Then he went his way and on manhood’s brow His cooling fingers are busy now, He parts the dark hair from its resting place, And prints a kiss on the anxious face, And woos him to leave the dust and glare Of the crowded town, for a spot more fair, Where trees in blossom, and birds on wing, Lead the rapt heart from each worldly thing. But man heeds not, for his rest is sold, And his heart bows down to the god of gold; For the tempting Zephyr he “cares not a groat,” He is eagerly reaching a “ten pound note,” That ragged, and soiled on the counter doth lay, But the Zephyr indignantly bears it away. He toss’d it, he pull’d it, he twirled it around, Now high in the air, and now low on the ground, He moaned in derision, he whistled with glee, Ah! never was Zephyr as merry as he, Till at length, in his frolic, he entered a shed Where a widow was praying for daily bread, In the voice of faith, low, subdued and mild, She prayed for food for her starving child: Then the wind bowed down with its burden there, And Heaven thus answered the widow’s prayer. Then he entered the halls, where many a scene Of joyous pleasure, and mirth had been— He softly sighed o’er the festal board, Where the jest had passed, and the red wine poured, He swept the harp with his quivering wing, And woke the tones of each mournful string, While his murmuring voice, with its gentle chime, Seemed singing a song of the olden time, Or breathing a dirge o’er the gay hearts fled To their silent homes ’mid the lowly dead. He sighed through the banners that hung on high— (Dimmed was their gorgeous blazonry,) But they waved aloft, as they waved of old, When the shout and song shook each heavy fold, While the dust fell down in a darkening cloud— And the moth was rocked in her silken shroud— And the bat sprang forth from his loathsome nest, ’Mid the pennons there, an unseemly guest!