Part 1 — AT BAY RIDGE, LONG ISLAND.

Pleasant it is to lie amid the grass Under these shady locusts, half the day, Watching the ships reflected on the Bay, Topmast and shroud, as in a wizard's glass; To see the happy-hearted martins pass, Brushing the dew-drops from the lilac-spray: Or else to hang enamored o'er some lay Of faëry regions; or to muse, alas! On Dante, exiled, journeying outworn; On patient Milton's sorrowfullest eyes, Shut from the splendors of the Night and Morn; To think that now, beneath the Italian skies, In such clear air as this, by Tiber's wave, Daisies are trembling over Keats's grave.