Not of the happy souls who sing
Is he my heart loves best;
His speech is not a magic thing,
His thoughts but poorly drest.
His path lies not among the great,
Their praise he doth not speak;
He dwells 'mid those of mean estate,
The lowly and the meek.
He is not beauteous as a god,
As nature's kings should be;
No eye would note him in a crowd,
Nor heart leap up to see.
No guerdons of the world are his,
Nor honors, wealth, nor praise;
Small is his share of outward bliss,
Laborious are his days.
But ah! could others read aright
That mind so pure and fair,
How would they envy his delight,
His joy beyond compare!
Whilst we aspire to heavenly things,
In vision faint and dim,
His spirit mounts on golden wings,
And all is clear to him.
Whilst we lament man's evil days,
By pain and wrong opprest,
His lips are ever proud to praise,
Bright hopes burn in his breast.
His joys come hardly once a year,
Whilst sorrows crowd apace —
To him each day is glad and fair,
The world a blessed place.
So small, so great, his pleasures are,
Alternate sage and child,
He looks with rapture on a star,
A tiny floweret wild.
What marvels poets see and hear,
All learn when he is by:
Music affects the heedless ear;
Beauty the careless eye.
He chooseth not, but teaches all,
And gladdens without heed;
His mind like dews of heaven fall,
On those who stand in need.
Ill fortune halteth at his door,
And sorrows pass not by:
They leave him tranquil as before,
With spirit calm and high.
His treasure none can take by stealth,
His portion none destroy,
Since things unseen are all his wealth,
And nature all his joy!
Nor is he niggard of his hoard,
He largely gives his own:
A beauteous thought, a kindling word,
A glimpse of worlds unknown.
For none so full of love as he,
His wisdom hath no end;
The proudest on his bended knee
Might pray for such a friend.
