A CHILD'S BATTLES

Praise of the knights of old

May sleep: their tale is told,

And no man cares:

The praise which fires our lips is

A knight's whose fame eclipses

All of theirs.

The ruddiest light in heaven

Blazed as his birth-star seven

Long years ago:

All glory crown that old year

Which brought our stout small soldier

With the snow!

Each baby born has one

Star, for his friends a sun,

The first of stars:

And we, the more we scan it,

The more grow sure your planet,

Child, was Mars.

For each one flower, perchance,

Blooms as his cognizance:

The snowdrop chill,

The violet unbeholden,

For some: for you the golden

Daffodil.

Erect, a fighting flower,

It breasts the breeziest hour

That ever blew.

And bent or broke things brittle

Or frail, unlike a little

Knight like you.

Its flower is firm and fresh

And stout like sturdiest flesh

Of children: all

The strenuous blast that parches

Spring hurts it not till March is

Near his fall.

If winds that prate and fret

Remark, rebuke, regret,

Lament, or blame

The brave plant's martial passion,

It keeps its own free fashion

All the same.

We that would fain seem wise

Assume grave mouths and eyes

Whose looks reprove

Too much delight in battle:

But your great heart our prattle

Cannot move.

We say, small children should

Be placid, mildly good

And blandly meek:

Whereat the broad smile rushes

Full on your lips, and flushes

All your cheek.

If all the stars that are

Laughed out, and every star

Could here be heard,

Such peals of golden laughter

We should not hear, as after

Such a word.

For all the storm saith, still,

Stout stands the daffodil:

For all we say,

Howe'er he look demurely,

Our martialist will surely

Have his way.

We may not bind with bands

Those large and liberal hands,

Nor stay from fight,

Nor hold them back from giving:

No lean mean laws of living

Bind a knight.

And always here of old

Such gentle hearts and bold

Our land has bred:

How durst her eye rest else on

The glory shed from Nelson

Quick and dead?

Shame were it, if but one

Such once were born her son,

That one to have borne,

And brought him ne'er a brother:

His praise should bring his mother

Shame and scorn.

A child high-souled as he

Whose manhood shook the sea

Smiles haply here:

His face, where love lies basking,

With bright shut mouth seems asking,

What is fear?

The sunshine-coloured fists

Beyond his dimpling wrists

Were never closed

For saving or for sparing —

For only deeds of daring

Predisposed.

Unclenched, the gracious hands

Let slip their gifts like sands

Made rich with ore

That tongues of beggars ravish

From small stout hands so lavish

Of their store.

Sweet hardy kindly hands

Like these were his that stands

With heel on gorge

Seen trampling down the dragon

On sign or flask or flagon,

Sweet Saint George.

Some tournament, perchance,

Of hands that couch no lance,

Might mark this spot

Your lists, if here some pleasant

Small Guenevere were present,

Launcelot.

My brave bright flower, you need

No foolish song, nor heed

It more than spring

The sighs of winter stricken

Dead when your haunts requicken

Here, my king.

Yet O, how hardly may

The wheels of singing stay

That whirl along

Bright paths whence echo raises

The phantom of your praises,

Child, my song!

Beyond all other things

That give my words fleet wings,

Fleet wings and strong,

You set their jesses ringing

Till hardly can I, singing,

Stint my song.

But all things better, friend,

And worse must find an end:

And, right or wrong,

‘ Tis time, lest rhyme should baffle,

I doubt, to put a snaffle

On my song.

And never may your ear

Aught harsher hear or fear,

Nor wolfish night

Nor dog-toothed winter snarling

Behind your steps, my darling

My delight!

For all the gifts you give

Me, dear, each day you live,

Of thanks above

All thanks that could be spoken

Take not my song in token,

Take my love.