IV

Come forth I charge thee, arise,

Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes!

Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines

Unto mine inner eye,

Divinest memory!

Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall

Which ever sounds and shines

A pillar of white light upon the wall

Of purple cliffs, aloof descried,

Come from the woods that belt the gray hillside,

The seven elms, the poplars four

That stand beside my father's door,

And chiefly from the brook that loves

To purl o'er matted cress and ribbéd sand,

Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves,

Drawing into his narrow earthen urn,

In every elbow and turn,

The filtered tribute of the rough woodland.

O! hither lead thy feet!

Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat

Of the thickfleecéd sheep from wattled folds,

Upon the ridgéd wolds,

When the first matinsong hath wakéd loud

Over the dark dewy earth forlorn,

What time the amber morn

Forth gushes from beneath a lowhung cloud.