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TO A POET’S CHILD.
That evermore, that stone beside,
Thy wither'd joys would form thy pride;
As palm-trees, on their south sea bed,
Make islands with the flowers they shed.
Child of the Dead! my dream of thee
Was sad to tell, and dark to see;
And vain as many a brighter dream;
Since thou canst sing by Babel's stream!
For here, amid the worldly crowd,
'Mid common brows, and laughter loud,
And hollow words, and feelings sere,
Child of the Dead! I meet thee here!
And is thy step so fast and light?
And is thy smile so gay and bright?
And canst thou smile, with cheek undim,
Upon a world that frown'd on him?
