Classic Poem

Thou bidd'st me mark how swells with rage
The childish cheek, the childish limb,
How strongly lust and passion wage
Their strife in every petty whim;
Primeval stains from earliest age,
Thou sayst, our glorious souls bedim;
Yet not, though true thy Wisdom says,
Will I love less the childish days.

Thou askest, ask it as thou wilt,
How thus I dare to praise the State
Of Adam's child, an heir of guilt,
And sin original, innate;
And why the holy blood was spilt
If sin at last were not so great:
'Tis true, I own; I cannot tell;
Yet still I cherish childhood well.

Perchance, though born twixt good and ill
To join in warfare through his life,
His heart is in the garden still,
With Eden thoughts his Spirit rife,
And therefore conquering Passions fill
His struggling breast with fiercer strife:
It may be—doubtful Wisdom says,
And lets me love the childish days.

With sin innate, that still descends
On Adam's children one and all,
Perchance innate remembrance blends
Of Adam's joys before the Fall;
His sinful heart to us he sends
And we with him his bliss recall:
And so, a truer Wisdom says
Go cherish still the childish days.

We go our worldly ways, and there
Our Eden thoughts we lose them quite,
Only the quiet Evening air,
Or dewy Morn, or starry night
Remind us of the Vision fair,
Or bring it back in living might,
And offer to our tearful gaze
The Paradise of childish days.

Such be the Cause, or be it not,
Believe, and let the causes go;
New love may every day be got
So long as here we dwell below;
Of more the heart is ware, I wot,
Than philosophic systems know;
So heed not what thy Wisdom says,
But cherish thou the childish days.