A school-time weariness; and many a breeze And lovely warble from our native hills, Through the dim casement comes, over the worn And tear-wet page, unto the listening ear Of our home sighing--to the _listening_ ear. Ah, what know we of life?--of that strange life That this, in many a folded rudiment, With nature's low, unlying voice, doth point to. Is it not very like what the poor grub Knows of the butterfly's gay being?---- With its colors strange, fragrance, and song, And robes of floating gold with gorgeous dyes, And loveliest motion o'er wide, blooming worlds. That dark dream had ne'er imaged!---- Ay, sing on, Sing on, thou bright one, with the news of life, The everlasting, winging o'er our vale. Oh warble on, thy high, strange song. What sayest thou?--a land o'er these dark cliffs, A land all glory, where the day ne'er setteth---- Where bright creatures, mid the deathless shades, Go singing, shouting evermore? And yet 'Twere vain. That wild tale hath no meaning here, Thou warbler from afar. Like music Of a foreign tongue, on our dull sense, The rich thought wastes.--We have been nursed in tears, Thro' all we've known of life, we have known grief, And is there none in life's deep essence mixed? Is sorrow but the young soul's garment then?---- A baby mantle, doffed forever here, Within these lowly walls. And we were born Amid a glad creation!---then why hear we ne'er The silver shout, filling the unmeasured heaven?---- Why catch we e'er the rich plume's rustle soft, Or sweep of passing lyre! Our tearful home Hung 'mid a gay, rejoicing universe, And ne'er a glimpse adown its golden paths?---- Oh are there eyes, soft eyes upon us, In the dark and in the day, shining unseen, And everlasting smiles, brightening unfelt On all our tears: News sweet and strange ye bring. Hither we came from our Creator's hands, Bright earnest ones, looking for joy, and lo, A stranger met us at the gate of life, A stranger dark, and wrapped us in her robe, And bore us on through a dim vale.--Ah, not The world we looked for,--for an image in. Our souls was born, of a high home, that yet We have not seen. And were our childhood's yearnings, Its strange hopes, no dreams then,--dim revealings Of a land that yet we travel to?---- But thou, oh foster-mother, mournful nurse, So long upon thy sable vest we're leaned, Thou art grown dear to us, and when at last At yonder blue and burning gate Thou yieldest up thy trust, and joy at last In her own wild embrace enfolds us once, e'en From the jewelled bosom of that dazzling one, From the young roses of that smiling face, Shall we not turn to thee, for one last glimpse Of that wan cheek, and solemn eye of love, And watch thy stately step, far down This dim world's fading paths? Take us, kind sorrow! We will lean our young head meekly on thee; Good and holy is thy ministry,