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!
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