10
  And one day’s narrow circuit is to Him
  Not less capacious than a thousand years. 
  But what is time?  What outward glory? neither
  A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend
  Through “heaven’s eternal year.” [B]—­Yet hail to Thee, 15
  Frail, feeble, Monthling!—­by that name, methinks,
  Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out
  Not idly.—­Hadst thou been of Indian birth,
  Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves,
  And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, 20
  Or to the churlish elements exposed
  On the blank plains,—­the coldness of the night,
  Or the night’s darkness, or its cheerful face
  Of beauty, by the changing moon adorned,
  Would, with imperious admonition, then 25
  Have scored thine age, and punctually timed
  Thine infant history, on the minds of those
  Who might have wandered with thee.—­Mother’s love,
  Nor less than mother’s love in other breasts,
  Will, among us warm-clad and warmly housed, 30
  Do for thee what the finger of the heavens
  Doth all too often harshly execute
  For thy unblest coevals, amid wilds
  Where fancy hath small liberty to grace
  The affections, to exalt them or refine; 35
  And the maternal sympathy itself,
  Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie
  Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. 
  Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours! 
  Even now—­to solemnise thy helpless state, 40
  And to enliven in the mind’s regard
  Thy passive beauty—­parallels have risen,
  Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect,
  Within the region of a father’s thoughts,
  Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky. 45
  And first;—­thy sinless progress, through a world
  By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed,
  Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered clouds,
  Moving untouched in silver purity,
  And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom. 50
  Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain: 
  But thou, how leisurely thou fill’st thy horn
  With brightness! leaving her to post along,
  And range about, disquieted in change,
  And still impatient of the shape she wears. 55
  Once up, once down the hill, one journey, Babe
  That will suffice thee; and it seems that now
  Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine;
  Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep’st
  In such a heedless peace.  Alas! full soon 60
  Hath this conception, grateful to behold,
  Changed countenance, like an object sullied o’er
  By breathing mist; and thine appears to be
  A mournful labour, while to her is given
  Hope, and a renovation without end.