COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA.— W. W. 1837.

By William Wordsworth

Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat

Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied;

With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side,

And the glad Muse at liberty to note

All that to each is precious, as we float

Gently along; regardless who shall chide

If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide,

Happy Associates breathing air remote

From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse,

Why have I crowded this small bark with you

And others of your kind, ideal crew!

While here sits One whose brightness owes its hues

To flesh and blood; no Goddess from above,

No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love?