The summer sun is stealing fast away, And merry children join in noisy mirth; Laughing and leaping in the golden ray, The wildest and the gayest things of earth.
Fair forms are bounding rapidly about, Light as the fairy imps in sylvan rings; Drowning the blackbird's song with their wild shout, And chasing down the moth with azure wings.
But there is one, in quiet lonely mood, Taking a shadowy path apart from all; Choosing the mossy margin, where the flood Leads to the loud and dashing waterfall.
Slow, lingering—now to gaze upon the tide, And watch the swelling ripples gliding by; Now bending o'er the brooklet's shelving side, With stiller breathing and a closer eye.
He muses with a long and earnest glance, Noting the things his playmates never heed; Pausing to see the water-lilies dance To the soft music of the wave-splash'd reed.
He wonders none beside himself can find Something to wonder at in woods and streams; And knows not that his fresh, untutor'd mind Is dreaming busily the poet's dreams.
He feels the immortal light of Spirit live Within his breast—but knows not that in years To come that warm and flashing ray will give The brightest rainbow through the bitterest tears.
Life's sands run on.—The wayward child is now All that foreboding tongues erst prophesied; Reflection's cloud has darken'd on the brow, And all youth promised, Time has not denied.
The cheeks have less of roundness and of red, The grey eye has become more softly deep; The lips are thinner, but the spirit shed Around them tells that Feeling does not sleep.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
