TO A CHILD. DEAR child! how radiant on thy mother's knee, With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles, Whose figures grace, With many a grotesque form and face, The ancient chimney of thy nursery! The lady with the gay macaw, The dancing girl, the grave bashaw And leaning idly o'er his gate, With what a look of proud command The coral rattle with its silver bells, Thousands of years in Indian seas Dashed it on Coromandel's sand! Reposed of yore, As shapeless ore, Far down in the deep-sunken wells Of darksome mines, In some obscure and sunless place, The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, In falling, clutched the frail arbute, The silver veins beneath it laid, The buried treasures of the miser, Time. But, lo, thy door is left ajar! Thou hearest footsteps from afar ! And, at the sound, Thou turnest round With quick and questioning eyes, Like one, who, in a foreign land, Beholds on every hand Some source of wonder and surprise! And, restlessly, impatiently, Thou strivest, strugglest to be free. The four walls of thy nursery Are now like prison-walls to thee. No more thy mother's smiles, No more the painted tiles, Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor, That won thy little beating heart before; Thou strugglest for the open door. Through these once solitary halls The sound of thy merry voice Jubilant, and they rejoice With the joy of thy young heart, O'er the light of whose gladness No shadows of sadness From the sombre background of memory start. Once, ah, once, within these walls, One whom memory oft recalls, But what are these grave thoughts to thee? Out, out, into the open air! Thy only dream is liberty, Thou carest little how or where. I see thee eager at thy play, Now shouting to the apples on the tree, Along the garden-walks, The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace; And see at every turn how they efface Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, That rise like golden domes Above the cavernous and secret homes Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. Who, with thy dreadful reign, Dost persecute and overwhelm These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm! What! tired already! with those suppliant looks, Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, O child! O new-born denizen Of life's great city! on thy head Here at the portal thou dost stand, And with thy little hand Thou openest the mysterious gate As at the touch of Fate! Into those realms of love and hate, As upon subterranean streams, |