The Home Book of Verse Volume I Part 95

Translated by John R. Thompson from the French of Gustave Nadaud [1820-? ]

CHILDHOOD

Old Sorrow I shall meet again, And Joy, perchance--but never, never, Happy Childhood, shall we twain See each other's face forever!

And yet I would not call thee back, Dear Childhood, lest the sight of me, Thine old companion, on the rack Of Age, should sadden even thee.

John Banister Tabb [1845-1909]

THE WASTREL

Once, when I was little, as the summer night was falling, Among the purple upland fields I lost my barefoot way; The road to home was hidden fast, and frightful shadows, crawling Along the sky-line, swallowed up the last kind light of day; And then I seemed to hear you In the twilight; and be near you; Seemed to hear your dear voice calling-- Through the meadows, calling, calling-- And I followed and I found you, Flung my tired arms around you, And rested on the mother-breast, returned, tired out from play.

Down the days from that day, though I trod strange paths unheeding, Though I chased the jack-o'-lanterns of so many maddened years, Though I never looked behind me, where the home-lights were receding, Though I never looked enough ahead to ken the Inn of Fears; Still I knew your heart was near me, That your ear was strained to hear me, That your love would need no pleading To forgive me, but was pleading Of its self that, in disaster, I should run to you the faster And be sure that I was dearer for your sacrifice of tears.

Now on life's last Summertime the long last dusk is falling, And I, who trod one way so long, can tread no other way Until at death's dim crossroads I watch, hesitant, the crawling Night-pa.s.sages that maze me with the ultimate dismay.

Then when Death and Doubt shall blind me-- Even then--I know you'll find me: I shall hear you, Mother, calling-- Hear you calling--calling--calling: I shall fight and follow--find you Though the grave-clothes swathe and bind you, And I know your love will answer: "Here's my laddie home from play!"

Reginald Wright Kauffman [1877-

TROIA FUIT

The world was wide when I was young, My schoolday hills and dales among; But, oh, it needs no Puck to put, With whipping wing and flying foot, A girdle 'round the narrow sphere In which I labor now and here!

Life's face was fair when careless I First loved beneath an April sky, And wept those fine-imagined woes That youth at nineteen thinks it knows; Now love and woe both run so deep I have not any time to weep.

No matter; though at last we see That what was could not always be, It girds our loins and steels our hands In duller days and smaller lands To recollect the country where The world was wide and life was fair.

Reginald Wright Kauffman [1877-

TEMPLE GARLANDS

There is a temple in my heart Where moth or rust can never come, A temple swept and set apart, To make my soul a home.

And round about the doors of it Hang garlands that forever last, That gathered once are always sweet; The roses of the Past!

A. Mary F. Robinson [1857-

TIME LONG PAST

Like the ghost of a dear friend dead Is Time long past.

A tone which is now forever fled, A hope which is now forever past, A love so sweet it could not last, Was Time long past.

There were sweet dreams in the night Of Time long past: And, was it sadness or delight, Each day a shadow onward cast Which made us wish it yet might last,-- That Time long past.

There is regret, almost remorse, For Time long past.

'Tis like a child's beloved corse A father watches, till at last Beauty is like remembrance, cast From Time long past.

Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley [1792-1822]

"I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER"

I remember, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups-- Those flowers made of light!

The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,-- The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And though the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, The summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy.

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

MY LOST YOUTH

Often I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me.

And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth, are long, long thoughts."

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams.

And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the s.h.i.+ps, And the magic of the sea.

And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the bulwarks by the sh.o.r.e, And the fort upon the hill; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill.

And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."