Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse/Thoughts on Childhood
THOUGHTS ON CHILDHOOD.
STILL roves the mind among the varied scenes
Of former days; and pausing as she treads
Their chequer'd paths, she seems to hear a sound
Like Ossian's music, pleasant to the ear,
And mournful to the soul. It is the voice
Of days departed, and I seem to hear
Their chiding spirit borne upon the blast.
May I escape the pale and gliding ghosts
Of mispent hours; be shielded from their glance
Dark and terrific; rather may I hear
The plaintive murmurs of those hours of woe
Long past, but not forgotten. They are like
The troubled sighing of the eastern gale,
Passing o'er broken ruins. But a breath,
Sweet as the sigh of morn, mild as the breeze
That sweeps the harp of Eolus, meets my ear.
Days of my childhood, is not this thy voice
So changeful and so sweet? Ah! well I know
That doubtful melody: it sooths my soul.
I see the pictur'd hours, I see the shades
Of infancy and mental darkness pass,
As I have seen the night's dim shadows fleet.
Forth steps the morning on the misty hills,
Trembling and unconfirm'd; and the dim lamp
Of reason, scarcely lighted, aids her dawn.
While slowly on a dark mysterious world
Enters a stranger, but of little note
Save to the eye of fond parental love.
Spirit, universal and unseen!
Prompting the heart of man to kindest deeds
Of care, forbearance, or anxiety,
Teaching the eye to flow, the heart to beat.
The knee that never bent to bend in prayer:
Kind nurse of life, how much we owe thy pow'r!
To thee we owe it, that our feeble race,
More helpless than the brutes, are not like them
Suffer'd to perish. 'Tis thy secret hand
That lifts the young mind like some sickly plant
To see the light, to taste the dews of heaven,
To feel the sun-beams, shielding its soft leaves
From chill unkindness, that dire frost of life;
Propping its stalk, and cherishing its buds;
Leading the fragrant waters to its root,
And taking thence the noxious weeds, that seek
To drink its moisture, withering every hope.
O pure affection! waken'd with the sigh
Of infancy—still wheresoe’er I go
Cheer my lone spirit, and Oh, suffer not
My numerous errors to abate thy glow,
Warmer than friendship, and more fix'd than love.