Thou canst not wave thy staff in air,
    Or dip thy paddle in the lake,
But it curves the bow of beauty there,
    And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake.

IN youth I roamed the woodlands free,
      I caught the breath of birch and pine;
The harebell blossomed fair to see,
    Wild grew the eglantine.

My soul was fresh as morning dew,
    My heart was clear of worldly taint;
And earth and sky a heaven-like hue,
    Did on my vision paint.

Had night ne'er come to halt my steed,
    Nor body pined for carnal fare,
I should have reached life's royal mead,—
    Contentment void of care.