Classic Poem

One sate beside the fretting sea
Which chafed the rock beneath his feet;
A weary world-worn wanderer he,
Who sought the calm of this retreat:
And now, from God and man estranged,
His eye the waste of waters ranged,
The while in drearier solitude
Life's wildering pathway he review'd.

Far off in sooth a golden light
Yet linger'd o'er his childhood's years,
Whereon he gazed with aching sight,
Half dreaming, through the mist of tears:
A father's voice, its echoes still
His broken heart-strings seem'd to thrill;
A mother's searching tenderness,
A sister's proud and fond caress.

The vision faded. Soon, too soon
Wild passion lit his soul with flame,
And dragg'd him ere his manhood's noon
Adown the slopes of sin and shame.
Nor was the ruin all his own;
He was not perishing alone;
Wishing and saying as he fell,
" There is no God nor heaven nor hell. "

But pleasure's sparkling cup was drain'd;
The prodigal had run his course;
And nothing but the dregs remain'd
Of self-contempt and soul-remorse.
Alas, the ravages of sin,
The wreck of that which once had been,
As hopeless, reckless, desolate,
Thus musing on his past he sate!

But thither, as it chanced, a child,
That hung upon an old man's hand
And often caught his eye and smiled,
Came prattling o'er the sea-ribb'd sand.
The outcast watch'd them; till at last,
As near him unawares they pass'd,
" Would heaven I were a child again, "
Broke from his lips in bitter pain.

The old man heard the low-breathed moan
And saw tears brush'd aside ere shed;
And seated on the rugged stone
Beside him took his hand and said,
" My brother, there is One, whose breast
Yearns o'er thee. Come to Him and rest;
And thy torn heart once more shall be
Like this sweet prattler's on my knee. "

Enough: it needs not here to tell
The charm that word in season wrought:
God's hand is used to miracle;
God's love unbounded by our thought.
Enough: the water and the blood,
That on the cross for sinners flow'd,
Wash'd from that heart each crimson stain:
He was a little child again.