Manhood

Boyhood hath gone, or ever I was 'ware:
Gone like the birds that have sung out their season,
And fly away, but never to return:
Gone — like the memory of a fairy vision;
Gone — like the stars that have burnt out in heaven:
Like flowers that open once a hundred years,
And have just folded up their golden petals:
Like maidenhood, to one no more a virgin;
Like all that's bright, and beautiful, and transient,
And yet, in its surpassing loveliness,
And quick dispersion into empty nothing,
Like its dear self alone, like life, like Boyhood.
Now, on the traversed scene I leave for ever,
Doth memory cast already her pale look,
And through the mellow light of by-gone summers,
Gaze, like the bride, that leaveth her home-valley,
And like the Patriarch, goes she knows not where.
She, with faint heart, upon the bounding hill-top
Turns her fair neck, one moment, unbeheld,
And through the sun-set, and her tearful eye,
Far as her father's dwelling, strains her sight,
To bless the roof-tree, and the lawn, and gardens,
Where romp her younger sisters, still at home.
I have just waken'd from a darling dream,
And fain would sleep once more. I have been roving
In a sweet isle, and thither would return.
I have just come, methinks, from Fairyland,
And yearn to see Mab's kingdom once again,
And roam its landscapes with her! Ah, my soul,
Thy holiday is over — play-time gone,
And a stern Master bids thee to thy task.
How shall I ever go through this rough world!
How find me older every setting sun;
How merge my boyish heart in manliness;
How take my part upon the tricksy stage,
And wear a mask to seem what I am not!
Ah me — but I forgot; the mimicry
Will not be long, ere all that I had feign'd,
Will be so real, that my mask will fall,
And Age act Self, uncostumed for the play.
Now my first step I take, adown the valley,
But ere I reach the foot, my pace must change;
And I toil on, as man has ever done,
Treading the causeway, smooth with endless travel,
Since first the giants of old Time descended,
And Adam leading down our mother Eve,
In ages elder than Antiquity.
This voice, so buoyant, must be all unstrung,
Like harps, that chord by chord grow musicless;
These hands must totter on a smooth-topp'd staff,
That late could whirl the ball-club vigorously:
This eye grow glassy, that can sparkle now,
And on the dear Earth's hues look doatingly:
And these brown locks, which tender hands have twined
In loving curls about their taper-fingers,
Must silver soon, and bear about such snows,
As freeze away all touch of tenderness.
And then, the end of every human story
Is ever this, whatever its beginning,
To wear the robes of being — in their rags;
To bear, like the old Tuscan's prisoners,
A corpse still with us, insupportable;
And then to sink in Earth, like dust to dust,
And hearse for ever from the gaze of men,
What long they thought — now dare to call — our relics!
Glory to him who doth subject the same,
In hope of Immortality!
I go from strength to strength, from joy to joy;
From being unto being! I will snatch
This germ of comfort from departing youth;
And when the pictured primer's thrown aside,
I'll hoard its early lessons in my heart.
I shall go on through all Eternity;
Thank God! I only arn an embryo still;
The small beginning of a glorious soul;
An atom that shall fill Immensity;
The bell hath toll'd! my birth-hour is upon me!
The hour that made me child, has made me man,
And bids me put all childish things away.
Keep me from evil, that it may not grieve me!
And grant me, Lord, with this, the Psalmist's prayer,
Remember not the follies of my youth,
But in thy mercy, think upon me, Lord!