Hymn tune and song tune, grave and gay,
Float round him all the joyous day;
And, half remembered, faintly seem
To mingle with his happy dream.
Poor child, o'er whose head all day long
Our dull hours slip by, winged with song;
Who sleeps for half the tuneful day,
And wakes 'neath loving looks to play;
Whose innocent eyes unconscious see
Nothing but mirth in misery.
The mother smiles, the sister stands
Smiling, the tambour in her hands.
And with the time of hard-earned rest,
'Tis his to press that kindly breast;
Nor dream of all the toil, the pain,
The weary round begun again,—
The fruitless work, the blow, the curse,
The hunger, the contempt, or worse;
The laws despite, the vague alarms,
Which pass not those protecting arms.
Only, as yet, 'tis his to know
The bright young faces all aglow,
As down the child-encumbered street
The music stirs the lightsome feet
Only to crow and smile, as yet
Soon shall come clouds, and cold, and wet;
And where the green leaves whisper now,
The mad East flinging sleet and snow.
And if to childhood he shall come—
Childhood that knows not hearth or home,—
Coarse words maybe, and looks of guile,
Shall chase away that constant smile.
Were it not better, child, than this,
The burden of full life to miss;
And now, while yet the time is May,
Amid the music pass away,
And leave these tuneless strains of wrong
For the immortal ceaseless song;
And change this vagrant life of earth
For the unchanged celestial birth;