or listen with enchanted ears,
  From the dark dingles, deg. to the nightingales! 220

But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly! 
  For strong the infection of our mental strife,
    Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest;
  And we should win thee from thy own fair life,
    Like us distracted, and like us unblest. 225
      Soon, soon thy cheer would die,
  Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix’d thy powers,
    And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made;
    And then thy glad perennial youth would fade,
  Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. 230

Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! 
  —­As some grave Tyrian deg. trader, from the sea,
    Descried at sunrise an emerging prow
  Lifting the cool-hair’d creepers stealthily,
    The fringes of a southward-facing brow 235
      Among the AEgaean isles deg.; deg.236
  And saw the merry Grecian coaster come,
    Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, deg. deg.238
    Green, bursting figs, and tunnies deg. steep’d in brine—­ deg.239
  And knew the intruders on his ancient home, 240

The young light-hearted masters of the waves—­
  And snatch’d his rudder, and shook out more sail;
    And day and night held on indignantly
  O’er the blue Midland waters deg. with the gale, deg.244
    Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, 245
      To where the Atlantic raves
  Outside the western straits deg.; and unbent sails deg.247
    There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,
    Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come deg.; deg.249
  And on the beach undid his corded bales. deg. deg.250