The Writings of Bret Harte standard library edition |
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ON A NAUGHTY LITTLE BOY, SLEEPING |
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 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
ON A NAUGHTY LITTLE BOY, SLEEPING
Just now I missed from hall and stair
A joyful treble that had grown
As dear to me as that grave tone
That tells the world my older care.
A joyful treble that had grown
As dear to me as that grave tone
That tells the world my older care.
And little footsteps on the floor
Were stayed. I laid aside my pen,
Forgot my theme, and listened—then
Stole softly to the library door.
Were stayed. I laid aside my pen,
Forgot my theme, and listened—then
Stole softly to the library door.
No sight! no sound!—a moment's freak
Of fancy thrilled my pulses through:
“If—no”—and yet, that fancy drew
A father's blood from heart and cheek.
Of fancy thrilled my pulses through:
“If—no”—and yet, that fancy drew
A father's blood from heart and cheek.
And then—I found him! There he lay,
Surprised by sleep, caught in the act,
The rosy vandal who had sacked
His little town, and thought it play:
Surprised by sleep, caught in the act,
The rosy vandal who had sacked
His little town, and thought it play:
The shattered vase; the broken jar;
A match still smouldering on the floor;
The inkstand's purple pool of gore;
The chessmen scattered near and far.
A match still smouldering on the floor;
The inkstand's purple pool of gore;
The chessmen scattered near and far.
310
Strewn leaves of albums lightly pressed
This wicked “Baby of the Woods”;
In fact, of half the household goods
This son and heir was seized—possessed.
This wicked “Baby of the Woods”;
In fact, of half the household goods
This son and heir was seized—possessed.
Yet all in vain, for sleep had caught
The hand that reached, the feet that strayed;
And fallen in that ambuscade
The victor was himself o'erwrought.
The hand that reached, the feet that strayed;
And fallen in that ambuscade
The victor was himself o'erwrought.
What though torn leaves and tattered book
Still testified his deep disgrace!
I stopped and kissed the inky face,
With its demure and calm outlook.
Still testified his deep disgrace!
I stopped and kissed the inky face,
With its demure and calm outlook.
Then back I stole, and half beguiled
My guilt, in trust that when my sleep
Should come, there might be One who'd keep
An equal mercy for His child.
My guilt, in trust that when my sleep
Should come, there might be One who'd keep
An equal mercy for His child.
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |