University of Virginia Library

The day arrives, the moment wished and feared;
The child is born, by many a pang endeared.
And now the mother's ear has caught his cry;
Oh grant the cherub to her asking eye!
He comes ... she clasps him. To her bosom pressed,
He drinks the balm of life and drops to rest.

Her by her smile how soon the Stranger knews;
How soon by his the glad discovery shows!
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy,
What answering looks of sympathy and joy!
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard.
And ever, ever to her lap he flies,
When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise.
Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung,
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue)
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings,
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart;
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove,
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!

But soon a nobler task demands her care.
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer,
Telling of Him who sees in secret there!—
And now the volume on her knee has caught
His wandering eye—now many a written thought
Never to die, with many a lisping sweet
His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat.

Released, he chases the bright butterfly;
Oh he would follow—follow through the sky!
Climbs the gaunt mastiff slumbering in his chain,
And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane;
Then runs, and, kneeling by the fountain-side,
Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide,
A dangerous voyage; or, if now he can,
If now he wears the habit of a man,
Flings off the coat so much his pride and pleasure,
And, like a miser digging for his treasure,
His tiny spade in his own garden plies,
And in green letters sees his name arise!
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight,
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight!

Ah who, when fading of itself away,
Would cloud the sunshine of his little day!
Now is the May of Life. Exulting round,
Joy wings his feet, Joy lifts him from the ground!
Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say,
When the rich casket shone in bright array,
“These are my Jewels!” Well of such as he,
When Jesus spake, well might the language be,
“Suffer these little ones to come to me!”

Thoughtful by fits, he scans and he reveres
The brow engraven with the Thoughts of Years;
Close by her side his silent homage given
As to some pure Intelligence from Heaven;
His eyes cast downward with ingenuous shame,
His conscious cheeks, conscious of praise or blame,
At once lit up as with a holy flame!
He thirsts for knowledge, speaks but to inquire;
And soon with tears relinquish'd to the Sire,
Soon in his hand to Wisdom's temple led,
Holds secret converse with the Mighty Dead;
Trembles and thrills and weeps as they inspire,
Burns as they burn, and with congenial fire!
Like Her most gentle, most unfortunate,
Crown'd but to die—who in her chamber sate
Musing with Plato, though the horn was blown,
And every ear and every heart was won,
And all in green array were chasing down the sun!
Then is the Age of Admiration—Then
Gods walk the earth, or beings more than men;
Who breathe the soul of Inspiration round,
Whose very shadows consecrate the ground!
Ah, then comes thronging many a wild desire,
And high imagining and thought of fire!
Then from within a voice exclaims “Aspire!”
Phantoms, that upward point, before him pass,
As in the Cave athwart the Wizard's glass;
They, that on Youth a grace, a lustre shed,
Of every Age—the living and the dead!
Thou, all-accomplish'd Surrey, thou art known;
The flower of Knighthood, nipt as soon as blown!
Melting all hearts but Geraldine's alone!
And, with his beaver up, discovering there
One who loved less to conquer than to spare,
Lo, the Black Warrior, he, who, battle-spent,
Bare-headed served the Captive in his tent!
Young B—in the groves of Academe,
Or where Ilissus winds his whispering stream;
Or where the wild bees swarm with ceaseless hum,
Dreaming old dreams—a joy for years to come;
Or on the Rock within the sacred Fane;—
Scenes such as Milton sought, but sought in vain:
And Milton's self (at that thrice-honour'd name
Well may we glow—as men, we share his fame)
And Milton's self, apart with beaming eye,
Planning he knows not what—that shall not die!

Oh, in thy truth secure, thy virtue bold,
Beware the poison in the cup of gold,
The asp among the flowers. Thy heart beats high,
As bright and brighter breaks the distant sky!
But every step is on enchanted ground.
Danger thou lov'st, and Danger haunts thee round.

