The massy Ways, carried across these heights By Roman perseverance, are destroyed, Or hidden under ground, like sleeping worms. How venture then to hope that Time will spare This humble Walk? Yet on the mountain's side A POET'S hand first shaped it; and the steps Of that same Bard''"repeated to and fro At morn, at noon, and under moonlight skies Through the vicissitudes of many a year''" Forbade the weeds to creep o'er its grey line. No longer, scattering to the heedless winds The vocal raptures of fresh poesy, Shall he frequent these precincts; locked no more In earnest converse with belovfhd Friends, Here will he gather stores of ready bliss, As from the beds and borders of a garden Choice flowers are gathered! But, if Power may spring Out of a farewell yearning''"favoured more Than kindred wishes mated suitably With vain regrets''"the Exile would consign This Walk, his loved possession, to the care Of those pure Minds that reverence the Muse. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: FINDING OF THE BODY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS WHERE GO THE BOATS? by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON TO F.A.B., A VIRTUOUS YOUNG PHYSICIAN ABOUT TO PRACTISE by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB NOW COMES THE NIGHT by HERBERT GERHARD BRUNCKEN CALIFORNIA COAST by DORIS CALDWELL LINES ON MY NEW CHILD SWEETHEART by THOMAS CAMPBELL ELEGY ON MR. WILLIAM SMITH: MR. SMITH IS DEAD by THOMAS CHATTERTON |