Contrast, The

The heart of the child is warm & deep
    When he leans on a mother’s breast,
His little loves like a fountain leap,
Clean, happy, & bright, & their whiteness keep
    In a growing beauty unrepressed.

He has griefs, but a mother soothes them all,
    Leans, tenderly wiped away,
And his ringing laugh is like the call
Of a gurgling Brook to its waterfall,
    That mocks the shout of his wilder play.

But homes by a drunken step defiled
    Have never that perfect gift:
There is no Childhood, though many a child,
But blows, & chidings, & curses wild,
    And tears that burn, & a wanted thrift.

The little faces are old with care,
    The little hands learn strife,
But not to clasp, in a childlike prayer,
The invisible Hand that comes to bear
    The blessings of life from the Father of life.

A holy man for the love of men
    The little children blest.
Glad were the mother’s of Israel then,
Who saw their babies, from hill & glen
    Far-brought, in those saving arms caressed.

A wicked man, for his worldly gain,
    Heaps curses on childhood’s head;
He blurs the soul with a clinging stain,
And withers young hearts as a lava-rain
    Would wither a rose on its dewy bed!