LXVI. CHILDHOOD.
I
Dost thou remember how we lived at home—
That it was like an oriental place,
Where right and wrong, and praise and blame did come
By ways we wondered at and durst not trace,
And gloom and sadness were but shadows thrown
From griefs that were our sire's, and not our own?
II
It was a moat about our souls, an arm
Of sea, that made the world a foreign shore,
And we were too enamoured of the charm
To dream that barks might come and waft us o'er.
Cold snow was on the hills; and they did wear
Too wild and wan a look to tempt us there.
III
We had traditions of our own, to weave
A web of creed and rite and sacred thought;
And when a stranger, who did not believe
As they who were our types of God had taught,
Came to our home, how harsh his words did seem,
Like sounds that mar but cannot break a dream.
IV
And then in Scripture some high things there were,
Of which, they said, we must not read or talk;
And we through fear did never trespass there,
But made our Bibles like our twilight walk
In the deep woodlands, where we durst not roam
To spots from whence we could not see our home.
V
Albeit we fondly hoped, when we were men,
To learn the lore our parents loved so well,
And read the rites and symbols which were then
But letters of a word we could not spell—
Church-bells, and Sundays, and the Altar-stair
In whose dread Gift we were too young to share.
VI
But we too soon from our safe place were driven;
The world broke in upon our orphaned life.
Dawnings of good, young flowers that looked to Heaven,
It left untilled for what seemed manlier strife;
Like a too-early summer, bringing fruit
Where spring perchance had meant another shoot!
VII
Some begin life too soon,—like sailors thrown
Upon a shore where common things look strange;
Like them they roam about a foreign town,
And grief awhile may own the force of change.
Yet, though one hour new dress and tongue may please,
Our second thoughts look homeward, ill at ease.
VIII
Come then unto our childhood's wreck again—
The rocks hard-by our father's early grave;
And take the few chance treasures that remain,
And live through manhood upon what we save.
So shall we roam the same old shore at will,
In the fond faith that we are children still!
IX
Christian! thy dream is now—it was not then:
Oh! it were strange if childhood were a dream.
Strife and the world are dreams: to wakeful men
Childhood and home as jealous Angels seem:
Like shapes and hues that play in clouds at even,
They have but shifted from thee into Heaven!
