Poems (Blind)/Ode to a Child
ODE TO A CHILD.
Bright as a morn of spring,That jubilates along the earth,With clouds, and winds, and flowers rejoicing,And all the creatures that on wingScarce dip the ground in their ethereal mirth.Whilst the dew'd sunlight and the gold-flushed rainWed midway in the air;And from the twainIs ever born that fairy gossamer,The iridescent bridge that spans the skies.Yea, e'en in such wild glory dost thou glowSoul-fresh exuberant child!And drops of heavenly freshness gleamOn red, red lips, in dark-orbed eyes,Like morning dews that glimmering show On winter moss and heath'ry wild,And soft-cropped grasses undefiled,In all the shifting splendour of a dream.
Oh, thou, that in thy gleeKnow'st of no ending yet, and no beginning,Making the hours melodious with thy play,Like grasshoppers, that through the livelong dayHopping on the new-mown hay,Sun-struck trill their roundelay;Or the cricket, chirping cheerlyLate at night, at morning early,With a little baby-singingLike an echo faintly ringingFrom the distant summer leas;And with tremulous murmurs clingingRound the hearth, like clustering beesHumming round the linden trees.
And yet athwart thy soul, At times, perchance, I seem to seeThe hid existence of far off events,Trailing their slumb'rous shadows silently.For in the dusky deeps.Of thy large eyesSometime the veiled outline of a stillAnd mute-born vision sleepsAs in the hollows of a hill,With dim and darksome rentsThe dreamful shadow of the morning lies,And softly, slowly, ever down doth roll,Till lost in mystic deeps it flees our watchful eyes.
Yet from that silent tranceQuick leap'st thou back into thy playfulness,As waters darkened by the drifting cloudInto the swift sweet sunlight crowd,Where dashed with dewy gold they danceIn unbedimmd sprightliness;Till with their blithesome strain They make the brooding mountains loudAnd fling their merriment across the voiceless plain.And buzzing lightly, here and there,Thou, like a little curious flyThat fusses through the air,Dost pry and spyWith thy keen inquisitive eye;Poking fatly-dimpled fingersInto corner, box, and closet,Where, perchance, there hidden lingersSome deposit,To be carried off triumphantly.And with many questions, everRippling like a restless river,Puzzling many an older brain,Dost thou hour by hour increase thy storeOf marvellous lore.Thus a squirrel darting deftlyUp and down autumnal trees,Sees its hoard of chesnuts growing swiftly In a heap upon the leaf-strewn leas.Yea, open art thou to each influenceThat strikes on thy soft spirit from withoutThy spirit not yet frozen, nor shut outFrom nature's kindling breathBy selfish aims, nor dulled the senseBy hot desires; alas, too oft the deathOf man's spiritual vision. No, thy soulIs yet all clear and brightAnd lieth naked 'neath the eye of heavenAs a small mountain pool—A pure and azure pool,To whom its food is givenBy dews, and rains, and snows all lily-white,That softly fallThrough many a summer's day and winter's night;And whose unspotted breastGlasses each pageant of the outer world,The cloud with pinions to the blast unfurled, The mountains' haughty crest,The slanting beam of twilight skiesThat like a golden ladder liesStretching across perchance for angel hosts To slideDown to the earth with heavenly boon;And glasses too the hurrying mists that glideLike gliding ghosts,And stars, and all the mildness of the moon.
As yet 'tis early January with thee!Warm-cradled doth the summer leafLie folded in the winter leafOn the blank tree.And folded in the earth the seedThe future mother of some glorious weed,Or flower blowing gorgeously,Or cedar branching wondrously,Lies slumbering; its whole destinyOf great or lowly, foul or fair, In this minutest space surely foreshadowed there.But let the west wind, ocean-born,Floating towards the meads of morn,But once spread out his wild and vasty wingSetting the sap a-cantring; till new lifeWorks wonders: then thy beingWill strangely stir, as at the soundOf sounding drum and fifeThe war-horse paws the ground.And through thy sweet pure veinsLife like a waterfall will grandly bound.
