DEAR child! how radiant on thy mo
With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles,
Thou gazest at the painted tiles, Whose figures grace,
With many a grotesque form and face, The ancient chimney of thy nursery! The lady with the gay macaw, The dancing girl, the brave bashaw With bearded lip and chin; And, leaning idly o'er his gate, Beneath the imperial fan of state, The Chinese mandarin.
With what a look of proud command Thou shakest in thy little hand The coral rattle with its silver bells, Making a merry tune!
Thousands of years in Indian seas That coral grew, by slow degrees, Until some deadly and wild monsoon Dashed it on Coromandel's sand! Those silver bells
Reposed of yore, As shapeless ore,
Far down in the deep-sunken wells Of darksome mines,
In some obscure and sunless place, Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, Or Potosi's o'erhanging pines! And thus for thee, O little child, Through many a danger and escape, The tall ships passed the stormy cape; For thee in foreign lands remote, Beneath the burning, tropic skies, The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat,
Himself as swift and wild,
In falling, clutched the frail arbute, The fibres of whose shallow root, Uplifted from the soil, betrayed The silver veins beneath it laid, The buried treasures of dead centuries.
But, lo! thy door is left ajar! Thou hearest footsteps from afar! And, at the sound, Thou turnest round
With quick and questioning eyes, Like one who, in a foreign land, Beholds on every hand
Some source of wonder and surprise! And, restlessly, impatiently, Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. The four walls of thy nursery Are now like prison-walls to thee. No more thy mother's smiles, No more the painted tiles, Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor,
That won thy little, beating heart before;
Thou strugglest for the door. open Through these once solitary halls Thy pattering footstep falls. The sound of thy merry voice Makes the old walls Jubilant, and they rejoice With the joy of thy young heart, O'er the light of whose gladness No shadows of sadness From the sombre background of
Once, ah, once, within these walls, One whom memory oft recalls, The Father of his Country dwelt. And yonder meadows broad and damp The fires of the besieging camp Encircled with a burning belt. Up and down these echoing stairs, Heavy with the weight of cares, Sounded his majestic tread; Yes, within this very room Sat he in those hours of gloom, Weary both in heart and head.
But what are these grave thoughts to
Out, out! into the open air!
Thy only dream is liberty,
Thou carest little how or where.
I see thee eager at thy play,
Now shouting to the apples on the tree, With cheeks as round and red as they; And now among the yellow stalks, Among the flowering shrubs and plants,
As restless as the bee. Along the garden-walks,
The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels
And see at every turn how they efface Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, That rise like golden domes
Above the cavernous and secret homes Of wandering and nomadic tribes of
Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, Who, with thy dreadful reign, Dost persecute and overwhelm
These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm!
What! tired already! with those suppliant looks,
And voices more beautiful than a poet's books,
Or murmuring sound of water as it flows, Thou comest back to parley with repose! This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, With its o'erhanging golden canopy Of leaves illuminate with autumnal
As at the touch of Fate! Into those realms of love and hate, Into that darkness blank and drear, By some prophetic feeling taught, I launch the bold, adventurous thought, Freighted with hope and fear; As upon subterranean streams, In caverns unexplored and dark, Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, Laden with flickering fire,
And watch its swift-receding beams, Until at length they disappear, And in the distant dark expire.
By what astrology of fear or hope Dare I to cast thy horoscope! Like the new moon thy life appears A little strip of silver light, And widening outward into night The shadowy disk of future years; And yet upon its outer rim, A luminous circle faint and dim, And scarcely visible to us here, Rounds and completes the perfect sphere, A prophecy and intimation,
And shining with the argent light of A pale and feeble adumbration,
Shall for a season be our place of rest. Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent
From which the laughing birds have
By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing.
Dream-like the waters of the rivers gleam;
A sailless vessel drops adown the
And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep.
O child! O new-born denizen Of life's great city! on thy head The glory of the morn is shed, Like a celestial benison ! Here at the portal thou dost stand, And with thy little hand Thou openest the mysterious gate Into the future's undiscovered land. I see its valves expand,
Of the great world of light, that lies Behind all human destinies.
Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, Should be to wet the dusty soil With the hot tears and sweat of toil,- To struggle with imperious thought, Until the overburdened brain, Weary with labour, faint with pain, Like a jarred pendulum, retain Only its motion, not its power,- Remember, in that perilous hour, When most afflicted and oppressed, From labour there shall come forth rest.
And if a more auspicious fate On thy advancing steps await, Still let it ever be thy pride To linger by the labourer's side, With words of sympathy or song To cheer the dreary march along Of the great army of the poor, O'er desert sand, or dangerous moor. Nor to thyself the task shall be Without reward; for thou shalt learn The wisdom early to discern
And far in the hazy distance
Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon. Among the long, black rafters
The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the
Seemed to lift and bear them away; As, sweeping and eddying through them,
Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,
The sea-weed floated wide.
And like those waters rushing
Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me That filled my eyes with tears. How often, O, how often,
In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge of midnight And gazed on that wave and sky! How often, O, how often,
I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide! For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me.
Yet whenever I cross the river
On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odour of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands
Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession
Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless,
And the old subdued and slow!
My way is on the bright blue sea, My sleep upon the rocky tide; And many an eye has followed me, Where billows clasp the worn sea-side. My plumage bears the crimson blush, When ocean by the sun is kissed! When fades the evening's purple flush, My dark wing cleaves the silver mist. Full many a fathom down beneath
The bright arch of the splendid deep, My ear has heard the sea-shell breathe O'er living myriads in their sleep. They rested by the coral throne, And by the pearly diadem, Where the pale sea-grape had o'ergrown The glorious dwelling made for them.
At night upon my storm-drenched wing, I poised above a helmless bark, And soon I saw the shattered thing
Had passed away and left no mark. And when the wind and storm had done, A ship that had rode out the gale, Sunk down without a signal-gun,
And none was left to tell the tale. I saw the pomp of day depart— The cloud resign its golden crown, When to the ocean's beating heart
The sailor's wasted corse went down. Peace be to those whose graves are made Beneath the bright and silver sea! Peace that their relics there were laid, With no vain pride and pageantry.
WHEN the summer harvest was gathered in, And the sheaf of the gleaner grew white and thin, And the ploughshare was in its furrow left, Where the stubble land had been lately cleft. An Indian hunter, with unstrung bow,
Looked down where the valley lay stretched below.
He was a stranger there, and all that day Had been out on the hills, a perilous way,
But the foot of the deer was far and fleet,
And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter's feet,
And bitter feelings passed o'er him then,
As he stood by the populous haunts of men.
The winds of autumn came over the woods, As the sun stole out from their solitudes; The moss was white on the maple's trunk, And dead from its arms the pale vine shrunk, And ripened the mellow fruit hung, and red Where the tree's withered leaves around it shed. The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn, And the sickle cut down the yellow corn; The mower sung loud by the meadow side, Where the mists of evening were spreading wide; And the voice of the herdsman came up the lea, And the dance went round by the greenwood tree.
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