III.— The Poet's Confidence.

The richest realm of all the earth

Is counted still a heathen land:

Lo, I, like Joshua, now go forth

To give it into Israel's hand.

I will not hearken blame or praise;

For so should I dishonour do

To that sweet Power by which these Lays

Alone are lovely, good, and true;

Nor credence to the world's cries give,

Which ever preach and still prevent

Pure passion's high prerogative

To make, not follow, precedent.

From love's abysmal ether rare

If I to men have here made known

New truths, they, like new stars, were there

Before, though not yet written down.

Moving but as the feelings move,

I run, or loiter with delight,

Or pause to mark where gentle Love

Persuades the soul from height to height.

Yet, know ye, though my words are gay

As David's dance, which Michal scorn'd.

If kindly you receive the Lay,

You shall be sweetly help'd and warn'd.