The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.

Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.

The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!

The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled; And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!

A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.

Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.