Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MY CHILD, by JULIA H. SCOTT


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MY CHILD, by                    
First Line: The foot of spring is on yon blue-topp'd mountain
Last Line: Come but in dreams, my child!
Alternate Author Name(s): Kinney, Julia
Subject(s): Children; Childhood


THE foot of Spring is on yon blue-topp'd mountain,
Leaving its green prints 'neath each spreading tree;
Her voice is heard beside the swelling fountain,
Giving sweet tones to its wild melody.
From the warm South she brings unnumber'd roses
To greet with smiles the eye of grief and care;
Her balmy breath on the worn brow reposes,
And her rich gifts are scatter'd everywhere:
I heed them not, my child!

In the low vale the snow-white daisy springeth,
The golden dandelion by its side,
The eglantine a dewy fragrance flingeth
To the soft breeze that wanders far and wide.
The hyacinth and polyanthus render,
From their deep hearts, an offering of love;
And fresh May-pinks, and half-blown lilacs, tender
Their grateful homage to the skies above:
I heed them not, my child!

In the clear brook are springing water-cresses,
And pale-green rushes, and fair, nameless flowers,
While o'er them dip the willow's verdant tresses,
Dimpling the surface with their mimic showers.
The honeysuckle stealthily is creeping
Round the low porch and mossy cottage-eaves;
Oh, Spring hath fairy treasures in her keeping,
And lovely are the landscapes that she weaves:
'T is nought to me my child!

Down the green lane come peals of heartfelt laughter;
The school has sent its eldest inmates forth;
And now a smaller band comes dancing after,
Filling the air with shouts of infant mirth.
At the rude gate the anxious dame is bending
To clasp her rosy darling to her breast;
Joy, pride and hope are in her bosom blending;
Ah, peace with her is no unusual guest;
Not so with me, my child!

All the day long I listen to the singing
Of the gay birds and winds among the trees;
But a sad under-strain is ever ringing
A tale of death and its dread mysteries.
Nature to me the letter is that killeth --
The spirit of her charms has pass'd away;
A fount of bliss no more my bosom filleth --
Slumbers its idol in unconscious clay!
Thou art in the grave, my child!

For thy glad voice my spirit inly pineth;
I languish for thy blue eyes' holy light;
Vainly for me the glorious sunbeam shineth;
Vainly the blessed stars come forth at night!
I walk in darkness, with the tomb before me,
Longing to lay my dust beside thy own;
O, cast the mantle of thy presence o'er me!
Beloved, leave me not so deeply lone!
Come back to me, my child!

Upon that breast of pitying love thou leanest,
Which oft on earth did pillow such as thou,
Nor turn'd away petitioner the meanest --
Pray to Him, sinless -- He will hear thee now.
Plead for thy weak and broken-hearted mother;
Pray that thy voice may whisper words of peace;
Her ear is deaf, and can discern no other;
Speak, and her bitter sorrowings shall cease:
Come back to me, my child!

Come but in dreams -- let me once more behold thee,
As in thy hours of buoyancy and glee,
And one brief moment in my arms enfold thee --
Beloved, I will not ask thy stay with me!
Leave but the impress of thy dove-like beauty,
Which memory strives so vainly to recall,
And I will onward in the path of duty,
Restraining tears that ever fain would fall!
Come but in dreams, my child!





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