But now the Psyche of thy beingStill shyly doth essay her delicate wing,Like to that airy nurseling of the sunWhen first it breaketh through its dunAnd horned shell, and triesTo move its pinions, powdered o'er and o'erWith rainbow dust of April skies,That have as not yet learnt to soar, And lie soft-folded in sweet mysteries.
Oh! looking on thee, I do speculateOn thy futurity!What wilt thou be?Some great and glorious lot I dream for thee,Some starry fate!For in thy nature meetSuch buoyant strength, and such a sweetHalf-veiled heart tenderness, that on thy being doth restLike soft dark bloom upon a pansy's breast;And pity gushes o'er thee, like warm rain,For everything in pain,Or great or small; and such a shoalOf thick-bred fancies ever swimmeth forthFrom the deep seaOf changeful fantasy,Like golden fish that glitter in the sun;And quick perception leading on and on,Into a maze of thought, fresh'ning the soul Of him who listens. Aye, what wilt thou be?Perchance, one of that sacred bandThat ever were the salt of earth,Whom men call dowered with genius! They who standIn grandeur and in glory like the Alps,With silver-shining scalps,Bathed in the ether; feeding all the landWith the pure skyey waters that descendFor ever from them; men who freedFrom narrow bonds of hate and greed,Fetters of custom, and blind circumstance,Breathe the soul-quickening air of thought and love.And struggling into freedom, sudden seeThe solid shroud of senseConsumed by a heavenly flame,As is the vapour dense and dun,Which the earth-spirit fast doth breedBy the great sun.And the large mind in native majesty Doth catch that radiance evermore above,Around us; finest effluence of being;Illuminating with sharp sudden blazeNature's mysterious ways;Until his spirit, feeling itself oneWith all that is, and was, and is to be,Vibrates into intenser life,Which is creation!Then makes he revelationOf that one truth, that as a supreme rayWith new existence heavily fraught,Lightened in awful lovelinessAnd empyrean holiness,Upon his passive thought;Till with long peals of explosive oracular thunder,He bursts and cleaves and splinters asunderThe clinging clinking manacles of life,That fall and curl in harsh black masses underHis winged feet: and through time's noisy strifeHis infinite acts do strike like flame Of a volcano seen across a sea,On nights when with earthquake the labouring hillsare rife;And labouring, too, like heaving heights, doth he,Girt round with turbulent whirls of praise and blame,Breathe the hot spark of that which he did see,As vital force that pulses strong and warmIn the mid-heart of creeds,Or rolls itself along the epic's flood,Or lives through ages in the marbled form,Or leaps to life in the heroic deeds,Watering with the heart's noble bloodThe seed of future world-reforming good.
But stay, my soul;Too far thou fliest, as a falcon flies,Forgetful of the handWhere he must perch, so tranced with the grandAnd boundless skies.Oh come my song, and roll Thy billows back, where on the swelling bank,Mid flowers, and reeds, and grasses rank,And feathered warblers, warbling wild,Sporteth the unconscious child,Safely roofed o'er by shielding mother's love,Like wee lamb-clouds of morn by tender skies above.Hark! now I hear thy low soft laughter fallingUpon my heart, like to the murmurous callingOf brooding stock doves, now it sweet doth soundLike rippling rills of rain, that make the groundHarmomous on hot summer afternoons;And now thy joyous croonsBlither and brighter tumble on my earAll clarion clear,Like songs of matin birds that in spring weather,Hid in young woods, do jubilate together.Yea, on the musing mind,That wrapt in meditation's sober dress,Looks inward in a half-forgetfulnessOf the world's outer show, Thou breakest in, like a tumultuous windThat teasing tossesThe foam of flickering fountain;Or like the flashing flowOf waves of light along the long green grasses;Or waters bickering lowDown many a sloping mountainThat make themselves a nest mid ferns and shiningmosses.Of each free thing that in its joyAll chains, and bonds, and obstacles o'erpassesIn elemental gladsomenessesAnd wonderful wild wantonnesses—Fire, water, wand'ring air,Hast a part, exuberant boy,Glorious, glad, and fresh, and fair,And blowing in upon the tired brainNature's undying, spirit-stirring strain.