The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir

Edited by Thomas Aird: With A Memoir of the Author

Moir, D. M. (1798-1851)

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II.

POEMS IN REFERENCE TO CHILDHOOD.

STANZAS ON AN INFANT.

THE EARLY LOST.

ADDRESS TO LITTLE CHILDREN.

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POEMS IN REFERENCE TO CHILDHOOD.

STANZAS ON AN INFANT.

Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory, do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Wordsworth.

I

The rose-bud, blushing through the morning's tears,
The primrose, rising from the wintry waste,
The snow-drop, or the violet, that appears
Like nun within the myrtle's shadow placed,
Wear not a smile like thine, nor look so chaste,
Fair innocent! that, from thy mother's knee,
As yet by Earth's despoilment undefaced,
Smil'st, and unheeding what the Fates decree,
Dream'st not of hapless days, that yet will frown on thee!

II

Say, o'er thy little frame when slumbers steal,
And watch above thy cradle seraphs keep,
Do they, in love, futurity reveal,
That thus thou sweetly smilest in thy sleep?

Thy pure blue eyes were sure ne'er form'd to weep,
Those little lips to breathe the sighs of woe;—
Alas! in life it may be thine to steep
Thy senses in nepenthe, glad if so
Thy memory may the dreams of wretchedness forego.

III

For passion is a tyrant fierce and wild,
Leading the thoughts from Virtue's pure career;
And spirits, in their natures calm and mild,
Are duped by Flattery, or subdued by Fear;
Love, with its promise to illume and cheer
The path of life, oft lures us to betray;
And hopes that, robed in iris hues, appear
When the heart swells in Youth's exulting day,
Dreaming sweet dreams alone, in darkness melt away!

IV

Sweet child, thy artlessness and innocence
Kindle deep thought, and cause my heart to bleed;
For even to the best the Fates dispense
Sorrow and pain, nor are the happiest freed
From ills, that make existence dark indeed.
Sadness doth of its lustre rob the eye;
And those who ever, in the hour of need,
To mitigate our griefs were kindly nigh,
Like shot stars, one by one, all disappear and die!

V

Earth is at best a heritage of grief,
But O! fair cherub, may its calm be thine;
May Virtue be thy solace and relief,
When Pleasure on thy lot disdains to shine!
There was a time, when being was divine,
No sin, no sorrow—paradise the scene;
But man was prone to error, and his line
In frailty like their sire have ever been:
How happy might'st thou be, were Eden's bowers still green!

VI

Ah! may I guess, when years have o'er thy head
Their passage wing'd, maturity thine own,
How may on earth thy pilgrimage be led?
Shall public cares, or privacy alone,
Thy life engage? or shall thy lot be thrown
Where timbrel, horn, and martial drum inspire?
Or shalt thou, softened to a holier tone,
Draw down aërial spirits to thy lyre,
And call upon the muse to arm thy words with fire?

VII

Thy flaxen ringlets, and thy deep blue eyes,
Bring to my mind the little God of Love;
The last outvie the azure of the skies,
The first are like the clouds that float above

The Spring's descending sun. The boy whom Jove
Rapt from the earth—fair Ganymede—to dwell
Above the realms where Care has wing to rove,
Thy cherub features may betoken well;
Or, if the one excell'd, perchance thou might'st excel.

VIII

Even now, begirt with utter helplessness,
'Tis hard to think, as on thy form I gaze,
(Experience makes me marvel not the less,)
That thou to busy man shalt rise, and raise
Thyself, mayhap, a nation's pride, and praise:
'Tis hard to let the truth my mind employ,
That he, who kept the world in wild amaze,
That Cæsar in the cradle lay—a boy,
Soothed by a nurse's kiss, delighted with a toy!

IX

That once the mighty Newton was like thee;
The awful Milton, who on Heaven did look,
Listening the councils of Eternity;
And matchless Shakspeare, who, undaunted, took
From Nature's shrinking hand her secret book,
And page by page the wondrous tome explored;
The fearless Sidney; the adventurous Cook;
Howard, who mercy for mankind implored;
And France's despot Chief, whose heart lay in his sword!

X

How doth the wretch, when life is dull and black,
Pray that he were, pure innocent, like thee!
And that again the guileless days were back,
When Childhood leant against a parent's knee!
'Tis meet that Sin should suffer—it must be:
To such as at the shrine of Virtue mock,
Remorse is what the righteous Fates decree:
On conquest bent, Sennacherib awoke;
But Heaven had o'er his camp breathed death in the Siroc.

XI

The unrelenting tyrant, who, unmoved,
Lays for a sweet and smiling land his snares,
Whose callous, unimpassion'd heart hath proved
Beyond the impulse of a mother's prayers,
Though not for Beauty's tearful eye he cares,
A tyrant among tyrants he must be—
A Herod with a Hydra soul, who dares
To spill the blood of innocent, like thee,
All smiling in his face, and from a parent's knee!

