I Serve You Not, If You I Follow, Shadowlike, O'Er Hill And Hollow; And Bend My Fancy To Your Leading, All Too Nimble For My Treading. When The Pilgrimage Is Done, And We've The Landscape Overrun, I Am Bitter, Vacant, Thwarted, And Your Heart Is Unsupported. Vainly Valiant, You Have Missed The Manhood That Should Yours Resist,-- Its Complement; But If I Could, In Severe Or Cordial Mood, Lead You Rightly To My Altar, Where The Wisest Muses Falter, And Worship That World-Warming Spark Which Dazzles Me In Midnight Dark, Equalizing Small And Large, While The Soul It Doth Surcharge, Till The Poor Is Wealthy Grown, And The Hermit Never Alone,-- The Traveller And The Road Seem One With The Errand To Be Done,-- That Were A Man'S And Lover'S Part, That Were Freedom'S Whitest Chart.