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.