Who spurs his horse against the mountain-side;
Then, plunging, slakes his fury in the tide?
Draws, and cries ho! and, where the sun-beams fall,
At his own shadow thrusts along the wall?
Who dances without music; and anon
Sings like the lark—then sighs as woe-begone,
And folds his arms, and, where the willows wave,
Glides in the moonshine by a maiden's grave?
Come hither, boy, and clear thy open brow.
Yon summer-clouds, now like the Alps, and now
A ship, a whale, change not so fast as thou.
He hears me not—Those sighs were from the heart.
Too, too well taught, he plays the lover's part.
He who at masques, nor feigning nor sincere,
With sweet discourse would win a lady's ear,
Lie at her feet and on her slipper swear
That none were half so faultless, half so fair,
Now through the forest hies, a stricken deer,
A banish'd man, flying when none are near;
And writes on every tree, and lingers long
Where most the nightingale repeats her song;
Where most the nymph, that haunts the silent grove,
Delights to syllable the names we love.

Two on his steps attend, in motley clad;
One woeful-wan, one merry but as mad;
Call'd Hope and Fear. Hope shakes his cap and bells,
And flowers spring up among the woodland dells.
To Hope he listens, wandering without measure
Thro' sun and shade, lost in a trance of pleasure;
And, if to Fear but for a weary mile,
Hope follows fast and wins him with a smile.

At length he goes—a Pilgrim to the Shrine,
And for a relic would a world resign!
A glove, a shoe-tie, or a flower let fall—
What though the least, Love consecrates them all!
And now he breathes in many a plaintive verse;
Now wins the dull ear of the wily nurse
At early matins ('twas at matin-time
That first he saw and sicken'd in his prime)
And soon the Sibyl, in her thirst for gold,
Plays with young hearts that will not be controll'd.

“Absence from Thee—as self from self it seems!”
Scaled is the garden-wall; and lo, her beams
Silvering the east, the moon comes up, revealing
His well-known form along the terrace stealing.
—Oh, ere in sight he came, 'twas his to thrill
A heart that loved him though in secret still.
“Am I awake? or is it. .. can it be
An idle dream? Nightly it visits me!
—That strain,” she cries, “as from the water rose,
Now near and nearer through the shade it flows!—
Now sinks departing—sweetest in its close!”
No casement gleams; no Juliet, like the day,
Comes forth and speaks and bids her lover stay.
Still, like aërial music heard from far,
As through the doors of Paradise ajar,
Nightly it rises with the evening-star.
—“She loves another! Love was in that sigh!”
On the cold ground he throws himself to die.
Fond Youth, beware. Thy heart is most deceiving.
Who wish are fearful; who suspect, believing.
—And soon her looks the rapturous truth avow.
Lovely before, oh, say how lovely now!
She flies not, frowns not, though he pleads his cause;
Nor yet—nor yet her hand from his withdraws;
But by some secret Power surprised, subdued,
(Ah, how resist? And would she if she could?)
Falls on his neck as half unconscious where,
Glad to conceal her tears, her blushes there.

Then come those full confidings of the past;
All sunshine now, where all was overcast.
Then do they wander till the day is gone,
Lost in each other; and when Night steals on,
Covering them round, how sweet her accents are!
Oh when she turns and speaks, her voice is far,
Far above singing!—But soon nothing stirs
To break the silence—Joy like his, like hers,
Deals not in words; and now the shadows close,
Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows
Less and less earthly! As departs the day,
All that was mortal seems to melt away,
Till, like a gift resumed as soon as given,
She fades at last into a Spirit from Heaven!

Then are they blest indeed; and swift the hours
Till her young Sisters wreathe her hair in flowers,
Kindling her beauty—while, unseen, the least
Twitches her robe, then runs behind the rest,
Known by her laugh that will not be suppress'd.
Then before All they stand—the holy vow
And ring of gold, no fond illusions now,
Bind her as his. Across the threshold led,
And every tear kiss'd off as soon as shed,
His house she enters—there to be a light
Shining within, when all without is night;
A guardian-angel o'er his life presiding,
Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing;
Winning him back, when mingling in the throng,
From a vain world we love, alas, too long,
To fire-side happiness, and hours of ease
Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
How oft her eyes read his; her gentle mind
To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined;
Still subject—ever on the watch to borrow
Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his sorrow.
The soul of music slumbers in the shell,
Till waked and kindled by the master's spell;
And feeling hearts—touch them but rightly—pour
A thousand melodies unheard before!

