If I coud but forget and not recall So well my time of pleasure and of play, When ancient nature was all new and gay, Light as the fashion that doth last enthrall,-- Ah mighty nature, when my heart was small, Nor dream'd what fearful searchings underlay The flowers and leafy ecstasy of May, The breathing summer sloth, the scented fall: Coud I forget, then were the fight not hard, Press'd in the mêlée of accursed things, Having such help in love and such reward: But that 'tis I who once--'tis this that stings-- Once dwelt within the gate that angels guard, Where yet I'd be had I but heavenly wings. 42 When I see childhood on the threshold seize The prize of life from age and likelihood, I mourn time's change that will not be withstood, Thinking how Christ said _Be like one of these_. For in the forest among many trees Scarce one in all is found that hath made good The virgin pattern of its slender wood, That courtesied in joy to every breeze; But scath'd, but knotted trunks that raise on high Their arms in stiff contortion, strain'd and bare; Whose patriarchal crowns in sorrow sigh. So, little children, ye--nay nay, ye ne'er From me shall learn how sure the change and nigh, When ye shall share our strength and mourn to share. 43 When parch'd with thirst, astray on sultry sand The traveller faints, upon his closing ear Steals a fantastic music: he may hear The babbling fountain of his native land. Before his eyes the vision seems to stand, Where at its terraced brink the maids appear, Who fill their deep urns at its waters clear, And not refuse the help of lover's hand. O cruel jest--he cries, as some one flings The sparkling drops in sport or shew of ire-- O shameless, O contempt of holy things. But never of their wanton play they tire, As not athirst they sit beside the springs, While he must quench in death his lost desire. 44 The image of thy love, rising on dark And desperate days over my sullen sea, Wakens again fresh hope and peace in me, Gleaming above upon my groaning bark. Whate'er my sorrow be, I then may hark A loving voice: whate'er my terror be, This heavenly comfort still I win from thee, To shine my lodestar that wert once my mark. Prodigal nature makes us but to taste One perfect joy, which given she niggard grows; And lest her precious gift should run to waste, Adds to its loss a thousand lesser woes: So to the memory of the gift that graced Her hand, her graceless hand more grace bestows. 45