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Henry WadswoRTH LONGFELLOW.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
RETWEEN the dark and the daylight,
D When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall-stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence :
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall !
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall.
They climb up into my turret
O’er the arms and back of my chair ;
If I try to escape they surround me ;
They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine !
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old moustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down in the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you for ever,
Yes, for ever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!
LITTLE feet! that such long years
Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I, nearer to the wayside inn, Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary, thinking of your road !
O little hands! that, weak or strong,
Have still to serve or rule so long,
Have still so long to give or ask ;
I, who so much with book and pen
Have toiled among my fellow-men,
Am weary, thinking of your task.
O little hearts ! that throb and beat
With such impatient feverish heat,
Such limitless and strong desires ;
Mine that so long has glowed and burned
With passions into ashes turned,
Now covers and conceals its fires.
O little souls ! as pure and white
And crystalline as rays of light
Direct from Heaven, their source divine ;
Refracted through the mist of years,
How red my setting sun appears,
How lurid looks this soul of mine!
RESIDE the ungathered rice he lay,
D His sickle in his hand ;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
He saw his native land.
Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed ;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode ;
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain-road.