He Heeded Not

Of whispering trees the tongues to hear,         And sermons of the silent stone;         To read in brooks the print so clear         Of motion, shadowy light, and tone--         That man hath neither eye nor ear         Who careth not for human moan.         Yea, he who draws, in shrinking haste,         From sin that passeth helpless by;         The weak antennae of whose taste         From touch of alien grossness fly--         Shall, banished to the outer waste,         Never in Nature's bosom lie.         But he whose heart is full of grace         To his own kindred all about,         Shall find in lowest human face,         Blasted with wrong and dull with doubt,         More than in Nature's holiest place         Where mountains dwell and streams run out.         Coarse cries of strife assailed my ear,         In suburb-ways, one summer morn;         A wretched alley I drew near         Whence on the air the sounds were borne--         Growls breaking into curses clear,         And shrill retorts of keener scorn.         Slow from its narrow entrance came,         His senses drowned with revels dire,         Scarce fit to answer to his name,         A man unconscious save of ire;         Fierce flashes of dull, fitful flame         Broke from the embers of his fire.         He cast a glance of stupid hate         Behind him, every step he took,         Where followed him, like following fate,         An aged crone, with bloated look:         A something checked his listless gait;         She neared him, rating till she shook.         Why stood he still to be disgraced?         What hindered? Lost in his employ,         His eager head high as his waist,         Half-buttressed him a tiny boy,         An earnest child, ill-clothed, pale-faced,         Whose eyes held neither hope nor joy.         Perhaps you think he pushed, and pled         For one poor coin to keep the peace         With hunger! or home would have led         And given him up to sleep's release:         Well he might know the good of bed         To make the drunken fever cease!         Not so; like unfledged, hungry bird         He stood on tiptoe, reaching higher,         But no expostulating word         Did in his anxious soul aspire;         With humbler care his heart was stirred,         With humbler service to his sire.         He, sleepless-pale and wrathful red,         Though forward leaning, held his foot         Lest on the darling he should tread:         A misty sense had taken root         Somewhere in his bewildered head         That round him kindness hovered mute.         The words his simmering rage did spill         Passed o'er the child like breeze o'er corn;         Safer than bee whose dodging skill         And myriad eyes the hail-shower scorn,         The boy, absorbed in loving will,         Buttoned his father's waistcoat worn.         Over his calm, unconscious face         No motion passed, no change of mood;         Still as a pool in its own place,         Unsunned within a thick-leaved wood,         It kept its quiet shadowy grace,         As round it all things had been good.         Was the boy deaf--the tender palm         Of him that made him folded round         The little head to keep it calm         With a hitherto to every sound--         And so nor curse nor shout nor psalm         Could thrill the globe thus grandly bound?         Or came in force the happy law         That customed things themselves erase?         Or was he too intent for awe?         Did love take all the thinking place?         I cannot tell; I only saw         An earnest, fearless, hopeless face.