THE lark has sung his carol in the sky; The bees have hummed their noon-tide lullaby. Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire A few short years-and then these sounds shall hail The day again, and gladness fill the vale; So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sir-loin; And once, alas, nor in a distant hour, He rests in holy earth with them that went before. It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone! Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange, To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour! Born in a trance, we wake, observe, inquire; We cast a longer shadow in the sun! And now a charm, and now a grace is won! Nor do we speak or move, or hear or see; So like what once we were, and once again shall be! An aged pilgrim on his staff shall lean, K |