From ancient realms, from many a seat
Of art and power beyond the sea;
From fields o'er which the blessed feet
Of Jesus walked in Galilee;

From snow-capped peak and glorious vale,
That listen to the cataract's voice,
Led by the hand of God, we hail,
Once more, the pastor of our choice.

The reaper takes his place again,
Where the white harvest skirts the way,
With sinews strengthened to sustain
The heat and burden of the day.

And while our hearts, with one accord,
Welcome him to his cherished home;

I hear, from many a little throat,
A warble interrupted long;
I hear the robin's flute-like note,
The bluebird's slenderer song.

Brown meadows and the russet hill,
Not yet the haunt of grazing herds,
And thickets by the glimmering rill,
Are all alive with birds.

Oh choir of spring, why come so soon?
On leafless grove and herbless lawn
Warm lie the yellow beams of moon;
Yet winter is not gone.

For frost shall sheet the pools again;
Again the blustering East shall blow—
Whirl a white tempest through the glen,

I've watched too late; the morn is near;
One look at God's broad silent sky!
Oh, hopes and wishes vainly dear,
How in your very strength ye die!

Even while your glow is on the cheek,
And scarce the high pursuit begun,
The heart grows faint, the hand grows weak,
The task of life is left undone.

See where, upon the horizon's brim,
Lies the still cloud in gloomy bars;
The waning moon, all pale and dim,
Goes up amid the eternal stars.

Late, in a flood of tender light,
She floated through the ethereal blue,

At morn the Count of Greiers before his castle stands;
He sees afar the glory that lights the mountain-lands;
The horned crags are shining, and in the shade between
A pleasant Alpine valley lies beautifully green.

“Oh, greenest of the valleys, how shall I come to thee!
Thy herdsmen and thy maidens, how happy must they be!
I have gazed upon thee coldly, all lovely as thou art,
But the wish to walk thy pastures now stirs my inmost heart.”

He hears a sound of timbrels, and suddenly appear
A troop of ruddy damsels and herdsmen drawing near:

I saw an aged man upon his bier,
His hair was thin and white, and on his brow
A record of the cares of many a year;—
Cares that were ended and forgotten now.
And there was sadness round, and faces bowed,
And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud.

Then rose another hoary man and said,
In faltering accents, to that weeping train:
“Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead?
Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain,
Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast,
Nor when the yellow woods let fall the ripened mast.

Weep not for Scio's children slain;
Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed,
Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain
For vengeance on the murderer's head.

Though high the warm red torrent ran
Between the flames that lit the sky,
Yet, for each drop, an armèd man
Shall rise, to free the land, or die.

And for each corpse, that in the sea
Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds,
A hundred of the foe shall be
A banquet for the mountain-birds.

Stern rites and sad shall Greece ordain
To keep that day along her shore,

This shadow on the Dial's face,
That steals from day to day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Moments, and months, and years away;
This shadow, which, in every clime,
Since light and motion first began,
Hath held its course sublime;—
What is it?——Mortal Man!
It is the scythe of Time :
—A shadow only to the eye;
Yet, in its calm career,
It levels all beneath the sky;
And still, through each succeeding year,
Right onward, with resistless power,
Its stroke shall darken every hour,
Till Nature's race be run,

What is this wild obsessive power
That cannot give but it give all?
This child full-grown within an hour:
This love that clasps as in a thrall

This winter turned to summer's heat:
This frenzied longing in the night:
This swift-upspringing earless wheat:
This burning fire devoid of light?

O who shall grapple with the love
That never knew a mortal youth,
But like a rocket soared above
In one wild flight to capture truth?

O who to sudden power was born?
Where is the art that needs no skill?

When I think on the course I have run,
From my childhood itself to this day,
I tremble, and fain would I shun,
The remembrance its terrors array.

I marvel at struggles endured,
With a destiny frightful as mine,
At the strength for such efforts:—assured
Tho' I am, 'tis in vain to repine.

I have known this sad life thirty years,
And to me, thirty years it has been
Of suffring, of sorrow and tears,
Ev'ry day of its bondage I've seen.

But 'tis nothing the past—or the pains,
Hitherto I have struggled to bear,

Under a hawthorn bush I sat,
The air was hot and dry.
Over the beacon came the clouds
Yellow and thundery.

Birds twittered, and were still again;
The wind blew wild, then dropped:
It was as if the blood of earth
In nature's veins had stopped.

As if some fierce vindictive power,
Felt but not understood,
Hovered above the cowering earth
In threatening masterhood.

When suddenly I heard the sound
Of footsteps on the road;
The steps were slow, as though one walked
Under a heavy load.