Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 25, Page 716
VIII.
THE DREAMING CHILD.
Alas! what kind of grief should thy years know?
Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters are
When no breath troubles them.
Beaumont & Fletcher.
And is there sadness in thy dream, my Boy?—
What should the cloud be made of?—blessed child!
Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy,
All day hath ranged through sunshine, clear yet mild:
And now thou tremblest!—Wherefore?—in thy soul
There lies no Past, no Future. Thou hast heard
The sound of presage from the distance roll,
Thy breast bears traces of no arrowy word:
From thee no Love hath gone: thy mind's young eye
Hath look'd not into Death's, and thence become
A questioner of mute Eternity,
A weary searcher for a viewless home:
Nor hath thy sense been quicken'd into pain,
By feverish watching for some step beloved;—
Free are thy thoughts, an ever-changeful train,
Glancing like dewdrops, and as lightly moved.
Yet now, on billows of strange Passion toss'd,
How art thou wilder'd in the cave of Sleep!
My gentle child! midst what dim phantoms lost,
Thus in mysterious anguish dost thou weep?
Awake! they sadden me—those early tears,
First gushings of the strong dark River's flow,
That must o'ersweep thy soul with coming years—
Th' unfathomable flood of human woe!
Awful to watch, ev'n rolling through a dream,
Forcing wild spray-drops but from Childhood's eyes!—
Wake, wake! as yet thy life's transparent stream
Should wear the tide of none but summer skies.
Come from the shadow of those realms unknown,
Where now thy thoughts dismay’d and darkling rove,
Come to the kindly region all thine own,
The Home still bright for thee with guardian Love!
Happy, fair child! that yet a Mother's voice
Can win thee back from visionary strife!—
Oh! shall my Soul, thus waken'd to rejoice,
Start from the dream-like Wilderness of Life?
