Barthélémon at Vauxhall

HE said: “Awake my soul, and with the sun," . . .And paused upon the bridge, his eyes due east,Where was emerging like a full-robed priestThe irradiate globe that vouched the dark as done.

It lit his face—the weary face of oneWho in the adjacent gardens charged his string,Nightly, with many a tuneful tender thing,Till stars were weak, and dancing hours outrun.

And then were threads of matin music spunIn trial tones as he pursued his way:"This is a morn," he murmured, “well begun:This strain to Ken will count when I am clay!"

And count it did; till, caught by echoing lyres,It spread to galleried naves and mighty quires.