But here no cannon thunders to the gale; Upon the wave no haughty pendants cast A crimson splendour: lowly is the mast That rises here, and humbly spread, the sail; While, less disturbed than in the narrow Vale Through which with strange vicissitudes he passed, The Wanderer seeks that receptacle vast Where all his unambitious functions fail. And may thy Poet, cloud-born Stream! be free-- The sweets of earth contentedly resigned, And each tumultuous working left behind At seemly distance--to advance like Thee; Prepared, in peace of heart, in calm of mind And soul, to mingle with Eternity!