Nor many moons o'er hill and valley rise
Ere to the gate with nymph-like step she flies,
And their first-born holds forth, their darling boy,
With smiles how sweet, how full of love and joy,
To meet him coming; theirs through every year
Pure transports, such as each to each endear!
And laughing eyes and laughing voices fill
Their home with gladness. She, when all are still,
Comes and undraws the curtain as they lie,
In sleep how beautiful! He, when the sky
Gleams, and the wood sends up its harmony,
When, gathering round his bed, they climb to share
His kisses, and with gentle violence there
Break in upon a dream not half so fair,
Up to the hill-top leads their little feet;
Or by the forest-lodge, perchance to meet
The stag-herd on its march, perchance to hear
The otter rustling in the sedgy mere;
Or to the echo near the Abbot's tree,
That gave him back his words of pleasantry—
When the House stood, no merrier man than he!
And, as they wander with a keen delight,
If but a leveret catch their quicker sight
Down a green alley, or a squirrel then
Climb the gnarled oak, and look and climb again,
If but a moth flit by, an acorn fall,
He turns their thoughts to Him who made them all;
These with unequal footsteps following fast,
These clinging by his cloak, unwilling to be last.

The shepherd on Tornaro's misty brow,
And the swart seaman, sailing far below,
Not undelighted watch the morning ray
Purpling the orient—till it breaks away,
And burns and blazes into glorious day!
But happier still is he who bends to trace
That sun, the soul, just dawning in the face;
The burst, the glow, the animating strife,
The thoughts and passions stirring into life;
The forming utterance, the inquiring glance,
The giant waking from his ten-fold trance,
Till up he starts as conscious whence he came,
Aud all is light within the trembling frame!

What then a Father's feelings? Joy and Fear
In turn prevail, Joy most; and through the year
Tempering the ardent, urging night and day
Him who shrinks back or wanders from the way,
Praising each highly—from a wish to raise
Their merits to the level of his Praise,
Onward in their observing sight he moves,
Fearful of wrong, in awe of whom he loves!
Their sacred presence who shall dare profane?
Who, when He slumbers, hope to fix a stain?
He lives a model in his life to show,
That, when he dies and through the world they go,
Some men may pause and say, when some admire,
“They are his sons, and worthy of their sire!”

But Man is born to suffer. On the door
Sickness has set her mark; and now no more
Laughter within we hear, or wood-notes wild
As of a mother singing to her child.
All now in anguish from that room retire,
Where a young cheek glows with consuming fire,
And Innocence breathes contagion—all but one,
But she who gave it birth—from her alone
The medicine-cup is taken. Through the night,
And through the day, that with its dreary light
Comes unregarded, she sits silent by,
Watching the changes with her anxious eye:
While they without, listening below, above,
(Who but in sorrow know how much they love?)
From every little noise catch hope and fear,
Exchanging still, still as they turn to hear,
Whispers and sighs, and smiles all tenderness
That would in vain the starting tear repress.

Such grief was ours—it seems but yesterday—
When in thy prime, wishing so much to stay,
'Twas thine, Maria, thine without a sigh
At midnight in a Sister's arms to die!
Oh thou wert lovely—lovely was thy frame,
And pure thy spirit as from Heaven it came!
And, when recall'd to join the blest above,
Thou diedst a victim to exceeding love,
Nursing the young to health. In happier hours,
When idle Fancy wove luxuriant flowers,
Once in thy mirth thou bad'st me write on thee;
And now I write—what thou shalt never see!

At length the Father, vain his power to save,
Follows his child in silence to the grave,
(That child how cherish'd, whom he would not give,
Sleeping the sleep of death, for All that live;)
Takes a last look, when, not unheard, the spade
Scatters the earth as “dust to dust” is said,
Takes a last look and goes; his best relief
Consoling others in that hour of grief,
And with sweet tears and gentle words infusing
The holy calm that leads to heavenly musing.