Classic Poem

OF HILLSIDE .

O LITTLE wanderer from a clime
That lies beyond the bound of time,
In some fair zone;
Thou didst not come with sword in hand,
With herald, knight or armed band,
To take possession of the land,
To thee unknown.

And yet thou hast subjected all
Of kith and kindred, great and small,
In nursery, parlor, boudoir, hall,
To thy sweet sway.
Without a word, without a sign,
Thy wants and wishes they divine,
And all they have to give is thine,
By night or day.

They serve thee well, and not through fear
Of pain or penalty severe
That thou couldst bring —
Nor hope of good thou couldst impart;
But for the sake of what thou art,
Love builds thy throne in every heart,
And crowns thee king.

Aye, crowns thee king of Babyland —
King of the home, the household band,
And never monarch grown and grand
Was half so sweet,
From spotless brow and silken hair
And dainty lips, beyond compare,
And hands like Alpine snow-flowers rare
To dimpled feet.

Once, little one, I knew right well
The sunny realm where thou dost dwell
In pleasant dreams,
But that was in the Long Ago,
And time and care have changed me so,
That, for the nonce, I do not know
E'en how it seems;

Nor how the fair, young flowers and leaves,
That sibyl summer wears and weaves,
To thee appear;
Nor if the zephyr, wandering free,
Whisper sweet messages to thee,
In tones, whose tender melodie
We can not hear.

Perchance the sky, to us so blue,
To thee wears some diviner hue,
With golden pathways gleaming through,
As twilight falls;
Perchance thine eyes, so new and bright,
With stronger vision, clearer sight,
Discern the angels on the height
Of jasper walls.

O Babyland, so calm, so fair,
So free from sorrow, sin and care;
Who would not wish to linger there,
In happy thrall?
Where none are great or over-wise,
Nor struggling for the hollow prize,
That manhood seeks and fate denies
To nearly all.

But, little prince, thou canst not stay
In pleasant Babyland alway;
Heaven has assigned
A broader path, for by-and-by
God only knows where it may lie,
Within what land, beneath what sky,
But thou wilt find.

Sufficient work for hand and head,
Where hearts are wrecked and tears are shed
Above the living and the dead;
And I do pray
That thy wee hand may then be strong
To grapple old misrule and wrong,
And help the helpless ones that throng
The world's highway.

And may thy heart, so pure and new,
Be ever pure, and ever true
To work and wait.
There is a prize for all who dare
To strive, to suffer and to bear;
A crown for hero brows to wear,
In spite of fate.

Then, darling, I shall not be here,
But, may be, from some higher sphere,
That seems so far, but is so near,
I may look through
And see thee, clothed with manhood's might,
Armed with the truth, in broader light,
Doing brave battle for the right,
The good, the true.