ii.
The summer comes again, by vale and hill
With blossoms fashioning her fragrant way;
But thou, the child of summer, to the day
Art long unknown, and all thy steps are still.
In summer wert thou born, and thou didst fill
Thy scanty urn of years while summer spray
Whitened the shores where thy mute image lay,
Robbed of its poet. Hence the summers will
Seek thee in vain. The eye that watched the
cloud
Hath locked its sight beneath the fallen lid;
The ear that heard the skylark's note is vowed
To a perpetual silence. Thou art hid
Beyond the summers, and thy name belongs
But to a ceaseless melody of songs.
MATTHEW ARNOLD :
ON HEARING HIM READ HIS POEMS IN BOSTON.
A STRANGER, schooled to gentle arts,
He stept before the curious throng ;
His path into our waiting hearts
Already paved by song.
Full well we knew his choristers,
Whose plaintive voices haunt our rest,
