The Fountain-Springs

Were they not memories of things known before,-- Not the strange vision of an unknown shore, That met us when in childhood we began To look upon our dwelling-place, and ran Fearless to meet our fortune; when our eyes Saw life with wonder, but without surprise; When, though newcomers, no strange note we heard In voice of wind or wave or song of bird; And looking on the hills and trees and flowers We loved, and without question made them ours; And trusted the dumb creature and the hand That guided us, nor sought to understand? Were they not greetings of things old and dear,-- Not the strange voices of an alien sphere,-- That greeted us and linked us, with a bond Of speech familiar, to some home beyond?

We were a part of all that we beheld In those young days: it was our joy that welled Into the sunshine with the mountain rill, Our heart that in the rose’s heart lay still, Our wings that held the sea-bird o’er the foam, Our feet that brought the wandering outcast home. Earth had no secret that we could not share, For everything we saw and loved we were.

Not when defenceless on the earth we stood In childhood doubted we that life was good. Not when love made us part of everything Could we distrust the hidden fountain-spring. But when the years began to separate From Life our lives, when all that once seemed great In heaven and earth, all wonder and delight Were narrowed to the measure of our sight; When knowledge of the suffering and wrong That nature dealt the weak to serve the strong, When records of man’s greed and lust and pride Defaced life’s beauty, and its hope belied,-- How had we then that mockery withstood, Or trusted that the source of life was good, Had not the memory of its old caress Reproached our hearts in their unfaithfulness; Had we not once beheld a face so sweet It could not but express a heart that beat For us, and knew what waited us, the while It armed us for the darkness with its smile; Had we not known those vanished hours that wove Of homely human bonds immortal love; Of flowers, and stars, and woods, and mountain streams, And things that die, imperishable dreams?