Adieu, Rydalian Laurels! That Have Grown And Spread As If Ye Knew That Days Might Come When Ye Would Shelter In A Happy Home, On This Fair Mount, A Poet Of Your Own, One Who Ne'er Ventured For A Delphic Crown To Sue The God; But, Haunting Your Green Shade All Seasons Through, Is Humbly Pleased To Braid Ground-Flowers, Beneath Your Guardianship, Self-Sown. Farewell! No Minstrels Now With Harp New-Strung For Summer Wandering Quit Their Household Bowers; Yet Not For This Wants Poesy A Tongue To Cheer The Itinerant On Whom She Pours Her Spirit, While He Crosses Lonely Moors, Or Musing Sits Forsaken Halls Among.