Poems . in this very roomSat he in those hours of gloom,Weary both in heart and head. But what are these grave thoughts to thee ? Out, out! into the open air ! Thy only dream is liberty, Thou carest little how or where. I see thee eager at thy play, Now shouting to the apples on the tree, With cheeks as round and red as they; And now among the yellow stalks, Among the flowering shrubs and plants,* As restless as the bee. Along the garden walks, The tracts of thy small carriage-wheels I trace ; And see at every turn how they efface Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, That rise like golden dome
Poems . in this very roomSat he in those hours of gloom,Weary both in heart and head. But what are these grave thoughts to thee ? Out, out! into the open air ! Thy only dream is liberty, Thou carest little how or where. I see thee eager at thy play, Now shouting to the apples on the tree, With cheeks as round and red as they; And now among the yellow stalks, Among the flowering shrubs and plants,* As restless as the bee. Along the garden walks, The tracts of thy small carriage-wheels I trace ; And see at every turn how they efface Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, That rise like golden domes Above the cavernous and secret homes Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, Who, with thy dreadful reign, Dost persecute and overwhelm These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm! N N 302 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. What! tired already! with those suppliant looks,And voice more beautiful than a poets books,Or murmuring sound of water as it flows,Thou comest back to parley with repose!. This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, With its oerhanging golden canopy Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, And shining with the argent light of dews, Shall for a season be our place of rest. Beneath us, like an orioles pendent nest, From which the laughing birds have taken wing, By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. Dream-like the waters of the river gleam; A sail-less vessel drops adown the stream, And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. O child! O new-born denizenOf lifes great city! on thy head TO A CHILD. 303 The glory of the morn is shed, Like a celestial benison ! Here at the portal thou dost stand, And with thy little hand Thou openest the mysterious gate Into the futures undiscovered land. I see its valves expand, As at the touch of Fate! Into those realms of love and hate, Into that darkness blank and drear, By some prophetic feeling taught, I launch the bold, adventurous thought, Freighted with hope and fear
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