I had grown weary of the anthem high Of the full waves, cheering the patient rocks; I had grown weary of the sob and sigh Of the dull ebb, after emotion's shocks; My eye was weary of the glittering blue And the unbroken horizontal line; My mind was weary, tempted to pursue The circling waters in their wide design, Like snowy sea-gulls stooping to the wave, Or rising buoyant to the utmost air, To dart, to circle, airily to lave, Or wave-like float in foam-born lightness fair: I had swept onward like the wave so full, Like sea weed now left on the shore so dull. I turned my steps to the retreating hills, Rejected sand from that great haughty sea, Watered by nature with consoling rills, And gradual dressed with grass, and shrub, and tree; They seemed to welcome me with timid smile, That said, "We'd like to soothe you for a while; You seem to have been treated by the sea In the same way that long ago were we." They had not much to boast, those gentle slopes, For the wild gambols of the sea-sent breeze Had mocked at many of their quiet hopes, And bent and dwarfed their fondly cherished trees; Yet even in those marks of by-past wind, There was a tender stilling for my mind. Hiding within a small but thick-set wood, I soon forgot the haughty, chiding flood. The sheep bell's tinkle on the drowsy ear, With the bird's chirp, so short, and light, and clear, Composed a melody that filled my heart With flower-like growths of childish, artless art, And of the tender, tranquil life I lived apart. It was an hour of pure tranquillity, Like to the autumn sweetness of thine eye, Which pries not, seeks not, and yet clearly sees-- Which wooes not, beams not, yet is sure to please. Hours passed, and sunset called me to return Where its sad glories on the cold wave burn. Rising from my kind bed of thick-strewn leaves, A fragrance the astonished sense receives, Ambrosial, searching, yet retiring, mild: Of that soft scene the soul was it? or child? 'Twas the sweet bay I had unwitting spread, A pillow for my senseless, throbbing head, And which, like all the sweetest things, demands, To make it speak, the grasp of alien hands. All that this scene did in that moment tell, I since have read, O wise, mild friend! in thee. Pardon the rude grasp, its sincerity, And feel that I, at least, have known thee well. Grudge not the green leaves ravished from thy stem, Their music, should I live, muse-like to tell; Thou wilt, in fresher green forgetting them, Send others to console me for farewell. Thou wilt see why the dim word of regret Was made the one to rhyme with Margaret.