Classic Poem

Alas! what kind of grief should thy years know?
Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be
When no breath troubles them.
(Beaumont and Fletcher)

And is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy?
What should the cloud be made of? Blessed child!
Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy,
All day hath ranged through sunshine, clear, yet mild —

And now thou tremblest! Wherefore? In thy soul
There lies no past, no future — thou hast heard
No sound of presage from the distance roll,
Thy heart bears traces of no arrowy word!

From thee no love hath gone — thy mind's young eye
Hath looked not into Death's, and thence become
A questioner of mute Eternity,
A weary searcher for a viewless home.

Nor hath thy sense been quickened unto pain,
By feverish watching for some step beloved;
Free are thy thoughts, an ever-changeful train,
Glancing like dewdrops, and as lightly moved!

Yet now, on billows of strange passion tossed,
How art thou wildered in the Cave of Sleep!
My gentle child, midst what dim phantoms lost,
Thus in mysterious anguish dost thou weep?

Awake! They sadden me, those early tears,
First flushings of the strong dark river's flow,
That must o'ersweep thy soul with coming years —
The unfathomable flood of human woe!

Awful to watch, e'en rolling through a dream,
Forcing wild spray-drops — but from childhood's eyes!
Wake, wake! as yet thy life's transparent stream
Should wear the tinge of none but summer skies.

Come from the shadow of those realms unknown,
Where now thy thoughts dismayed and darkling rove;
Come to the kindly region all thine own,
The home, still bright for thee with guardian love,

Happy, fair child, that yet a mother's voice
Can win thee back from visionary strife!
Oh, shall my soul, thus wakened to rejoice,
Start from the dreamlike wilderness of life?