'Tis an old legend, and a touching one:
What then? Methinks beneath to-morrow's sun
Some deed as heartless will be planned and done.
Children of older years and sadder fate
Will wander, outcasts, from the great world's gate,
And ne'er return again, though long they wait.
Through wildering labyrinths that round them close,
In that heart-hunger disappointment knows,
They long may wander ere the night's repose.
Their feeble voices through the dusk may call,
And on the ears of busy mortals fall,
But who will hear, save God above us all?
Will wolfish Hates forego their evil work,
Nor Envy's vultures in the branches perk,
Nor Slander's snakes within the verdure lurk?
And when at last the torch of life grows dim,
Shall sweet birds o'er them chant a burial-hymn,
Or decent pity veil the stiffening limb?
Thrice happy they, if the old legend stand,
And they are left to wander hand in hand—
Not driven apart by Eden's blazing brand!
If, long before the lonely night comes on—
By tempting berries wildered and withdrawn—
One does not look and find the other gone;
If something more of shame, and grief, and wrong
Than that so often told in nursery song,
To their sad history does not belong!
O lonely wanderers in the great world's wood!
Finding the evil where you seek the good,
Often deceived and seldom understood—