Pleasures of Childhood

There is a middle place between the strong
And vigorous intellect a Newton had,
And the wild ravings of insanity;
Where fancy sparkles with unwearied light,
Where memory's scope is boundless, and the fire
Of passion kindles to a wasting flame,
But will is weak, and judgment void of power.
Such was the place I held; the brighter part
Shone out, and caught the wonder of the great
In tender childhood, while the weaker half
Had all the feebleness of infancy.
A thousand wildering reveries led astray
My better reason, and my unguarded soul
Danced like a feather on the turbid sea
Of its own wild and freakish phantasies.
At times the historic page would catch my eye,
And rivet down my thoughts on ancient times,
And mix them with the demigods of old.
Again I girt my loins to cross the waste
Of burning Afric, and amid the wilds
Of Abyssinia seek the modest springs,
Whence bubble out the waters of the Nile,
The infancy of greatness—how I loved
To ascend the pyramids, and in their womb
Gaze on the royal cenotaph, to sit
Beneath thy ruined palaces and fanes,
Balbec or princely Tadmor, though the one
Lurk like a hermit in the lonely vales
Of Lebanon, and the waste wilderness
Embrace the other—scouring with the wind,
I swept the desert on the Arab steed,
Or with the panting camel flew away.
There is an ecstacy in solitude,
Amid the broken images of power,
The serpent, owl and jackal make their home,
Or in the heart of ocean, or the sands
Of Araby, or on the boundless plains
Of central Asia, whence the savage Hun
And Mogol in devouring torrents rushed.
Armed with the rifle, tomahawk and bow,
How oft I wandered through the solemn woods
And tangled morasses of Florida,
Or where the wave of Mississippi pours
Its yet unsullied current o'er the steep
Of Antony, and winds among the hills
Of velvet verdure silently and slow.
The philosophic page was my delight,
To trace the workings of a hand unseen,
In earth, in air, and ocean, and the world
Of wonders, which the canopy of night
Discloses twinkling on its ebon arch.
These were my pleasures, and the varied forms
Of animal and plant, the bird, who cuts
With gliding wing the liquid air, the fly,
That flutters o'er its parent pool a day,
The polished shells that pave the snowy bed
Of ocean, with their many hues in soft
Accordance blended, like the ancient floor
Wrought in Mosaic, or the sprig and flower,
That smile in vale and meadow bathed in dew.
These were at times my pleasures, but at times
The childish part prevailed. Along the stream,
That flowed in summer's mildness o'er its bed
Of rounded pebbles, with its scanty wave
Encircling many an islet, and its banks
In bays and havens scooping, I would stray,
And, dreaming, rear an empire on its shores.
There cities rose, and palaces and towers
Caught the first light of morning, there the fleet
Lent all its snowy canvass to the wind,
And bore with awful front against the foe;
There armies marshalled their array, and joined
In mimic slaughter, there the conquered fled—
I followed their retreat, until secure
They found a refuge in their country's walls;
The triumphs of the conqueror were mine,
The bounds of empire widened, and the wealth
Torn from the helpless hands of humbled foes:
There many a childish hour was spent, the world,
That moved and fretted round me, had no power
To draw me from my musings, but the dream
Enthralled me till it seemed reality;
And when I woke, I wondered that a brook
Was babbling by, and a few rods of soil,
Covered with scant herbs, the arena where
Cities and empires, fleets and armies rose.