THE WILD LAUREL. 117 



Despairing and bewildered in his sorrow, 



He pressed with quivering lip the hollow mountain, 



As he its giant hardihood would borrow, 



Its free-voiced rushing wind and chainless fountain. 



This for a savage to be sure was tender, — 



Whose hottest passion chiefly for the chace is : — 



And when his native soil refused to render 



Aught of response to her own child's embraces, — 



He breathed into the ground vague thoughts of power, 



The yearnings of a soul in silence hidden ; 

 Beneath the midnight sky, in that lone hour, 



Thought found a language by itself unbidden. 



Then, with no human eye its birth beholding, 

 No fostering plaudit human hands bestowing. 



First to the dew its glossy leaves unfolding, 



Sprouted the Laurel, from its own heart growing. 



And still that type of native genius telleth, 



On barren rock, or lonely woodland bower, 

 Not in approval, but in utterance dwelleth 



The Poet's craving, and the Poet's power. 



