The Horses have worked with right good-will, 40
  And so [8] have gained the top of the hill;
  He was patient, they were strong,
  And now they smoothly glide along,
  Recovering [9] breath, and pleased to win
  The praises of mild Benjamin. 45
  Heaven shield him from mishap and snare! 
  But why so early with this prayer? 
  Is it for threatenings in the sky? 
  Or for some other danger nigh? 
  No; none is near him yet, though he 50
  Be one of much infirmity; [10]
  For at the bottom of the brow,
  Where once the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH
  Offered a greeting of good ale
  To all who entered Grasmere Vale; 55
  And called on him who must depart
  To leave it with a jovial heart;
  There, where the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH
  Once hung, a Poet harbours now,
  A simple water-drinking Bard; 60
  Why need our Hero then (though frail
  His best resolves) be on his guard? 
  He marches by, secure and bold;
  Yet while he thinks on times of old,
  It seems that all looks wondrous cold; 65
  He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head,
  And, for the honest folk within,
  It is a doubt with Benjamin
  Whether they be alive or dead!

    Here is no danger,—­none at all! 70
  Beyond his wish he walks secure; [11]
  But pass a mile—­and then for trial,—­
  Then for the pride of self-denial;
  If he resist that tempting door,
  Which with such friendly voice will call; 75
  If he resist those casement panes,
  And that bright gleam which thence will fall
  Upon his Leaders’ bells and manes,
  Inviting him with cheerful lure: 
  For still, though all be dark elsewhere, 80
  Some shining notice will be ‘there’
  Of open house and ready fare.

    The place to Benjamin right well [12]
  Is known, and by as strong a spell
  As used to be that sign of love 85
  And hope—­the OLIVE-BOUGH and DOVE;
  He knows it to his cost, good Man! 
  Who does not know the famous SWAN? 
  Object uncouth! and yet our boast, [13]
  For it was painted by the Host; 90
  His own conceit the figure planned,
  ’Twas coloured all by his own hand;
  And that frail Child of thirsty clay,
  Of whom I sing [14] this rustic lay,
  Could tell with self-dissatisfaction 95
  Quaint stories of the bird’s attraction! [C]