The Child’s Lament

I like it not—this noisy street I never liked, nor can I now— I love to feel the pleasant breeze On the free hills, and see the trees, With birds upon the bough!

Oh, I remember long ago,— So long ago, ’tis like a dream— My home was on a green-hill side, By flowery meadows, still and wide, ’Mong trees, and by a stream.

Three happy brothers I had then, My merry playmates every day— I’ve looked and looked through street and square, But never chanced I, anywhere, To see such boys as they.

We all had gardens of our own— Four little gardens in a row,— And there we set our twining peas; And rows of cress; and real trees, And real flowers to grow.

My father I remember too, And even now his face can see; And the gray horse he used to ride, And the old dog that at his side Went barking joyfully!

He used to fly my brothers’ kites, And build them up a man of snow, And sail their boats, and with them race; And carry me from place to place; Just as I liked to go.

I’m sure he was a pleasant man, And people must have loved him well! Oh, I remember that sad day When they bore him in a hearse away, And tolled his funeral bell!

Thy mother comes each night to kiss Thee, in thy little quiet bed— So came my mother years ago; And I loved her—oh! I loved her so, ’Twas joy to hear her tread!

It must be many, many years Since then, and yet I can recall Her very tone—her look—her dress, Her pleasant smile and gentleness, That had kind words for all.

She told us tales, she sang us songs, And in our pastimes took delight, And joined us in our summer glee, And sat with us beneath the tree! Nor wearied of our company, Whole days, from morn till night.

Alas! I know that she is dead, And in the cold, cold grave is hid; I saw her in her coffin lie, With the grim mourners standing by; And silent people solemnly Closed down the coffin lid.

My brothers were not there—ah me! I know not where they went; some said With a rich man beyond the sea That they were dwelling pleasantly— And some that they were dead.

I cannot think that it is so, I never saw them pale and thin, And the last time their voice I heard, Merry were they as a summer-bird, Singing its bowers within.

I wish that I could see their faces, Or know at least that they were near; Ah! gladly would I cross the sea, So that with them I might but be, For now my days pass wearily, And all are strangers here.