XIII.
TO A NEW-FALLEN LAMB.
1
Awearied with thy struggle into light,
Thou liest exhausted on the dewy grass;
Whilst o'er thee stands thy dam, in bold affright
At every footstep which doth near thee pass:
Pain, fear and joy and love are in her eyes,
And all a living heart's pure mysteries.
2
But thou, unconscious and regardless lying
On the damp sod; too new inhabitant
Of this great scene of quick'ning and of dying
To know or fear or joy; clothed in thy scant
And rugged fleece, which the cold winds of morning
Unpitying strike, dost stir not at her warning.
3
O, for the power to look into the spirit
Which, as thy senses from without receive
The knowledge of their being, shall inherit
Thine infant brain; and in its foldings weave
The intricate forms and sounds, perfumes and hues,
Which the great Universe must there infuse!
4
Even in the contemplation of a lamb,
All that is vast and brief, blessing and curse,
In life and life's, drives thought into a flame
Whose bright spires in the blue-domed Universe,
Beyond the spheres, are hidden! Yet are we,
Weak wretch! but things of breath and blood like thee.
5
Nor do I know that this so boasted air
Of immortality we bear within
Is privilege: thou dost not know despair,
Though ignorant of hope; nor crime, nor sin,
Though with no self-wrought virtue; and no fear,
Although no faith, doth to thy dream appear.
6
Or come there thoughts of life to that dark brain;
Or thy life's spirit be as senseless water,
Which, all reflecting, yet doth nought contain
Of that reflected; even from birth to slaughter,
But for some hopes and terrors which are mine,
What difference 'twixt my mortal lot and thine?
