A BIT OF ROCK 49 



One only of those evanescent spheres 



Which float in air and scarcely have a name 



Till myriads make the mist ? Who can discern 



The colour of a raindrop, till the one 



Is lost within the many, and the hue 



Strikes the dull eye when rapture thrills the soul 



Beside a mountain tarn, or when we gaze 



Out on the ocean's blue? See, at a stroke, 



What fills the painter's canvas when he takes 



A flood of colour on his cunning brush 



And paints a purple mountain. Can he see 



Gems such as this which stud the distant rocks 



And give them half their beauty ? Can he count 



The florets of the heather, as he sweeps 



Their colour on his board ? O little thing, 



Thou tender moss-plant breathing on this stone, 



There's majesty in thee. But thou art like 



Those kings among a people, unperceiv'd, 



Unreverenc'd, uncrown'd, save by a band 



Of bleeding thorns, till after years have shown 



The little may be great. So when I see 



Thy loneliness, fair plantlet, I am touch'd 



By that which doth belong to truest kings, 



Whose majesty is in their solitude 



And strength to stand alone. So when I see 



Thy beauty unregarded, desolate, 



Unsought, untreasur'd, like humility, 



Which men pretend to hold in high esteem 



Yet spurn because defenceless, I am touch'd 



By voices from the infinite which ask 



That ears have hearing, and that eyes may see. 



