p. 64

Yet still, about the human pale, I love to scamper, love to race, To swing by my irreverent tail All over the most holy place;

And when at length, some golden day, The unfailing sportsman, aiming at, Shall bag, me—all the world shall say:  Thank God, and there’s an end of that!

p. 65XXXI

p. 65

Sing clearlier, Muse, or evermore be still, Sing truer or no longer sing! No more the voice of melancholy Jacques To wake a weeping echo in the hill; But as the boy, the pirate of the spring, From the green elm a living linnet takes, One natural verse recapture—then be still.

Sing

p. 66XXXII—A CAMP [66]

p. 66

The bed was made, the room was fit, By punctual eve the stars were lit; The air was still, the water ran, No need was there for maid or man, When we put up, my ass and I, At God’s green caravanserai.

The

p. 67XXXIII—THE COUNTRY OF THE CAMISARDS [67]

p. 67

We travelled in the print of olden wars, Yet all the land was green, And love we found, and peace, Where fire and war had been.

We

They pass and smile, the children of the sword—  No more the sword they wield; And O, how deep the corn Along the battlefield!

p. 68XXXIV—SKERRYVORE

p. 68

For love of lovely words, and for the sake Of those, my kinsmen and my countrymen, Who early and late in the windy ocean toiled To plant a star for seamen, where was then The surfy haunt of seals and cormorants: I, on the lintel of this cot, inscribe The name of a strong tower.

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