And hang it round with garlands. Love survives; But, for such purpose, flowers no longer grow: The times, too sage, perhaps too proud, have dropped These lighter graces; and the rural ways And manners which my childhood looked upon 160 Were the unluxuriant produce of a life Intent on little but substantial needs, Yet rich in beauty, beauty that was felt. But images of danger and distress, Man suffering among awful Powers and Forms; 165 Of this I heard, and saw enough to make Imagination restless; nor was free Myself from frequent perils; nor were tales Wanting,--the tragedies of former times, Hazards and strange escapes, of which the rocks 170 Immutable and overflowing streams, Where'er I roamed, were speaking monuments. Smooth life had flock and shepherd in old time, Long springs and tepid winters, on the banks Of delicate Galesus [P]; and no less 175 Those scattered along Adria's myrtle shores: [Q] Smooth life had herdsman, and his snow-white herd To triumphs and to sacrificial rites Devoted, on the inviolable stream Of rich Clitumnus [R]; and the goat-herd lived 180 As calmly, underneath the pleasant brows Of cool Lucretilis [S], where the pipe was heard Of Pan, Invisible God, thrilling the rocks With tutelary music, from all harm The fold protecting. I myself, mature 185 In manhood then, have seen a pastoral tract Like one of these, where Fancy might run wild, Though under skies less generous, less serene: There, for her own delight had Nature framed A pleasure-ground, diffused a fair expanse 190 Of level pasture, islanded with groves And banked with woody risings; but the Plain [T] Endless, here opening widely out, and there Shut up in lesser lakes or beds of lawn And intricate recesses, creek or bay 195 Sheltered within a shelter, where at large The shepherd strays, a rolling hut his home. Thither he comes with spring-time, there abides All summer, and at sunrise ye may hear His flageolet to liquid notes of love 200 Attuned, or sprightly fife resounding far. Nook is there none, nor tract of that vast space Where passage opens, but the same shall have In turn its visitant, telling there his hours In unlaborious pleasure, with no task 205 More toilsome than to carve a beechen bowl For spring or fountain, which the traveller finds, When through the region he pursues at will His devious course. A glimpse of such sweet life I saw when, from the melancholy walls 210 Of Goslar, once imperial, I renewed My daily walk along that wide champaign, [U] That, reaching to her gates, spreads east and west, And northwards, from beneath the mountainous verge