 | Poems |  |
TO LEIGH HUNT.
I
“Spring flowers—spring flowers!”—all April's in the cry;Not the dim April of the dull grey street,
But she of showers and sunbursts whom we meet
On dewy field-paths, ere the daisy's dry,
And breezy hill-sides when the morning's high.
“Spring flowers—spring flowers!”—the very cry is sweet
With violets and the airs that stay the feet,
The showery fragrance of the sweetbriar nigh;
Yet all and more than in that cry is found,
Rises before us with thy pleasant name,
Leigh Hunt; with the dear gladness of the sound,
Into my close room, all the country came;
Deep lanes and meadow streams rose with the word,
And through the hush of woods, the cuckoo's call I heard.
II
How sumless is the debt to him we owe,Little, perchance, unto ourselves is known;
Little, perchance, how thickly he has sown
Our paths through time with pleasantness, we know;
528
The loving teachings of his works alone;
A thousand deeds of good in others, own
His thoughts and words their angel-prompters; so,
Unrecognised, before our very eyes
His gentleness in that of others lives,
And many a kindly look and tone we prize,
And many a smile that to our firesides gives
The charm the most endearing them, have caught
Their power to bless us, from his gentle thought.
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