Prometheus Bound (Browning, 1833)/To a Poet's Child
TO A POET'S CHILD.
A far harp swept the sea above;
A far voice said thy name in love:
Then silence on the harp was cast;
The voice was chain'd—the love went last!
And as I heard the melodie,
Sweet-voiced Fancy spake of thee:
And as the silence o'er it came,
Mine heart, in silence, sigh'd thy name.
I thought there was one only place,
Where thou couldst lift thine orphan'd face;
A little home for prayer and woe;—
A stone above—a shroud below;—
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?
The minstrel's harp is on his bier;
What doth the minstrel's orphan here?
The loving moulders in the clay;
The loved,—she keepeth holyday!
'Tis well! I would not doom thy years
Of golden prime, to only tears.
Fair girl! 'twere better that thine eyes
Should find a joy in summer skies,
As if their sun were on thy fate.
Be happy; strive not to be great;
And go not, from thy kind apart,
With lofty soul and stricken heart.
Think not too deeply: shallow thought,
Like open rills, is ever sought
By light and flowers; while fountains deep
Amid the rocks and shadows sleep.
Feel not too warmly: lest thou be
Too like Cyrene's waters free,
Which burn at night, when all around
In darkness and in chill is found.
Touch not the harp to win the wreath:
Its tone is fame, its echo death!
The wreath may like the laurel grow,
Yet turns to cypress on the brow!
And, as a flame springs clear and bright,
Yet leaveth ashes 'stead of light;
So genius (fatal gift!) is doom'd
To leave the heart it fired, consumed.
For thee, for thee, thou orphan'd one,
I make an humble orison!
Love all the world; and ever dream
That all are true who truly seem.
Forget! for, so, 'twill move thee not,
Or lightly move; to be forgot!
Be streams thy music; hills, thy mirth;
Thy chiefest light, the household hearth.
So, when grief plays her natural part,
And visiteth thy quiet heart;
Shall all the clouds of grief be seen
To show a sky of hope between.
So, when thy beauty senseless lies,
No sculptured urn shall o'er thee rise;
But gentle eyes shall weep at will,
Such tears as hearts like thine distil.