In Cornwall and Across the Sea With Poems Written in Devonshire. By Douglas B. W. Sladen |
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TWO YEARS OLD TO-DAY. |
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 | In Cornwall and Across the Sea |  |
144
TWO YEARS OLD TO-DAY.
[Written upon the Second Birthday of the Author's
Son at Struan, Toorak, Victoria, Nov. 25th,
1883.]
Two years old to-day!
And the sun ripples over the meadow
Rich with the breath of growing hay,
And there is not a sign of a shadow
On either flower-spangled scene
On the field with its azure germanders
And long grass stalks between,
Or the golden-haired infant who wanders,
Prattling his wonder merrily
Under the blue Australian sky.
And the sun ripples over the meadow
Rich with the breath of growing hay,
And there is not a sign of a shadow
On either flower-spangled scene
On the field with its azure germanders
And long grass stalks between,
Or the golden-haired infant who wanders,
Prattling his wonder merrily
Under the blue Australian sky.
145
Two years old to-day!
What of him in the march of the hours,
When twenty springtides trip away,
And the grass has been mown and the flowers
Faint with the early summer's heat,
And the banks upon which they were blowing
Are dust with trampling feet?
Golden-hair will have done with his sowing
And bare his sickle now to reap,—
God grant he may not have to weep.
What of him in the march of the hours,
When twenty springtides trip away,
And the grass has been mown and the flowers
Faint with the early summer's heat,
And the banks upon which they were blowing
Are dust with trampling feet?
Golden-hair will have done with his sowing
And bare his sickle now to reap,—
God grant he may not have to weep.
Two years old to-day!
What of him in the march of the years,
When forty summers flow away,
And his mates have some reaped in their tears,
And some will have to reap no more,
And he owns to the scorch of the summers,
And has unbarred his door
To the little fair-headed new-comers,
And had himself to find the flowers
To brighten them in childish hours?
What of him in the march of the years,
When forty summers flow away,
And his mates have some reaped in their tears,
And some will have to reap no more,
And he owns to the scorch of the summers,
And has unbarred his door
To the little fair-headed new-comers,
And had himself to find the flowers
To brighten them in childish hours?
146
Two years old to-day!
What of him in his autumn and even,
When sixty years have slipped away,
And the shadows draw over his heaven,
And he looks back across his life,
Saying, “This day was good, and that glory
Was worth those years of strife,
And my name shall be written in story,
And as the founder of my race
My children's children I shall grace?”
What of him in his autumn and even,
When sixty years have slipped away,
And the shadows draw over his heaven,
And he looks back across his life,
Saying, “This day was good, and that glory
Was worth those years of strife,
And my name shall be written in story,
And as the founder of my race
My children's children I shall grace?”
Two years old to day!
What of him at the fall of the night,
When eighty years have ebbed away,
And the golden hairs melted to white
Upon his last begotten son,
And his children of their lives are saying,
The done and the undone,
Since their golden-haired infancy's maying
Down in the flower-spangled glade,
Ere it was mown or in the shade?
What of him at the fall of the night,
When eighty years have ebbed away,
And the golden hairs melted to white
Upon his last begotten son,
And his children of their lives are saying,
The done and the undone,
Since their golden-haired infancy's maying
Down in the flower-spangled glade,
Ere it was mown or in the shade?
| In Cornwall and Across the Sea | |