There Was a Boy

There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye CliffsAnd Islands of Winander!—many a time,At evening, when the earliest stars beganTo move along the edges of the hills,Rising or setting, would he stand alone,Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;And there, with fingers interwoven, both handsPressed closely palm to palm and to his mouthUplifted, he, as through an instrument,Blew mimic hootings to the silent owlsThat they might answer him.—And they would shoutAcross the watery vale, and shout againResponsive to his call,—with quivering peals,And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loudRedoubled and redoubled; concourse wildOf mirth and jocund din! And, when it chancedThat pauses of deep silence mocked his skill,Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hungListening, a gentle shock of mild surpriseHas carried far into his heart the voiceOf mountain torrents; or the visible sceneWould enter unawares into his mindWith all its solemn imagery, its rocks,Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, receivedInto the bosom of the steady lake.

This Boy was taken from his Mates, and diedIn childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot,The Vale where he was born: the Church-yard hangsUpon a slope above the village-school;And there, along that bank, when I have passedAt evening, I believe, that oftentimesA long half-hour together I have stoodMute—looking at the grave in which he lies!