To Some Birds Flown Away

Children, come back--come back, I say--You whom my folly chased awayA moment since, from this my room,With bristling wrath and words of doom!What had you done, you bandits small,With lips as red as roses all?What crime?--what wild and hapless deed?What porcelain vase by you was splitTo thousand pieces? Did you needFor pastime, as you handled it,Some Gothic missal to enrichWith your designs fantastical?Or did your tearing fingers fallOn some old picture? Which, oh, whichYour dreadful fault? Not one of these;Only when left yourselves to pleaseThis morning but a moment here'Mid papers tinted by my mindYou took some embryo verses near--Half formed, but fully well designedTo open out. Your hearts desireWas but to throw them on the fire,Then watch the tinder, for the sightOf shining sparks that twinkle brightAs little boats that sail at night,Or like the window lights that springFrom out the dark at evening.

'Twas all, and you were well content.Fine loss was this for anger's vent--A strophe ill made midst your play,Sweet sound that chased the words awayIn stormy flight. An ode quite new,With rhymes inflated--stanzas, too,That panted, moving lazily,And heavy Alexandrine linesThat seemed to jostle bodily,Like children full of play designsThat spring at once from schoolroom's form.Instead of all this angry storm,Another might have thanked you wellFor saving prey from that grim cell,That hollowed den 'neath journals great,Where editors who poets floutWith their demoniac laughter shout.And I have scolded you! What fateFor charming dwarfs who never meantTo anger Hercules! And IHave frightened you!--My chair I sentBack to the wall, and then let flyA shower of words the envious use--"Get out," I said, with hard abuse,"Leave me alone--alone I say."Poor man alone! Ah, well-a-day,What fine result--what triumph rare!As one turns from the coffin'd deadSo left you me:--I could but stareUpon the door through which you fled--I proud and grave--but punished quite.And what care you for this my plight!--You have recovered liberty,Fresh air and lovely scenery,The spacious park and wished-for grass;The running stream, where you can throwA blade to watch what comes to pass;Blue sky, and all the spring can show;Nature, serenely fair to see;The book of birds and spirits free,God's poem, worth much more than mine,Where flowers for perfect stanzas shine--Flowers that a child may pluck in play,No harsh voice frightening it away.And I'm alone--all pleasure o'er--Alone with pedant called "Ennui,"For since the morning at my doorEnnui has waited patiently.That docto-r-London born, you mark,One Sunday in December dark,Poor little ones--he loved you not,And waited till the chance he gotTo enter as you passed away,And in the very corner whereYou played with frolic laughter gay,He sighs and yawns with weary air.

What can I do? Shall I read books,Or write more verse--or turn fond looksUpon enamels blue, sea-green,And white--on insects rare as seenUpon my Dresden china ware?Or shall I touch the globe, and careTo make the heavens turn uponIts axis? No, not one--not oneOf all these things care I to do;All wearies me--I think of you.In truth with you my sunshine fled,And gayety with your light tread--Glad noise that set me dreaming still.'Twas my delight to watch your will,And mark you point with finger-tipsTo help your spelling out a word;To see the pearls between your lipsWhen I your joyous laughter heard;Your honest brows that looked so true,And said "Oh, yes!" to each intent;Your great bright eyes, that loved to viewWith admiration innocentMy fine old Sèvres; the eager thoughtThat every kind of knowledge sought;The elbow push with "Come and see!"

Oh, certes! spirits, sylphs, there be,And fays the wind blows often here;The gnomes that squat the ceiling near,In corners made by old books dim;The long-backed dwarfs, those goblins grimThat seem at home 'mong vases rare,And chat to them with friendly air--Oh, how the joyous demon throngMust all have laughed with laughter longTo see you on my rough drafts fall,My bald hexameters, and allThe mournful, miserable band,And drag them with relentless handFrom out their box, with true delightTo set them each and all a-light,And then with clapping hands to leanAbove the stove and watch the scene,How to the mass deformed there cameA soul that showed itself in flame!

Bright tricksy children--oh, I prayCome back and sing and dance away,And chatter too--sometimes you may,A giddy group, a big book seize--Or sometimes, if it so you please,With nimble step you'll run to meAnd push the arm that holds the pen,Till on my finished verse will beA stroke that's like a steeple whenSeen suddenly upon a plain.My soul longs for your breath againTo warm it. Oh, return--come hereWith laugh and babble--and no fearWhen with your shadow you obscureThe book I read, for I am sure,Oh, madcaps terrible and dear,That you were right and I was wrong.But who has ne'er with scolding tongueBlamed out of season. Pardon me!You must forgive--for sad are we.

The young should not be hard and coldAnd unforgiving to the old.Children each morn your souls ope outLike windows to the shining day,Oh, miracle that comes about,The miracle that children gayHave happiness and goodness too,Caressed by destiny are you,Charming you are, if you but play.But we with living overwrought,And full of grave and sombre thought,Are snappish oft: dear little men,We have ill-tempered days, and then,Are quite unjust and full of care;It rained this morning and the airWas chill; but clouds that dimm'd the skyHave passed. Things spited me, and why?But now my heart repents. BeholdWhat 'twas that made me cross, and scold!All by-and-by you'll understand,When brows are mark'd by Time's stern hand;Then you will comprehend, be sure,When older--that's to say, less pure.

The fault I freely own was mine.But oh, for pardon now I pine!Enough my punishment to meet,You must forgive, I do entreatWith clasped hands praying--oh, come back,Make peace, and you shall nothing lack.See now my pencils--paper--here,And pointless compasses, and dearOld lacquer-work; and stoneware clearThrough glass protecting; all man's toysSo coveted by girls and boys.Great China monsters--bodies muchLike cucumbers--you all shall touch.I yield up all! my picture rareFound beneath antique rubbish heap,My great and tapestried oak chairI will from you no longer keep.You shall about my table climb,And dance, or drag, without a cryFrom me as if it were a crime.Even I'll look on patientlyIf you your jagged toys all throwUpon my carved bench, till it showThe wood is torn; and freely too,I'll leave in your own hands to view,My pictured Bible--oft desired--But which to touch your fear inspired--With God in emperor's robes attired.

Then if to see my verses burn,Should seem to you a pleasant turn,Take them to freely tear awayOr burn. But, oh! not so I'd say,If this were Méry's room to-day.That noble poet! Happy town,Marseilles the Greek, that him doth own!Daughter of Homer, fair to see,Of Virgil's son the mother she.To you I'd say, Hold, children all,Let but your eyes on his work fall;These papers are the sacred nestIn which his crooning fancies rest;To-morrow winged to Heaven they'll soar,For new-born verse imprisoned stillIn manuscript may suffer soreAt your small hands and childish will,Without a thought of bad intent,Of cruelty quite innocent.You wound their feet, and bruise their wings,And make them suffer those ill thingsThat children's play to young birds brings.

But mine! no matter what you do,My poetry is all in you;You are my inspiration brightThat gives my verse its purest light.Children whose life is made of hope,Whose joy, within its mystic scope,Owes all to ignorance of ill,You have not suffered, and you stillKnow not what gloomy thoughts weigh downThe poet-writer weary grown.What warmth is shed by your sweet smile!How much he needs to gaze awhileUpon your shining placid brow,When his own brow its ache doth know;With what delight he loves to hearYour frolic play 'neath tree that's near,Your joyous voices mixing wellWith his own song's all-mournful swell!Come back then, children! come to me,If you wish not that I should beAs lonely now that you're afarAs fisherman of Etrétat,Who listless on his elbow leansThrough all the weary winter scenes,As tired of thought--as on Time flies--And watching only rainy skies!