XI. THE ISIS.
I
Early one twilight morn I sought
A favourite woodland shade,
A place where out of idleness
Some profit might be made.
II
The voices of the little birds
Were musical and loud,
Buried among the twinkling leaves,
A merry, merry crowd.
III
But when the gallant sun rode up
Into his own broad sky,
The very wood itself did seem
Alive with melody.
IV
And there the golden city lay
Safe in her leafy nest,
And softly on her clustering towers
The blush of dawn did rest.
V
Onward for many and many a mile,
Through fields that lay below,
Old Isis, with his glassy stream,
Came pleasantly and slow.
VI
The spring with blossoms rich and fair
Had fringed the river's edge,—
Pale Mayflowers, and wild hyacinths,
And spears of tall green sedge.
VII
The ripple on the flowery marge
A pleasant sound did yield,
And pleasant was the wind that waved
The long grass in the field.
VIII
And there is something in a stream
That fascinates the eye,
A charm in that eternal flow
That ever glideth by.
IX
For still by river sides the hours
Will often lapse away,
Till evening almost seems to steal
A march upon the day.
X
So should it be with Man's career:
Each hour a duty find,
And not a stone be there to check
The current of the mind.
XI
The path of duty, like the stream,
Hath flowers that round it bloom,
The thicker and the lovelier
The nearer to the tomb.
XII
And, ah! the best and purest life
Is that which passes slow,
And yet withal so evenly
We do not feel it go.
