A SKETCH.
And still he takes the lonely way, and still
He saunters idly, seeming to love best
That which he loved of old—the wimpling rill,
And the thick wood that holds the owlet's nest.
He saunters idly, seeming to love best
That which he loved of old—the wimpling rill,
And the thick wood that holds the owlet's nest.
Yet does he lean against the straggling tree,
When Summer flings her blossoms at his feet;
And still he thinks the whirring of the bee
And distant tinkling sheep-bell, music sweet.
When Summer flings her blossoms at his feet;
And still he thinks the whirring of the bee
And distant tinkling sheep-bell, music sweet.
Yet does he wander on a starry night;
Yet will he stand to watch the bulrush nod;
Still will he hold upon the mountain height
Close questioning with Nature and its God.
Yet will he stand to watch the bulrush nod;
Still will he hold upon the mountain height
Close questioning with Nature and its God.
What is he? Hark! the busy voice of Fame
Sounds 'neath the household roof from heart to heart;
And heralds forth his glory and his name,
In notes whose echoes never shall depart.
Sounds 'neath the household roof from heart to heart;
And heralds forth his glory and his name,
In notes whose echoes never shall depart.
What is he? Ask it of his own proud breast,
That glows amid cold Poverty and Wrong:
His lyre shall tell thee—he is bright and blest,
The worshipp'd and the poor—a Child of Song.
That glows amid cold Poverty and Wrong:
His lyre shall tell thee—he is bright and blest,
The worshipp'd and the poor—a Child of Song.
212
