There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here
  Sole deg. in these fields! yet will I not despair. 
    Despair I will not, while I yet descry
  ’Neath the mild canopy of English air
    That lonely tree against the western sky. 195
      Still, still these slopes, ’tis clear,
  Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee
    Fields where soft sheep deg. from cages pull the hay,
    Woods with anemonies in flower till May,
  Know him a wanderer still; then why not me? deg. deg.200

A fugitive and gracious light he seeks,
  Shy to illumin; and I seek it too. deg. deg.202
    This does not come with houses or with gold,
  With place, with honour, and a flattering crew;
    ’Tis not in the world’s market bought and sold—­ 205
      But the smooth-slipping weeks
  Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired;
    Out of the heed of mortals he is gone,
    He wends unfollow’d, he must house alone;
  Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired. 210

Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest was bound;
  Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour! 
    Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest,
  If men esteem’d thee feeble, gave thee power,
    If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest. 215
      And this rude Cumner ground,
  Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields,
    Here cam’st thou in thy jocund youthful time,
    Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime! 
  And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields. 220

What though the music of thy rustic flute
  Kept not for long its happy, country tone;
    Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note
  Of men contention-tost, of men who groan,
    Which task’d thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat—­ 225
      It fail’d, and thou wast mute! 
  Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light,
    And long with men of care thou couldst not stay,
    And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way,
  Left human haunt, and on alone till night. 230

Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here! 
 ’Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore,
    Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home. 
  Then through the great town’s harsh, heart-wearying roar,
    Let in thy voice a whisper often come, 235
      To chase fatigue and fear:  Why faintest thou?  I wandered till I died. 
    Roam on!  The light we sought is shining still. 
    Dost thou ask proof? our tree yet crowns the hill,
  Our scholar travels yet the loved hill-side. 240

RUGBY CHAPEL deg.

November 1857