IV.

Then seemed to stir the trembling leaves amid, To mingle with the robins’ cheerful call, A low, sad voice, as if the hills let fall Faint, wandering echoes of sweet music hid In dark ravine, on solitary height. I dropped my roses, gone their ravishment; I passed the mowers o’er their harvest bent; I sought those distant mountain-lands of light. Wild, thorny brambles stretched across my way, Sharp rocks were weary pathways for my feet, Yet ever lured me on those accents sweet Whose very sadness was my weakness’ stay, With every step more intimate and near— “Take heart, poor child! ’tis I; have thou no fear.