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Not Man, the sullen savage in his den;
But Man called forth in fellowship with men ;
Schooled and trained up to Wisdom from his birth;
God's noblest work-His image upon earth!
The hour arrives, the moment wished and feared; The child is born, by many a pang endeared. And now the mother's ear has caught his cry; Oh grant the cherub to her asking eye!
He comes...she clasps him. To her bosom pressed, He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest.
Her by her smile how soon the Stranger knows; How soon by his the glad discovery shows! As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy, What answering looks of sympathy and joy! He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard.
And ever, ever to her lap he flies,
When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise.
Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung,
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue)
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings,
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart;
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove,
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!
But soon a nobler task demands her care. Apart she joins his little hands in prayer, Telling of Him who sees in secret there!— And now the volume on her knee has caught His wandering eye—now many a written thought Never to die, with many a lisping sweet His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat. Released, he chases the bright butterfly; Oh he would follow-follow through the sky! Climbs the gaunt mastiff slumbering in his chain, And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane; Then runs, and, kneeling by the fountain-side, Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide, A dangerous voyage; or, if now he can, If now he wears the habit of a man,
Flings off the coat so long his pride and pleasure, And, like a miser digging for his treasure,
His tiny spade in his own garden plies,
And in green letters sees his name arise!
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight,
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight!
Ah who, when fading of itself away,
Would cloud the sunshine of his little day!
Now is the May of Life. Careering round,
Joy wings his feet, Joy lifts him from the ground!
Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say,
When the rich casket shone in bright array,
"These are MY Jewels!" Well of such as he,
When JESUS spake, well might his language be,
"Suffer these little ones to come to me!"
Thoughtful by fits, he scans and he reveres
The brow engraven with the Thoughts of Years;
Close by her side his silent homage given
As to some pure Intelligence from Heaven;
His eyes cast downward with ingenuous shame,
His conscious cheeks, conscious of praise or blame,
At once lit up as with a holy flame!
He thirsts for knowledge, speaks but to inquire;
And soon with tears relinquished to the Sire,
Soon in his hand to Wisdom's temple led,
Holds secret converse with the Mighty Dead;
Trembles and thrills and weeps as they inspire,
Burns as they burn, and with congenial fire!
Like Her most gentle, most unfortunate,
Crowned but to die-who in her chamber sate
Musing with Plato, though the horn was blown,
And every ear and every heart was won,
And all in green array were chasing down the sun!
Then is the Age of Admiration-Then
Gods walk the earth, or beings more than men ;
Who breathe the soul of Inspiration round,
Whose very shadows consecrate the ground!
Ah, then comes thronging many a wild desire,
And high imagining and thought of fire!
Then from within a voice exclaims "Aspire!"
Phantoms, that upward point, before him pass,
As in the Cave athwart the Wizard's glass;
They, that on Youth a grace, a lustre shed,
Of every Age-the living and the dead!
Thou, all-accomplished SURREY, thou art known;
The flower of Knighthood, nipt as soon as blown!
Melting all hearts but Geraldine's alone!
And, with his beaver up, discovering there
One who loved less to conquer than to spare,
Lo, the Black Warrior, he, who, battle-spent,
Bare-headed served the Captive in his tent!
Young B in the groves of Academe,
Or where Ilyssus winds his whispering stream;
Or where the wild bees swarm with ceaseless hum,
Dreaming old dreams-a joy for years to come;
Or on the Rock within the sacred Fane;-
Scenes such as MILTON Sought, but sought in vain: *
* He had arrived at Naples; and was preparing to visit Sicily and Greece, when, hearing of the troubles in England, he thought it proper to hasten home.