Behold, O Nature, this pair! See them to-night where they stand, Not with the halo of youth Crowning their brows with its light, Not with the sunshine of hope, Not with the rapture of spring, Which they had of old, when they stood Years ago at my side In this self-same garden, and said: "We are young, and the world is ours; Man, man is the king of the world! Fools that these mystics are Who prate of Nature! for she Hath neither beauty, nor warmth, Nor life, nor emotion, nor power. But man has a thousand gifts, And the generous dreamer invests The senseless world with them all. Nature is nothing; her charm Lives in our eyes which can paint, Lives in our hearts which can feel." Thou, O Nature, wast mute, Mute as of old! days flew, Days and years; and Time With the ceaseless stroke of his wings Brush'd off the bloom from their soul. Clouded and dim grew their eye, Languid their heart--for youth Quicken'd its pulses no more. Slowly, within the walls Of an ever-narrowing world, They droop'd, they grew blind, they grew old. Thee and their youth in thee, Nature! they saw no more. Murmur of living, Stir of existence, Soul of the world! Make, oh, make yourselves felt To the dying spirit of youth! Come, like the breath of the spring! Leave not a human soul To grow old in darkness and pain! Only the living can feel you, But leave us not while we live! Here they stand to-night-- Here, where this grey balustrade Crowns the still valley; behind Is the castled house, with its woods, Which shelter'd their childhood--the sun On its ivied windows; a scent From the grey-wall'd gardens, a breath Of the fragrant stock and the pink, Perfumes the evening air. Their children play on the lawns. They stand and listen; they hear The children's shouts, and at times, Faintly, the bark of a dog From a distant farm in the hills. Nothing besides! in front The wide, wide valley outspreads To the dim horizon, reposed In the twilight, and bathed in dew, Corn-field and hamlet and copse Darkening fast; but a light, Far off, a glory of day, Still plays on the city spires; And there in the dusk by the walls, With the grey mist marking its course Through the silent, flowery land, On, to the plains, to the sea, Floats the imperial stream.