F, in thy second state sublime,

Thy ransom'd reason change replies

With all the circle of the wise,

The perfect flower of human time;

And if thou cast thine eyes below,

How dimly character'd and slight,

How dwarf'd a growth of cold and night,

How blanch'd with darkness must I grow!

Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore,
Where thy first form was made a man;
I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can
The soul of Shakspeare love thee more.

And thou, as one that once declined,
When he was little more than boy,
On some unworthy heart with joy,

But lives to wed an equal mind;

And breathes a novel world, the while
His other passion wholly dies,

Or in the light of deeper eyes

Is matter for a flying smile.

ET pity for a horse o'er-driven,

And love in which my hound has part,
Can hang no weight upon my heart

In its assumptions up to heaven;

And I am so much more than these
As thou, perchance, art more than I,
And yet I spare them sympathy,
And I would set their pains at ease.

So mayst thou watch me where I weep,
As, unto vaster motions bound,
The circuits of thine orbit round

A higher height, a deeper deep.

OST thou look back on what

hath been,

As some divinely gifted

man,

Whose life in low estate

began

And on a simple village green ;

Who breaks his birth's invidibus bar,

And grasps the skirts of happy chance,
And breasts the blows of circumstance,

And grapples with his evil star;

Who makes by force his merit known

And lives to clutch the golden keys, To mould a mighty state's decrees, And shape the whisper of the throne;

And, moving up from high to higher,
Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope
The pillar of a people's hope,

The centre of a world's desire;

Yet feels, as in a pensive dream,

When all his active powers are still,

A distant dearness in the hill, A secret sweetness in the stream,

The limit of his narrower fate,

While yet beside its vocal springs He play'd at counsellors and kings, With one that was his earliest mate;

Who ploughs with pain his native lea
And reaps the labour of his hands,
Or in the furrow musing stands :
"Does my old friend remember me ?'"