Classic Poem

AFTER AN INTERRUPTED CORRESPONDENCE .

I.

More changes still? And are good hearts like thine
 Bound to the ebbs and flows of common life?
Ah! many a novel thought and random line
 Show where the world hath harmed thee with its strife.

II.

Still thou art victor: on thy pennon still
 The Cross and thorny Chaplet are displayed,
Though the wet winds of life with evil will
 Perchance have caused its crimson gloss to fade.

III.

Somewhat of Christian gracefulness hath past
 From the calm freeness which was thy chief merit;
Sadly unwise it was to make such haste,
 To bring an unripe manhood o'er thy spirit.

IV.

In these few lines of thine, a helpless strife,
 Somewhat too much unreal, I can trace
'Gainst lingering youth; although thine inner life
 Hath not as yet worked through upon thy face.

V.

Some men can change their inner lives by power
 Akin to witchcraft's lawless transmutation,
And, by a shock of feeling, in one hour
 Set their soul's helm to some new constellation.

VI.

Ah woe is me! my life keeps step no more
 With the old happy hearts it most approves;
Outstript by all, it hangs upon the shore,
 Taking perpetual leave of boyish loves.

VII.

Why ripenest thou thus early? What rich earth
 Hast thou so lately heaped about thy root?
Am I like spendthrift trees in vernal mirth
 That blossom double, and count that for fruit?

VIII.

Like a watched shrub, my secret life is slow,
 Built by the four great Seasons as they pass,
Curing mine eyes of blindness, while they show
 The unseen world inverted on their glass.

IX.

My secret growth is slow, by little caught
 Out on the earth in nights too bright for sleeping,
From checks and chills, and gentle tempers brought
 By the sweet, soothing sight of others weeping.

X.

So, like a forest-tree, screened from the north,
 And, by the Planter's goodness, free from blight;
Some shady branches would I fain put forth,
 Where sun and wind the backward leaves invite.

XI.

Thus, to be wetted by the showery breeze,
 Or shined on by the setting sun at even,
My boughs might then, piercing through other trees,
 O'ertop the wood, and so be free of Heaven.

XII.

But, while these fountains of late boyhood run,
 Wasting cool earth and sheltering moss away,
My boughs, drawn upward by the gracious sun,
 Droop o'er the bole to hear those fountains play.