From: The Dial, Vol. II, No. III. (Jan. 1842)
Author:
Published: E. P. Peabody 1842 Boston
THE prosperous and beautiful I cannot shake off the god; Enchanters! Enchantresses! Yet spake yon purple mountain,THE PARK.
To me seem not to wear
The yoke of conscience masterful
Which galls me everywhere.
On my neck he makes his seat;
I look at my face in the glass,
My eyes his eyeballs meet.
Your gold makes you seem wise:
The morning mist within your grounds
More proudly rolls, more softly lies.
Yet said yon ancient wood,
That Night or Day, that Love or Crime
Lead all souls to the Good.
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