At sunrise I wakened to hear thy loved bark,
With the coo of the house-dove, the song of the lark ;
And out to the green fields 'twas ours to repair,
When bright was the blue sky, and fresh was the air.
How then thou wouldst gambol and start from my feet,
To scare the wild birds from the sylvan retreat;
Or plunge in the smooth stream and bring to my hand
The twig, or the wild flower I threw from the land.
On the moss-sprinkled stone if I sat for a space,
Thou wouldst cower on the greensward and look in my face ;
In wantonness pluck up the blooms in thy teeth,
And up-toss them in air, or tread them beneath.
Then I was a schoolboy, all thoughtless and free,
And thou wert a whelp full of gambol and glee;
Now dimmed is thine eye-ball, and gray is thy hair ;
And I am a man doomed to thought and to care.
Thou bring'st to my mind all the pleasures of youth,
When Hope was the mistress, not handmaid of Truth;
When earth looked an Eden; when joy's sunny hours
Were cloudless, and life's path besprinkled with flowers.
Now summer is fading, soon tempest and rain
Will harbinger desolate winter again;
And thou, all unable the cold to withstand,
Wilt die when the snow-flakes fall over the land.
Then thy grave shall be dug 'neath the old cherry-tree,
And in springtime 'twill shed down its blossoms on thee;
So, when a few fast-fleeting seasons are o'er,
Thy faith and thy love shall be thought of no more.
Then all who caressed thee and loved shall be laid,
Life's pilgrimage o'er, in the tomb's dreary shade ;
Other steps shall be heard on these floors, and the past
Like a shadow be quite from the memory cast.
And changes will follow; old walls be thrown down,
Old trees be removed, when old masters are gone ;
And the gardener, when delving, shall marvel to see
White bones where once blossomed the old cherry-tree.
Frail things, could we read but the objects around,
In the meanest some deep-lurking truth might be found,
Some type of our weakness, some warning to show
How uncertain the sands are we build on below.
Our fathers have passed and are laid in the mould ;
Year passes on year, and the young become old ;
Time, the stern teacher, is partial to none;
And the friends whom we love pass away one by one.
VERSES WRITTEN ON SEEING TWO BOYS AT PLAY.
THOU bright thing fresh from the hand of God,
The motions of thy dancing limbs are swayed
By the unceasing music of thy being!
Nearer I seem to God when looking on thee.
'Tis ages since he made his youngest star,
His hand was on thee as 'twere yesterday,
Thou later revelation! Silver stream,
Breaking with laughter from the lake divine,
Whence all things flow! O bright and singing babe,
What wilt thou be hereafter?
VERSES WRITTEN ON SEEING TWO BOYS AT PLAY.
WEET age of blest delusion! blooming boys,
Ah! rcvel long in childhood's thoughtless joys,
With light and pliant spirits that can stoop
To follow sportively the rolling hoop;
To watch the sleeping top with gay delight,
Or watch with raptured gaze the sailing kite;
Or, eagerly pursuing pleasure's call,
Can find it centred in the bounding ball!
Alas! the day will come, when sports like these
Must lose their magic and their power to please;
Too swiftly fled, the rosy hours of youth
Shall yield their fairy charms to mournful truth ;
Even now a mother's fond prophetic fear
Sees the dark train of human ills appear;
Views various fortunes for each lovely child,
Storms for the bold, and anguish for the mild;
Beholds already those expressive eyes
Beam a sad certainty of future sighs;
And dreads each suffering these dear breasts may know
In their long passage through a world of woe;
Perchance predestined every pang to prove,
That treacherous friends inflict, or faithless love;
For ah, how few have found existence sweet,
Where grief is sure, but happiness deceit !
IFE is the transmigration of a soul
Through various bodies, various states of being;
New manners, passions, new pursuits in each;
In nothing save in consciousness the same.
Infancy, adolescence, manhood, age,
Are alway moving onward, alway losing
Themselves in one another, lost at length
Like undulations on the strand of Death.
The child!—we know no more of happy childhood
Than happy childhood knows of wretched eld;
And all our dreams of its felicity
Are incoherent as its own crude visions:
We but begin to live from that fine point
Which memory dwells on, with the morning star;
The earliest note we heard the cuckoo sing,
Or the first daisy that we ever plucked;
When thoughts themselves were stars, and birds, and flowers,
Pure brilliance, simplest music, wild perfume.
MOTHER kind walks forth in the even,
She with her little son for pleasure given,
To tread the fringed banks of an amorous flood,
That with its music courts a sullen wood,
Where, ever talking with her only bliss,
That now before and then behind her is,
She stoops for flowers, the choicest may be had,
And bringing them to please her little lad,
Spies in his hand some baneful flower or weed,
Whereon he 'gins to smell, perhaps to feed.
With a more earnest haste she runs unto him,
And pulls them from him.
At her door expecting him his mother sate,
Wondering her boy would stay from her so late;
Framing for him unto herself excuses,
And with such thoughts gladly herself abuses:
As that her son, since day grew old and weak,
Stayed with the maids to run at barley-break;
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