(See Letter 551, page 952)

        Dear Lamb!  I drink to thee,—­to thee
          Married to sweet Liberty!

What, old friend, and art thou freed From the bondage of the pen?  Free from care and toil indeed?  Free to wander amongst men When and howsoe’er thou wilt? All thy drops of labour spilt, On those huge and figured pages, Which will sleep unclasp’d for ages, Little knowing who did wield The quill that traversed their white field?

        Come,—­another mighty health! 
        Thou hast earn’d thy sum of wealth,—­
        Countless ease,—­immortal leisure,—­
        Days and nights of boundless pleasure,
        Checquer’d by no dreams of pain,
        Such as hangs on clerk-like brain
        Like a night-mare, and doth press
        The happy soul from happiness.

        Oh! happy thou,—­whose all of time
        (Day and eve, and morning prime)
        Is fill’d with talk on pleasant themes,—­
        Or visions quaint, which come in dreams
        Such as panther’d Bacchus rules,
        When his rod is on “the schools,”
        Mixing wisdom with their wine;—­
        Or, perhaps, thy wit so fine
        Strayeth in some elder book,
        Whereon our modern Solons look
        With severe ungifted eyes,
        Wondering what thou seest to prize. 
        Happy thou, whose skill can take
        Pleasure at each turn, and slake
        Thy thirst by every fountain’s brink,
        Where less wise men would pause to shrink: 
        Sometimes, ’mid stately avenues
        With Cowley thou, or Marvel’s muse,
        Dost walk; or Gray, by Eton’s towers;
        Or Pope, in Hampton’s chesnut bowers;
        Or Walton, by his loved Lea stream: 
        Or dost thou with our Milton dream,
        Of Eden and the Apocalypse,
        And hear the words from his great lips?

        Speak,—­in what grove or hazel shade,
        For “musing meditation made,”
        Dost wander?—­or on Penshurst Lawn,
        Where Sidney’s fame had time to dawn
        And die, ere yet the hate of Men
        Could envy at his perfect pen? 
        Or, dost thou, in some London street,
        (With voices fill’d and thronging feet,)
        Loiter, with mien ’twixt grave and gay?—­
        Or take along some pathway sweet,
        Thy calm suburban way?

        Happy beyond that man of Ross,
        Whom mere content could ne’er engross,
        Art thou,—­with hope, health, “learned leisure;”
        Friends, books, thy thoughts, an endless pleasure! 
        —­Yet—­yet,—­(for when was pleasure made
        Sunshine all without a shade?)
        Thou, perhaps, as now thou rovest
        Through the busy scenes thou lovest,
        With an Idler’s careless look,