  It was given him in youth, Bestowed by a kingly hand; Sweet as the flower of truth, When its first fair buds expand. It was given him to prize, To guard with a jealous care; This gift in a humble guise But precious beyond compare. It was given him—he turned From promise so close concealed, Although in his soul he yearned To follow the unrevealed. He turned from a gift which came In the flush of boyhood days, It clung to him just the same As he trod the world's wild maze. It was given him—it slept, But would not be cast aside; Till into his heart it crept A-quiver with love and pride. Yes, into his heart it crept, He worked with a new-born skill; And whether he laughed or wept He worked with a steadfast will. It was given him—he caught It close to his heaving breast And a miracle was wrought, For a genius stood confessed. The gift which he held the least Was the gift the Lord had sent; Lo, the angel at the feast |
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