IV.
Roughest rocks to polished beauty
Changing as thou flowest on;
Such the Poet's heaven-taught duty,
Mid the stony-hearted throng!
Thus thy voice to me hath spoken,
Falling, falling from on high,
As a chord in music, broken
By a gently-murmured sigh.
V.
Ah! what sad yet glorious vision
Of my youth thy scenes unroll,
When I felt the Poet's mission
Kindling first within my soul;
When the passion and the glory
Of the far-off future years,
Shone in radiant light before me,
Through the present dimm'd by tears.
VI.
Can thy stream recall the shadow
Of the spirit-haunted boy,
Who in sunlight, through the meadow,
Roamed in deep and woundrous joy?
Yet bright memory still reaches,
All athwart thy glistening beams,
Where, beneath the shading beeches,
Lay the sunny child of dreams;
VII.
Weaving fancies bright as morning,
With its purple and its gold;
Strong to trample down earth's scorning
With the faith of men of old.
Ready life itself to render
At the shrine to which he bowed,
Knowing not the transient splendour
Gilded but the tempest-cloud.