Where groups of merry-hearted sons of toil
Were met to celebrate a village feast;
Casting away, in frolic sport, the cares
That ever press and crowd and leave their mark
Upon the brows of all whose bread is earned
By daily labour. 'Twas perchance the feast
Of fav'rite saint, or anniversary
Of one of bounteous nature's season gifts
To grateful husbandry--no matter what
The cause of their uniting. Joy beamed forth
On ev'ry face, and the sweet echoes rang
With sounds of honest mirth too rarely heard
In the vast workshop man has made his world,
Where months of toil must pay one day of song.
Somewhat apart from the assembled throng
There sat a swarthy giant, with a face
So nobly grand that though (unlike the rest)
He wore no festal garb nor laughing mien,
Yet was he study for the painter's art:
He joined not in their sports, but rather seemed
To please his eye with sight of others' joy.
There was a cast of sorrow on his brow,
As though it had been early there.
He sat In listless attitude, yet not devoid
Of gentlest grace, as down his stalwart form
He bent, to catch the playful whisperings,
And note the movements of a bright-hair'd child
Who danced before him in the evening sun,
Holding a tiny brother by the hand.
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