VII.

  Behold the child among his new-born blisses,—­
  A six years’ darling of a pygmy size! 
  See, where mid work of his own hand he lies,
  Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses,
  With light upon him from his father’s eyes! 
  See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
  Some fragment from his dream of human life,
  Shaped by himself with newly learned art,—­
        A wedding or a festival,
        A mourning or a funeral;—­
          And this hath now his heart,
        And unto this he frames his song: 
          Then will he fit his tongue
  To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
         But it will not be long
         Ere this be thrown aside,
         And with new joy and pride
  The little actor cons another part,—­
  Filling from time to time his “humorous stage”
  With all the persons, down to palsied age,
  That Life brings with her in her equipage;
        As if his whole vocation
        Were endless imitation.

VIII.

  Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
        Thy soul’s immensity! 
  Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
  Thy heritage! thou eye among the blind,
  That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,
  Haunted forever by the eternal mind!—­
        Mighty prophet!  Seer blest! 
        On whom those truths do rest
  Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
  In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
  Thou over whom thy immortality
  Broods like the day, a master o’er a slave,
  A presence which is not to be put by;
  Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
  Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,
  Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
  The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
  Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
  Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
  And custom lie upon thee with a weight
  Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

  IX.

  O joy! that in our embers
    Is something that doth live;
  That Nature yet remembers
    What was so fugitive!

  The thought of our past years in me doth breed
  Perpetual benediction:  not, indeed,
  For that which is most worthy to be blest,—­
  Delight and liberty, the simple creed
  Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
  With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—­
        Not for these I raise
        The song of thanks and praise;
      But for those obstinate questionings
      Of sense and outward things,
      Fallings from us, vanishings;
      Blank misgivings of a creature
  Moving about in worlds not realized,
  High instincts, before which our mortal nature
  Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: 
        But for those first affections,
        Those shadowy recollections,