Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: To dialogues of business, love, or strife; Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep On whom those truths do rest Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? O joy! that in our embers The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest, Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts, before which our mortal nature Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; Uphold us-cherish—and have power to make Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither; Can in a moment travel thither And see the children sport upon the shore, Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! As to the tabor's sound! We, in thought, will join your throng Ye that through your hearts to-day What though the radiance which was once so bright Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; Which having been must ever be, In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groyes, Forbode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquish'd one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway; I love the brooks which down their channels fret Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 365 366 Thanks to the human heart by which we live, MY HEART LEAPS UP My heart leaps up when I behold So was it when my life began, So be it when I shall grow old Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man: THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS WE walk'd along, while bright and red And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said A village schoolmaster was he, As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday. And on that morning, through the grass And by the steaming rills We travell'd merrily, to pass A day among the hills. 'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun; So sad a sigh has brought?' A second time did Matthew stop; Upon the eastern mountain-top, 'Yon cloud with that long purple cleft Brings fresh into my mind A day like this, which I have left 'And just above yon slope of corn Such colours, and no other, Were in the sky that April morn 'With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And coming to the church, stopp'd short Beside my daughter's grave. 'Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale; And then she sang:-she would have been A very nightingale. 'Six feet in earth my Emma lay; And yet I loved her more For so it seem'd,-than till that day 'And turning from her grave, I met, A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 'A basket on her head she bare; Her brow was smooth and white: To see a child so very fair, It was a pure delight! |