Born not of her bosom;
     Content with all her truths and fates;
     Ev’n as yon strip of grass that bows
     Above the new-born violet bloom,
     And sings with wood and field.

     IV

     Lo, as a tree, whose wintry twigs
     Drink in the sun with fibrous joy,
     And down into its dampest roots
     Thrills quickened with the draught of life,
     I wake unto the dawn, and leave my griefs to drowse.

     I rise and drink the fresh sweet air: 
     Each draught a future bud of Spring;
     Each glance of blue a birth of green;
     I will not mimic yonder oak
     That dallies with dead leaves ev’n while the primrose peeps.

     But full of these warm-whispering beams,
     Like Memnon in his mother’s eye, —
     Aurora! when the statue stone
     Moaned soft to her pathetic touch, —
     My soul shall own its parent in the founts of day!

     And ever in the recurring light,
     True to the primal joy of dawn,
     Forget its barren griefs; and aye
     Like aspens in the faintest breeze
     Turn all its silver sides and tremble into song.

     V

     Now from the meadow floods the wild duck clamours,
     Now the wood pigeon wings a rapid flight,
     Now the homeward rookery follows up its vanguard,
     And the valley mists are curling up the hills.

     Three short songs gives the clear-voiced throstle,
     Sweetening the twilight ere he fills the nest;
     While the little bird upon the leafless branches
     Tweets to its mate a tiny loving note.

     Deeper the stillness hangs on every motion;
     Calmer the silence follows every call;
     Now all is quiet save the roosting pheasant,
     The bell-wether’s tinkle and the watch-dog’s bark.

     Softly shine the lights from the silent kindling homestead,
     Stars of the hearth to the shepherd in the fold;
     Springs of desire to the traveller on the roadway;
     Ever breathing incense to the ever-blessing sky!

     VI

     How barren would this valley be,
     Without the golden orb that gazes
     On it, broadening to hues
     Of rose, and spreading wings of amber;
     Blessing it before it falls asleep.

     How barren would this valley be,
     Without the human lives now beating
     In it, or the throbbing hearts
     Far distant, who their flower of childhood
     Cherish here, and water it with tears!

     How barren should I be, were I
     Without above that loving splendour,
     Shedding light and warmth! without
     Some kindred natures of my kind
     To joy in me, or yearn towards me now!

     VII