THE BAREFOOT BOY.
Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy,-- I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art,--the grown-up man Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye,-- Outward sunshine, inward joy Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks, Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy,-- Blessings on the barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
Oh for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread; Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
1855.
MY PSALM.
I mourn no more my vanished years Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears, My heart is young again.
The west-winds blow, and, singing low, I hear the glad streams run; The windows of my soul I throw Wide open to the sun.
No longer forward nor behind I look in hope or fear; But, grateful, take the good I find, The best of now and here.
I plough no more a desert land, To harvest weed and tare; The manna dropping from God's hand Rebukes my painful care.
I break my pilgrim staff, I lay Aside the toiling oar; The angel sought so far away I welcome at my door.
The airs of spring may never play Among the ripening corn, Nor freshness of the flowers of May Blow through the autumn morn.
Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look Through fringed lids to heaven, And the pale aster in the brook Shall see its image given;--
The woods shall wear their robes of praise, The south-wind softly sigh, And sweet, calm days in golden haze Melt down the amber sky.
Not less shall manly deed and word Rebuke an age of wrong; The graven flowers that wreathe the sword Make not the blade less strong.
But smiting hands shall learn to heal,-- To build as to destroy; Nor less my heart for others feel That I the more enjoy.
All as God wills, who wisely heeds To give or to withhold, And knoweth more of all my needs Than all my prayers have told.
Enough that blessings undeserved Have marked my erring track; That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved, His chastening turned me back;
That more and more a Providence Of love is understood, Making the springs of time and sense Sweet with eternal good;--
That death seems but a covered way Which opens into light, Wherein no blinded child can stray Beyond the Father's sight;
That care and trial seem at last, Through Memory's sunset air, Like mountain-ranges overpast, In purple distance fair;
That all the jarring notes of life Seem blending in a psalm, And all the angles of its strife Slow rounding into calm.
And so the shadows fall apart, And so the west-winds play; And all the windows of my heart I open to the day.
1859.
THE WAITING.
I wait and watch: before my eyes Methinks the night grows thin and gray; I wait and watch the eastern skies To see the golden spears uprise Beneath the oriflamme of day!
Like one whose limbs are bound in trance I hear the day-sounds swell and grow, And see across the twilight glance, Troop after troop, in swift advance, The shining ones with plumes of snow!
I know the errand of their feet, I know what mighty work is theirs; I can but lift up hands unmeet, The threshing-floors of God to beat, And speed them with unworthy prayers.
I will not dream in vain despair The steps of progress wait for me The puny leverage of a hair The planet's impulse well may spare, A drop of dew the tided sea.
The loss, if loss there be, is mine, And yet not mine if understood; For one shall grasp and one resign, One drink life's rue, and one its wine, And God shall make the balance good.
Oh power to do! Oh baffled will!
Oh prayer and action! ye are one.
Who may not strive, may yet fulfil The harder task of standing still, And good but wished with God is done!
1862.
SNOW-BOUND. A WINTER IDYL.
TO THE MEMORY
OF
THE HOUSEHOLD IT DESCRIBES,