22 STEVENSON'S POEMS
High on the far-seen, sunny hills, Morning-content my bosom fills; Well-pleased, I trace the wandering rills
And learn their birth. Far off, the clash of sovereign wills
May shake the earth.
The nimble circuit of the wheel, The uncertain poise of merchant weal, Heaven of famine, fire and steel
When nations fall; These, heedful, from afar I feel—
I mark them all.
But not, my friend, not these I sing, My voice shall fill a narrower ring. Tired souls, that flag upon the wing,
I seek to cheer: Brave wines to strengthen hope I bring,
Some song that shall be suppling oil To weary muscles strained with toil, Shall hearten for the daily moil,
Or widely read Make sweet for him that tills the soil
His daily bread.