HE stands within the silent square,
That square of state, of gloom;
A heavy weight is on the air,
Which hangs as o'er a tomb.
It is a tomb which wealth and
Have built themselves around—The general sympathies have
Like flowers on high dry ground.
None heed the wandering boy who sings,
An orphan though so young;
None think how far the singer
The songs which he has sung.
None cheer him with a kindly look,
None with a kindly word;
The singer's little pride must
To be unpraised, unheard.
At home their sweet bird he was styled,
And oft, when days were long,
His mother called her favourite
To sing her favourite song.
He wanders now through weary streets,
Till cheek and eye are dim;
How little sympathy he meets,
Sudden his dark brown cheek grows
His dark eyes fill with glee,
Covered with blossoms snowy-white,
He sees an orange tree.
No more the toil-worn face is pale,
Nor faltering step is sad;
He sees his distant native vale,
He sees it, and is glad.
He sees the squirrel climb the pine,
The doves fly through the dell,
The purple clusters of the vine;
He hears the vesper-bell.
His heart is full of hope and home,
Toil, travel, are no more;
And he has happy hours to
Beside his father's door.
Oh, charm of natural influence!
But for thy lovely ties,
Never might the world-wearied
Above the present rise.
Blessed be thy magic every where,
Oh Nature, gentle mother;
How kindlier is for us thy care,
Than ours is for each other.
