Tenor solo 
 Thee, fair Poetry oft hath sought, 
 Wandering lone in wayward thought, 
 In level meads by gliding streams, 
 When summer noon is full of dreams.
 And thy sweet airs her soul invade,
 Haunting retired the willow shade. 
 Or in some orchard's wallèd nook
 She communes with her ancient book,
 Beneath the branches waving low,
 While the high sun in cloudless glow 
 Smiteth all day the long hillside 
 With ripening corn-fields waving wide. 
 There if thou wander all the year,
 No jar of man shall reach thine ear; 
 Only awhile the distant sound 
 From hidden villages around,
 Threading the glades and woody heights, is borne
 Of bells that dong the Sabbath morn.