And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe. And whenever the way seemed long, She would sing a more wonderful song, So she keeps him still a child, And will not let him go, Though at times his heart beats wild For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; Though at times he hears in his dreams And the rush of mountain streams From glaciers clear and cold; And the mother at home says, "Hark! For his voice I listen and yearn; It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return!" ® In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, In your thoughts the brooklets flow, But in mine is the wind of Autumn, And the first fall of the snow. Ah! what would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us What the leaves are to the forest, With light and air for food, Ere their sweet and tender juices Have been hardened into wood, That to the world are children; Through them it feels the glow Of a brighter and sunnier climate Than reaches the trunks below. Come to me, O ye children ! And whisper in my ear What the birds and the winds are singing For what are all our contrivings, And the wisdom of our books, When compared with your caresses, And the gladness of your looks? But serene in the rapturous throng, With eyes unimpassioned and slow, To sounds that ascend from below ; From the spirits on earth that adore, In the fervour and passion of prayer; From the hearts that are broken with losses, And weary with dragging the crosses Too heavy for mortals to bear. And he gathers the prayers as he stands, It is but a legend, I know,— A fable, a phantom, a show, Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; Yet the old mediæval tradition, The beautiful, strange superstition, But haunts me and holds me the more. |