VIII.—THE BOY.

VIII.—THE BOY.WILLIS.

WILLIS.

1. There’s something in a noble boy,A brave, free-hearted, careless one,With his unchecked, unbidden joy,His dread of books and love of fun,And in his clear and ready smile,Unshaded by a thought of guile,And unrepressed[61]by sadness,—Which brings me to my childhood back,As if I trod its very track,And felt its very gladness.2. And yet, it is not in his play,When every trace of thought is lost,And not when you would call him gay,That his bright presence thrills me most:His shout may ring upon the hill,His voice be echoed in the hall,His merry laugh like music trill,And I in sadness hear it all,—For, like the wrinkles on my brow,I scarcely notice such things now,—3. But when, amid the earnest game,He stops, as if he music heard,And, heedless of his shouted nameAs of the carol[62]of a bird,Stands gazing on the empty air,As if some dream were passing there;—’Tis then that on his face I look—His beautiful but thoughtful face—And like a long-forgotten book,Its sweet familiar meanings trace,—4. Remembering a thousand thingsWhich passed me on those golden wings,Which time has fettered now;Things that came o’er me with a thrill,And left me silent, sad, and still,And threw upon my browA holier and a gentler cast,That was too innocent to last.5. ’Tis strange how thoughts upon a childWill, like a presence, sometimes press,And when his pulse is beating wild,And life itself is in excess[63]—When foot and hand, and ear and eye,Are all with ardor[64]straining high—How in his heart will springA feeling whose mysterious[65]thrall[66]Is stronger, sweeter far than all!And on its silent wing,How, with the clouds, he’ll float away,As wandering and as lost as they!

1. There’s something in a noble boy,

A brave, free-hearted, careless one,

With his unchecked, unbidden joy,

His dread of books and love of fun,

And in his clear and ready smile,

Unshaded by a thought of guile,

And unrepressed[61]by sadness,—

Which brings me to my childhood back,

As if I trod its very track,

And felt its very gladness.

2. And yet, it is not in his play,When every trace of thought is lost,And not when you would call him gay,That his bright presence thrills me most:His shout may ring upon the hill,His voice be echoed in the hall,His merry laugh like music trill,And I in sadness hear it all,—For, like the wrinkles on my brow,I scarcely notice such things now,—

2. And yet, it is not in his play,

When every trace of thought is lost,

And not when you would call him gay,

That his bright presence thrills me most:

His shout may ring upon the hill,

His voice be echoed in the hall,

His merry laugh like music trill,

And I in sadness hear it all,—

For, like the wrinkles on my brow,

I scarcely notice such things now,—

3. But when, amid the earnest game,He stops, as if he music heard,And, heedless of his shouted nameAs of the carol[62]of a bird,Stands gazing on the empty air,As if some dream were passing there;—’Tis then that on his face I look—His beautiful but thoughtful face—And like a long-forgotten book,Its sweet familiar meanings trace,—

3. But when, amid the earnest game,

He stops, as if he music heard,

And, heedless of his shouted name

As of the carol[62]of a bird,

Stands gazing on the empty air,

As if some dream were passing there;—

’Tis then that on his face I look—

His beautiful but thoughtful face—

And like a long-forgotten book,

Its sweet familiar meanings trace,—

4. Remembering a thousand thingsWhich passed me on those golden wings,Which time has fettered now;Things that came o’er me with a thrill,And left me silent, sad, and still,And threw upon my browA holier and a gentler cast,That was too innocent to last.

4. Remembering a thousand things

Which passed me on those golden wings,

Which time has fettered now;

Things that came o’er me with a thrill,

And left me silent, sad, and still,

And threw upon my brow

A holier and a gentler cast,

That was too innocent to last.

5. ’Tis strange how thoughts upon a childWill, like a presence, sometimes press,And when his pulse is beating wild,And life itself is in excess[63]—When foot and hand, and ear and eye,Are all with ardor[64]straining high—How in his heart will springA feeling whose mysterious[65]thrall[66]Is stronger, sweeter far than all!And on its silent wing,How, with the clouds, he’ll float away,As wandering and as lost as they!

5. ’Tis strange how thoughts upon a child

Will, like a presence, sometimes press,

And when his pulse is beating wild,

And life itself is in excess[63]—

When foot and hand, and ear and eye,

Are all with ardor[64]straining high—

How in his heart will spring

A feeling whose mysterious[65]thrall[66]

Is stronger, sweeter far than all!

And on its silent wing,

How, with the clouds, he’ll float away,

As wandering and as lost as they!

[61]Un-re-pressed, not subdued or mastered.[62]Carˊ-ol, a song of great joy.[63]Ex-cessˊ, that which exceeds or surpasses what is usual or necessary.[64]Arˊ-dor, warmth or heat of passion or affection; eagerness.[65]Mys-teˊ-ri-ous, secret; not easily understood.[66]Thrall, bondage; slavery.

[61]Un-re-pressed, not subdued or mastered.

[62]Carˊ-ol, a song of great joy.

[63]Ex-cessˊ, that which exceeds or surpasses what is usual or necessary.

[64]Arˊ-dor, warmth or heat of passion or affection; eagerness.

[65]Mys-teˊ-ri-ous, secret; not easily understood.

[66]Thrall, bondage; slavery.

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