That clay he feels will not for ever
'Cumber the spirit that would soar
To that deep and swelling river
Which bears the life tree on its shore;
And he the hour would still foresee
That sets his inward angel free.
This Hall and park might wake such dreams,
They speak of pride, of ancestry;
Yes! every fading ray which gleams
On antique roof and hoary tree,
Shows in gnarled bough and mossy slate
The grand remains of ancient state.
And thinks he of Patrician pride,
He who sits lonely there,
Where oaks and elms spread dark and wide
Their huge arms in the air?
He wanders in the world of thought,
He's left this world behind;
On that high brow are clearly wrought
A thousand dreams of mind.
And are they dreams of bliss or bale,
Of happiness or woe?
Methinks that face is all too pale
For pleasure's rosy glow.
Methinks the mellowing haze of years
Is over that tall form spread,
And time has poured her smiles and tears
Full freely round that head.
