Such was the tenor of the second act In this new life. Imagination slept, 260 And yet not utterly. I could not print Ground where the grass had yielded to the steps Of generations of illustrious men, Unmoved. I could not always lightly pass Through the same gateways, sleep where they had slept, 265 Wake where they waked, range that inclosure old, That garden of great intellects, undisturbed. Place also by the side of this dark sense Of noble feeling, that those spiritual men, Even the great Newton's own ethereal self, 270 Seemed humbled in these precincts thence to be The more endeared. Their several memories here (Even like their persons in their portraits clothed With the accustomed garb of daily life) Put on a lowly and a touching grace 275 Of more distinct humanity, that left All genuine admiration unimpaired. Beside the pleasant Mill of Trompington [D] I laughed with Chaucer in the hawthorn shade; Heard him, while birds were warbling, tell his tales 280 Of amorous passion. And that gentle Bard, Chosen by the Muses for their Page of State-- Sweet Spenser, moving through his clouded heaven With the moon's beauty and the moon's soft pace, I called him Brother, Englishman, and Friend! 285 Yea, our blind Poet, who, in his later day, Stood almost single; uttering odious truth-- Darkness before, and danger's voice behind, Soul awful--if the earth has ever lodged An awful soul--I seemed to see him here 290 Familiarly, and in his scholar's dress Bounding before me, yet a stripling youth-- A boy, no better, with his rosy cheeks Angelical, keen eye, courageous look, And conscious step of purity and pride. 295 Among the band of my compeers was one Whom chance had stationed in the very room Honoured by Milton's name. O temperate Bard! Be it confest that, for the first time, seated Within thy innocent lodge and oratory, 300 One of a festive circle, I poured out Libations, to thy memory drank, till pride And gratitude grew dizzy in a brain Never excited by the fumes of wine Before that hour, or since. Then, forth I ran 305 From the assembly; through a length of streets, Ran, ostrich-like, to reach our chapel door In not a desperate or opprobrious time, Albeit long after the importunate bell Had stopped, with wearisome Cassandra voice 310 No longer haunting the dark winter night. Call back, O Friend! [E] a moment to thy mind, The place itself and fashion of the rites. With careless ostentation shouldering up My surplice, [F] through the inferior throng I clove 315 Of the plain Burghers, who in audience stood On the last skirts of their permitted ground,