THE hour may come, nay must in these our days, When the swift steam-car with the cata'ract's shout Shall mingle its harsh roll, and motley rout Of multitudes these mountain echoes raise. But Thou, the Patriarch of these beauteous ways, Canst never grudge that gloomy streets send out The crowded sons of labour, care, and doubt, To read these scenes by light of thine own lays. Disordered laughter and encounters rude The Poet's finer sense perchance may pain, But many a glade and nook of solitude For quiet walk and thought will still remain, Where He those poor intruders can elude, Nor lose one dream for all their homely gain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A DEPOSITION FROM LOVE by THOMAS CAREW THE SHIP OF RIO by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE ON THE MEMORABLE VICTORY OF PAUL JONES by PHILIP FRENEAU GIVE ME THY HEART by ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE by ALFRED TENNYSON UPON THE SAME by DECIMUS MAGNUS AUSONIUS THE LETTER by CHARLOTTE BRONTE |