Close beside's a child,† whose hand
O'er a lute holds sweet command:
Like a spirit is that child—
For his gentle lip is mild,
And his smile like those which trace
Sunshine on an angel's face:
But upon that brow is wrought
Evidence of deeper thought,
Higher hopes, and keener fears,
Than should mark such infant years.
Childhood should have laughing eye,
Where tears pass like showers by—
When the sky becomes more bright,
For a moment's shadowed light.
Childhood's step should be as gay
As the sunbeam on its way:
There will come another hour,
When fate rules with harsher power—
When the weary mind is worn
By the sorrow it hath borne—
When desire sits down to weep
Over hope's unbroken sleep—
When we know our care and toil
Cultures an ungrateful soil—
When in our extremest need
Only grows the thorn and weed—
Well the face may be o'ercast
By the troubles it has past.
Ah, fair child! I read it now
By the meaning on thy brow—
By thy deep and thoughtful eyes,
Where the soul of genius lies;
Even now the shade is o'er thee
Of the path which lies before thee;
For thy hand is on the lyre,
And thy lip is living fire,
And before thee is the wreath
Which the poet wins by death.
Brief and weary life is thine—
But thy future is divine.
