Then  sing,  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song !

And  let  the  young  lambs  bound

As  to  the  tabor's  sound !
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng,

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play.
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  !
What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright
Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight.
WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  95

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour
Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower  ;

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find

Strength  in  what  remains  behind  ;

In  the  primal  sympathy

Which  having  been  must  ever  be,

In  the  soothing  thoughts  tliat  spring

Out  of  human  suffering.
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death.
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind.
And,  O  ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills,  and  groves.
Think  not  of  any  severing  of  our  loves  !

Yet  in  my  he.irt  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might :

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway.
I  love  the  brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret,

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they ;

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day

Is  lovely  yet ;
The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality  ;
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won.
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live,
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears,
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears.
William  Wordsworth.
96  SIR    WALTER  SCOTT.
LULLABY  OF  AN  INFANT  CHIEF.
