SONG. 471 
A nameless man, amid a crowd 
That thronged the daily mart, 
Let fall a word of hope and love, 
Unstudied from the heart; 
A whisper on the tumult thrown— 
A transitory breath— 
It raised a brother from the dust, 
It saved a soul from death. 
O germ ! O font ! O wold of love ! 
O thought at random cast! 
Ye were but little at the first, 
But mighty at the last! 
I. 
Tennyson. 
A SPIRIT haunts the year’s last hours, 
Dwelling amidst these yellowing bowers: 
To himself he talks; 
For at eventide, listening earnestly, 
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh, 
In the walks; 
Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks of the mouldering 
flowers: 
Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
O’er its grave i’ the earth so chilly: 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 
