by Hugh McCulloch

Hugh McCulloch

Now in his slow, sweet journeying came he
Where greenest meadows sloping met a stream
Whereon the sun did dance and play and gleam
Like beaten gold : and coming there, he bent
To spy sate crossing. There some rocks had pent
A portion of the stream into a well,
A pool of light for shapes of sleep to dwell
In quietness. And when he glanced therein
He saw himself reflected. Sure no sin
For any maid to dream and long for him !
His father, Hermes, had endowed each limb
With his perfection, and his sunburned face
Flashed back the lustre of his mother's grace.
Yet he had never dreamed that he was fair,
But only knew him happy. Crossing where
The stream was shallow, pausing to admire
The rocks and darting fish, with no desire
To gaze on his own beauty, on he went.
The blossoms, that had all their beauty spent
To welcome him, from him caught grace anew ;
The grass was bright with diamonded dew;
And over all a mighty stillness hung —
The awe, that quieted a world still young.
Fearing to break the slumber of the gods.

Last updated August 24, 2017