XII

Adieu! fair infant; be it thine to prove
The joy, of which an earnest thou wert sent;
And, in thy riper years, with looks of love,
Repay thy mother for the hours she spent
In fondness o'er thy cradle; thou wert meant

To be her solace in declining years;
Raise up the mind, with age and sorrow bent;
Assuage with filial care a parent's fears,
Awake her heart to joy, and wipe away her tears!

THE EARLY LOST.

I

Fare-thee-well, fair flower, that opening
To the genial smile of day,
By the storm-blast, in a twinkling,
From our sight wert swept away!
Never more thy voice shall cheer us,
Never more thy form be seen,
In our solitude we startle
But to think that thou hast been!

II

Now the sun illumes our dwelling,
Sings the bird, and buds the tree;
Nature starts as from her slumber,
But no wakening rouseth thee!
Never more for thee the morning
Shall its golden gates unfold;
Past alike are joy and sorrow,
Summer's heat and winter's cold.

III

Vainly would our tears restore thee—
Thou art now a thing of yore.
Waves, that lull the ear with music,
Melt for ever on the shore;
Yet at eve, when sings the tame bird,
By thy hand once duly fed,
Seem its notes not nature's wailing
Over thee, the early dead?

IV

Softly, softly gleam'd thy ringlets,
Braided in their auburn hue;
Keenly, keenly lustre darted
From thine eyes of floating blue;
Now the mould lies scatter'd o'er thee,
And, with deep and dirge-like tone,
Pipes at eve the haunting blackbird,
O'er thy mansion, low and lone.

V

Dark, anon, shall storms be rolling,
Through the waned autumnal sky,
Winds be raving, waves be roaring,
Sullen deep to deep reply,
Winter shall resume his sceptre
O'er the desolated earth;
But no more wilt thou, like sunlight,
Brighten up our cheerless hearth.

VI

When around that hearth we gather,
Jocund mirth no more beguiles;
Up we gaze upon thy picture,
Which looks down on us—and smiles;
And we sigh, when, in our chambers,
On the couch our limbs we lay,
That the churchyard grass is waving,
Lonely, o'er thy silent clay!

VII

Why our mourning? We lament not,
Even although our hearts be riven,
That in being's sunny spring-time,
Thou wert snatch'd from earth to Heaven:
Life to thee was still enchantment,
And 'twas spared thy heart to know,
That the beams of mortal pleasure
Always sink in clouds of woe.

VIII

Fare-thee-well, then! Time may bring us
Other friends; but none like thee,
Who, in thy peculiar beauty,
Wert, what we no more shall see:
From our ears seraphic music
In thy voice hath died away;
From our eyes a glorious vision
Pass'd, to mingle in the clay!

ADDRESS TO LITTLE CHILDREN.

I

Ah, little children! if ye knew
How angel eyes, in love,
Look down upon you from the blue
Of the calm skies above,
Ye would be careful what ye do,
And eager to improve.

II

A joyous host, a countless band,
In robes of snowy white,
Around the Throne, with harp in hand,
Take ever fresh delight,
Young tender souls to their sweet land
To beckon and invite.

III

They sorrow o'er you suffering,
They smooth your couch of sleep,
In danger's hour they succour bring,
O'er you a watch they keep;
In you, then, 'twere a cruel thing
To make those blest ones weep.

IV

Each, like yourself, a little child
Once walked this earth beneath,
Saw what you see, and talked and smiled,
Till suddenly came Death,
And churchyard turf was o'er them piled—
Cold clay—devoid of breath.

V

But all the good went up to God,
To dwell with him for aye;
Their road is now a thornless road,
And bliss is theirs alway;
To golden harps, by Him bestowed,
They carol night and day.

VI

Brothers and sisters on that coast
Have met to part no more;
Why then should parents, sorrow-tost,
With sighs and tears deplore?
The lost are not for ever lost—
They are but gone before.

VII

Then keep your hearts from error free:
Down oft they look on you,
Your thoughts they watch, your ways they see,
And joy when you are true;
To think that ye condemned should be,
Would their high bliss subdue.

VIII

To little children, who are pure,
In thought, and word, and deed,
And shun what might to ill allure,
The Bible hath decreed
A glorious portion, ever sure,
And help in time of need.

IX

Of themes befitting simple song,
There surely is no dearth,
If we but cast our eyes along
The Sea—the Air—the Earth;
Nor can the verse be reckoned wrong,
Which wakens harmless mirth.

X

Man has his seasons, and to each
Congenial thoughts pertain,
And pleasures lie in childhood's reach
That life ne'er knows again;
Keep then your white souls, I beseech,
From guilt's polluting stain.

XI

Creation's charms then doubly fair
Appear; for all is new,
And, in Romance's morning air,
Like diamonds shines the dew,
Balm loads that air, no cloud of care
Dims the serene of blue.

XII

Then mar not ye God's gracious plan,
But, furthering his intent,
Grow up from Childhood unto Man,
Through cheerful years, well spent;
So shall life's eve be like its dawn,
Serene and innocent.