Classic Poem

Like a fair child, with merry native jest,
My dear young friend, the world around thee plays;
Yet think not that the character impressed
Upon thy heart, and mirrored in its rays
Presents the truth. — The silent reverence
Which from thy soul's nobility has grown,
The marvels of thine own omnipotence,
The living grace, essentially thine own, —
These thou dost count as life's habitual prize
Promiscuously granted to mankind.
If he exist, let me the mortal find
Who youth's untainted magic can despise,
Or to the charm of innocence be blind.

How dost thou revel in the fragrant band
Of flowers which around thy footsteps press,
Of souls beatified at thy command,
Which spell-bound, thine ascendency confess!
Remain, then, happy in thy fond conceit,
And may no wakening illusion cheat
The stately tenour of thy dream's caress.
As in thy beds the shining flowers blaze,
Thy fancies plant — but with averted gaze!
Watch them, indeed, but never venture nigh;
They do but live to satisfy the eye.
E'en at thy feet they end their little day:
— The nearer thee, the nearer to decay!