Toe. C. K.

Ah, once I little thought the rill of song
That gushed within my heart, would other be
Than that deep stream that flowed unseen along
To far Sicilia, dark and silently.

An Arethusa of the heart, a stream
That only for a moment into sight,
In some still grot where Hamadryad's dream,
Should murmur up, then vanish into night.

But thou, while listening at its secret spring,
Did'st hear, or seem to hear, a sound divine;
Was it thine own heart's river, murmuring
With full deep flow, mistook by thee for mine?

Howe'er it be — I have assumed the part
Of one who in the heart of Nature lives,
And, in the tuneful oracles of Art,
Unto her secret thoughts their utterance gives.

And if my Muse for pinions have mistook
The up-buoyant sense and wild desire to fly,
Felt by untutored spirits, as they look
On some strong bird that seems to cleave the sky, —

And though like him to light's eternal springs
It ne'er may rise, — 'twill joy that others may,
And hear the sound of height-controlling wings,
With eye of worship upward turned for aye.

Or if, with callow wings, too soon it seek
The mount of song, and ill-assured in flight,
Be backward struck from its attempted peak
By jealous gods that dwell upon the height;

So thou dost hope it shall not yet despair,
But nestling to thy heart, more joy receive
From thy indignant plaint and soothing care,
Than their neglect can wound, or scorn can grieve.