Or if we dare not thus draw back, Yet oh! to shun the crowded track And the rude throng of men! to dwell In hermitage or lonely cell, Feeding all longings that aspire Like incense heavenward, and with care And lonely vigil nursing there Faith’s solitary pyre.
Oh! let not us this thought allow-- The heat, the dust upon our brow, Signs of the contest, we may wear: Yet thus we shall appear more fair In our Almighty Master’s eye, Than if in fear to lose the bloom, Or ruffle the soul’s lightest plume, We from the strife should fly.
And for the rest, in weariness, In disappointment, or distress, When strength decays, or hope grows dim, We ever may recur to Him, Who has the golden oil divine, Wherewith to feed our failing urns, Who watches every lamp that burns Before his sacred shrine.
Dear boy, thy momentary laughter rings Sincerely out, and that spontaneous glee, Seeming to need no hint from outward things, Breaks forth in sudden shoutings, loud and free.
From what hid fountains doth thy joyance flow, That borrows nothing from the world around? Its springs must deeper lie than we can know, A well whose springs lie safely underground.
So be it ever--and thou happy boy, When Time, that takes these wild delights away, Gives thee a measure of sedater joy, Which, unlike this, shall ever with thee stay;--
Then may that joy, like this, to outward things Owe nothing--but lie safe beneath the sod, A hidden fountain fed from unseen springs, From the glad-making river of our God.
Deem not these fishers idle, though by day You hear the snatches of their lazy song, And see them listlessly the sunlight long Strew the curved beach of this indented bay: So deemed I, till I viewed their trim array Of boats last night,--a busy armament, With sails as dark as ever Theseus bent Upon his fatal rigging, take their way. Rising betimes, I could not choose but look For their return, and when along the lake The morning mists were curling, saw them make Homeward, returning toward their quiet nook, With draggled nets down hanging to the tide, Weary, and leaning o’er their vessels’ side.
The clouds are gathering in their western dome, Deep-drenched with sunlight, as a fleece with dew, While I with baffled effort still pursue And track these waters toward their mountain home, In vain--though cataract, and mimic foam, And island-spots, round which the streamlet threw Its sister arms, which joyed to meet anew, Have lured me on, and won me still to roam; Till now, coy nymph, unseen thy waters pass, Or faintly struggle through the twinkling grass-- And I, thy founts unvisited, return. Is it that thou art revelling with thy peers? Or dost thou feed a solitary urn, Else unreplenished, with thine own sad tears?