As a Hen fears for her chickens, when the shadow
Of the forest-eagles wing comes floating over,
And the little ones are truant in the meadow,
And she, screaming, calls them under her wings cover;
As the Miser gloats over the gold he treasures,
Counting it piece by piece and chuckling faintly;
As the Pastor joys oer sinners weaned from pleasures
Of grosser touch, to raptures pure and saintly;
So turns my soul back from its sterner troubles,
To the silver river stealing through the willows,
Where I sat in boyhood watching waterbubbles
Dancing and breaking on its tiny billows;
To the grey old beeches in the springtime budding,
And the long lush grasstufts on the rivers border;
To the starry marsh-flowers, white and purple, studding
The long wild bank with beauty in disorder;
So turns my soul back, fearing, loving, yearning
Nevermore come ye back, delicious hours!
Passions I knew not then are in me burning,
And wither with fierce heat those tender flowers.
No more! Let memory then call Wisdom to her,
To stand me instead of Innocence departed;
Wisdom, who only waits for us to woo her,
To cheer the sad, and heal the broken-hearted.
