A Vision of Youth

A horseman on a hilltop green     Drew rein, and wound his horn;     So bright he looked he might have been     The Herald of the Morn.     His steed was of the sovran strain     In Fancys meadows bred,     And pride was in his tossing mane,     And triumph in his tread.     The riders eyes like jewels glowed,     The World was in his hand,     As down the woodland way he rode     When Spring was in the land.     From golden hour to golden hour     For him the woodland sang.     And from the heart of every flower     A singing fairy sprang.     He rode along with rein so free,     And, as he rode, the Blue     Mysterious Bird of Fantasy     Ever before him flew.     He rode by cot and castle dim     Through all the greenland gay;     Bright eyes through casements glanced at him:     He laughed, and rode away.     The world with sunshine was aflood,     And glad were maid and man,     And through his throbbing veins the blood     In keen, sweet shudders ran.     .     .     .     .     .     His steed tossed head with fiery scorn,     And stamped, and snuffed the air,     As though he heard a sudden horn     Of far-off battle blare.     Erect the rider sat awhile     With flashing eyes, and then     Turned slowly, sighing, with a smile,     0 weary world of men!     For aye the Bird of Fantasy     Sang magic songs to him,     And deeper and deeper still rode he     Into the Forest Dim.     .     .     .     .     .     That rider with his face aglow     With joy of life I see     In dreams. Ah, years and years ago     He parted ways with me!     Yet, sometimes, when the days are drear     And all the world forlorn,     From out the dim woods heart I hear     The echo of his horn.