But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, - The youth, who daily farther from the east Is on his way attended; At length the man perceives it die away, VI. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; The homely nurse doth all she can VII. Behold the child among his new-born blisses, See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learnéd art, A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: To dialogues of business, love, or strife; Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part, Filling from time to time his "humorous stage' Were endless imitation. VIII. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find; - Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! IX. O joy, that in our embers Is something that doth live, The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest, Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast; Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Blank misgivings of a creature High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Hence in a season of calm weather, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, X. Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; Strength in what remains behind, Which having been, must ever be ; In the soothing thoughts that spring In the faith that looks through death, XI. And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, I love the brooks, which down their channels fret, The clouds that gather round the setting sun That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality! |