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Into his spirit, ravishing his thoughts

With love and beauty. Every thing he met,

Floating or beautiful, the lightest wing

Of bird or insect, or the palest dye

Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path;

And joyously broke forth his tiny shout,

As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung

Away to some green spot or clustering vine,

To pluck his infant trophies. Every tree

And fragrant shrub was a new hiding-place,

And he would crouch till the old man came by,

Then bound before him with his childish laugh,

Stealing a look behind him playfully,

To see if he had made his father smile.

The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up

Like a light veil from nature, and the heat

Came like a sleep upon the delicate leaves,

And bent them with the blossoms to their dreams.

Still trod the patriarch on with that same step,

Firm and unfaltering, turning not aside

To seek the olive shades, or lave his lips

In the sweet waters of the Syrian wells,

Whose gush hath so much music. Weariness

Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot