To H. C., Six Years Old

O Thou! whose fancies from afar are brought;Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,And fittest to unutterable thoughtThe breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;Thou faery Voyager! that dost floatIn such clear water, that thy BoatMay rather seemTo brood on air than on an earthly stream;Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;blessed Vision! happy Child!That art so exquisitely wild,I think of thee with many fearsFor what may be thy lot in future years.

I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,Lord of thy house and hospitality;And Grief, uneasy Lover! never restBut when she sate within the touch of thee.Oh! too industrious folly!Oh! vain and causeless melancholy!Nature will either end thee quite;Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,Preserve for thee, by individual right,A young Lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks.What hast Thou to do with sorrow,Or the injuries of to-morrow?Thou art a Dew-drop, which the morn brings forth,Not framed to undergo unkindly shocks;Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;A gem that glitters while it lives,And no forewarning gives;But, at the touch of wrong, without a strifeSlips in a moment out of life.