I Now That The Farewell Tear Is Dried, Heaven Prosper Thee, Be Hope Thy Guide Hope Be Thy Guide, Adventurous Boy; The Wages Of Thy Travel, Joy! Whether For London Bound, To Trill Thy Mountain Notes With Simple Skill; Or On Thy Head To Poise A Show Of Images In Seemly Row; The Graceful Form Of Milk-White Steed, Or Bird That Soared With Ganymede; Or Through Our Hamlets Thou Wilt Bear The Sightless Milton, With His Hair Around His Placid Temples Curled; And Shakespeare At His Side, A Freight, If Clay Could Think And Mind Were Weight, For Him Who Bore The World! Hope Be Thy Guide, Adventurous Boy; The Wages Of Thy Travel, Joy! Ii But Thou, Perhaps, (Alert As Free Though Serving Sage Philosophy) Wilt Ramble Over Hill And Dale, A Vender Of The Well-Wrought Scale, Whose Sentient Tube Instructs To Time A Purpose To A Fickle Clime: Whether Thou Choose This Useful Part, Or Minister To Finer Art, Though Robbed Of Many A Cherished Dream, And Crossed By Many A Shattered Scheme, What Stirring Wonders Wilt Thou See In The Proud Isle Of Liberty! Yet Will The Wanderer Sometimes Pine With Thoughts Which No Delights Can Chase, Recall A Sister'S Last Embrace, His Mother'S Neck Entwine; Nor Shall Forget The Maiden Coy That 'Would' Have Loved The Bright-Haired Boy! Iii My Song, Encouraged By The Grace That Beams From His Ingenuous Face, For This Adventurer Scruples Not To Prophesy A Golden Lot; Due Recompense, And Safe Return To Como'S Steeps, His Happy Bourne! Where He, Aloft In Garden Glade, Shall Tend, With His Own Dark-Eyed Maid, The Towering Maize, And Prop The Twig That Ill Supports The Luscious Fig; Or Feed His Eye In Paths Sun-Proof With Purple Of The Trellis-Roof, That Through The Jealous Leaves Escapes From Cadenabbia'S Pendent Grapes. Oh Might He Tempt That Goatherd-Child To Share His Wanderings! Him Whose Look Even Yet My Heart Can Scarcely Brook, So Touchingly He Smiled As With A Rapture Caught From Heaven For Unasked Alms In Pity Given.