II.

Early through field and wood each Spring we sped, Young Ion leading o’er the reedy pass; How fleet his footsteps and how sure his tread! His converse deep and weighty;—where, alas! Like force of thought with subtlest beauty wed? The bee and bird and flower, the pile of grass, The lore of stars, the azure sky o’erhead, The eye’s warm glance, the Fates of love and dread,— All mirrored were in his prismatic glass; For endless Being’s myriad-minded race Had in his thought their registry and place,— Bright with intelligence, or drugged with sleep, Hid in dark cave, aloft on mountain steep, In seas immersed, ensouled in starry keep.