56
Rough is the road which we are sent,
Rough with long toil and pain;
And when upon the steep ascent,
A little way we gain,
Vexed with our own perpetual care,
Little we heed what sweet things are
Around our pathway blent;
With anxious steps we hurry on,
The very sense of pleasure gone,
But thou dost in this feverish dream
Awake a better mood,
With voices from the mountain stream,
With voices from the wood.
And with their music dost impart
Their freshness to the world-worn heart,
Whose fever is subdued
By memories sweet with other years,
By gentle hopes and soothing tears.
A solemn creed is thine and high,
Yet simple as a child,
Who looketh hopeful to yon sky,
With eyes yet undefiled
By all the glitter and the glare,
This life's deceits and follies wear,
Exalted and yet mild;
Conscious of those diviner powers,
Brought from a better world than ours.
Thou hast not chosen to rehearse
The old heroic themes;
Thou hast not given to thy verse
The hour's impassioned dreams.
Forth flows thy song, as waters flow,
So bright above, so calm below,
Wherein the heaven seems
Eternal as the golden shade,
The sunshine on the stream hath laid.
The glory which thy spirit hath,
Is round life's common things,
And flingeth round our common path,
As from an angel's wings,
