Classic Poem

Young Ariel of the Poet's home,
Thou fair and frolic boy,
May every blessing round thee come,
Unmingled with alloy!
And wheresoe'er thy footsteps stray,
Along the world's uncertain way,
May love, and hope and joy,
Their choicest flowers around thee fling,
Without a blight, without a sting!

A spirit looketh from thine eyes,
So softly, darkly clear;
Thy thoughts gush forth without disguise,
Unchecked by shame or fear:
There is a music in thy words,
Sweet as the sound of brooks and birds,
When summer hours are near;
And every gesture, look, and tone,
Make the beholder's heart thine own.

Thou sportest round thy father's hearth
With ever-changing glee,
And all who listen to thy mirth
Grow young again with thee:
Thy fitful song, thy joyful shout,
Thy merry gambols round about,
Thy laughter fresh and free;
All, all combine to make us bless
Thy form of life and loveliness.

Thou art a fair and tranquil thing,
When wearied into rest,
Like a young lark with folded wing,
Within its grassy nest;
But when the night hath passed, thy lay
Hails the first blush of kindling day,
And from thy mother's breast
Thou leapest forth with gladsome bound,
To walk in Pleasure's daily round.

Oh, what a place of silent gloom
Thy father's house would seem,
If thou wert summoned to the tomb
In childhood's early dream,
With every beauty in thy form,
With all thy first affections warm,
And in thy mind a beam
Of rare and intellectual fire,
Such as hath raised thy gifted sire!

I had a child — and such a child,
O God! — can I forget!
So fair, so fond, so undefiled —
I see his image yet;
With breaking heart, but tearless eye,
I watched my spring-flower fade and die,
My lode-star wane and set;
And still I wrestle with my grief,
For time hath brought me no relief.

I mingle with the thoughtless throng,
But even there I feel;
I breathe some sorrow in my song,
But may not all reveal;
I know that nought of worldly ill
Can agonize my lost one, still
My wounds I cannot heal,
But wander, musing, mourning on,
As though my every hope were gone.

Away with this unquiet strain, —
This echo of despair;
Why should I speak to thee of pain,
Or slow-consuming care?
Much have I seen of human strife,
Along the shadowy path of life, —
Much have I had to bear;
But ah! 'tis yet too soon, my boy,
To break thy transient dream of joy!

Child of delight! had I the power
Thy destiny to weave,
Thou shouldst not know one single hour
To make thy spirit grieve:
But earth should meet thy radiant eyes
Like the first look of Paradise
To love-enraptured Eve,
And heaven at last should take thee in,
Without one stain of mortal sin.