The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz

It was fifty years agoIn the pleasant month of May,In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,A child in its cradle lay.

And Nature, the old nurse, tookThe child upon her knee,Saying: "Here is a story-bookThy Father has written for thee."

"Come, wander with me," she said,"Into regions yet untrod;And read what is still unreadIn the manuscripts of God."

And he wandered away and awayWith Nature, the dear old nurse,Who sang to him night and dayThe rhymes of the universe.

And whenever the way seemed long,Or his heart began to fail,She would sing a more wonderful song,Or tell a more marvellous tale.

So she keeps him still a child,And will not let him go,Though at times his heart beats wildFor the beautiful Pays de Vaud;

Though at times he hears in his dreamsThe Ranz des Vaches of old,And the rush of mountain streamsFrom glaciers clear and cold;

And the mother at home says, "Hark!For his voice I listen and yearn;It is growing late and dark,And my boy does not return!"