A STUDY OF BOYHOOD
So young, and yet so worn with pain!
No sign of youth upon that stooping head,
Save weak half-curls, like beechen boughs that spread
With up-turned edge to catch the hurrying rain;
Such little lint-white locks, as wound
About a mother's finger long ago,
When he was blither, not more dear, for woe
Was then far off, and other sons stood round.
And she has wept since then with him
Watching together, where the ocean gave
To her child's counted breathings wave for wave,
Whilst the heart fluttered, and the eye grew dim.
And when the sun and day-breeze fell,
She kept with him the vigil of despair;
Knit hands for comfort, blended sounds of prayer,
Saw him at dawn face death, and take farewell;
Saw him grow holier through his grief,
The early grief that lined his withering brow,
As one by one her stars were quenched. And now
He that so mourned can play, though life is brief;
Not gay, but gracious; plain of speech,
And freely kindling under beauty's ray,
He dares to speak of what he loves; to-day
He talked of art, and led me on to teach,
And glanced, as poets glance, at pages
Full of bright Florence and warm Umbrian skies;
Not slighting modern greatness, for the wise
Can sort the treasures of the circling ages;
Not echoing the sickly praise,
Which boys repeat, who hear a father's guest
Prate of the London show-rooms; what is best
He firmly lights upon, as birds on sprays;
All honest, and all delicate:
No room for flattery, no smiles that ask
For tender pleasantries, no looks that mask
The genial impulses of love and hate.
Oh bards that call to bank and glen,
Ye bid me go to nature to be healed!
And lo! a purer fount is here revealed:
My lady-nature dwells in heart of men.
MERCURIALIA
Sweet eyes, that aim a level shaft
At pleasure flying from afar,
Sweet lips, just parted for a draught
Of Hebe's nectar, shall I mar
By stress of disciplinary craft
The joys that in your freedom are?
Shall the bright Queen who rules the tide
Now forward thrown, now bridled back,
Smile o'er each answering smile, then hide
Her grandeur in the transient rack,
And yield her power, and veil her pride,
And move along a ruffled track:
And shall not I give jest for jest,
Though king of fancy all the while,
Catch up your wishes half expressed,
Endure your whimsies void of guile,
Albeit with risk of such unrest
As may disturb, but not defile?
Oh, twine me myrtle round the sword,
Soft wit round wisdom over-keen:
Let me but lead my peers, no lord
With brows high arched; and lofty mien,
Set comrades round my council board
For bold debates, with jousts between.
There quiver lips, there glisten eyes,
There throb young hearts with generous hope;
Thence, playmates, rise for high emprize;
For, though he fail, yet shall ye cope
With worldling wrapped in silken lies,
With pedant, hypocrite, and pope.
REPARABO
The world will rob me of my friends,
For time with her conspires;
But they shall both to make amends
Relight my slumbering fires.
For while my comrades pass away
To bow and smirk and gloze,
Come others, for as short a stay;
And dear are these as those.
And who was this? they ask; and then
The loved and lost I praise:
"Like you they frolicked; they are men:
"Bless ye my later days."
Why fret? the hawks I trained are flown:
'Twas nature bade them range;
I could not keep their wings half-grown,
I could not bar the change.
With lattice opened wide I stand
To watch their eager flight;
With broken jesses in my hand
I muse on their delight.
And, oh! if one with sullied plume
Should droop in mid career,
My love makes signals:—"There is room,
Oh bleeding wanderer, here."