BY C. P. CRANCH.
Stepping from hint to hint, he saw
Some glimmerings or the Primal Law;
The world deemed him no poet-seer,
Yet Nature somehow tuned his ear
To catch her secret whisperings,
The subtler harmony of things.
The critics’ croak no furtherance brought,
For steadily onward moved his thought
To the eagle soaring in the sun
What boots the brood that crawl and run?
All lesser lights look pale and dim;
The private soul sufficeth him;
And the song he singeth to his heart
Hath led him, like a forest-bird, apart.