To A Child
Sing a song of aeons! They were on Time's shelf :
Some were clear as crystal, some were dull as delf;
One aglow with glory, another dross and dregs:
But in a row they made a show - like Easter eggs.
Sing a song of childhood! Fate was once a child:
He came a-choosing aeons, and to himself he smiled,
And turned them in his fingers and tossed them in the wind;
And some he caught, and others not - for Fate is blind.
Sing a song of marvels! The aeons found a voice,
And bade their little tyrant be wise and make a choice.
Hear their several stories, spare such as should please :
And so, like you, he listened to such tales as these.
Tales of mighty marvels, of dragons and of deeps;
Islands going sailing, and a gulf that creeps
On and ever onward, till the hills are rent.
And like a pall it covers all a continent.
Plagues that turn to fishes, towns that turn to trees,
Chapel bells a-chiming under whelming seas ;
Witches and their wonders, maids that grow to rocks;
Earth and sky commingled by convulsive shocks.
These things pleased him greatly, till he older grew ;
Then his fancy altered, and he chose anew;
Tales of love and duty, tried in woe and weal:
If less he smiled, 'twas that the Child had learned to feel.
As a child has wisdom, so had Fate, and knew
Aeons have their purpose, and their work to do:
Work that's fair and honest, work that's true and brave.
Seed to sow, and grain to grow, and souls to save.
Sing a song of Goodness! Aeons have their day.
But the Will that made them is with us alway;
Time halts at His bidding. Fate lives in His fear.
Oh, may that Will be gracious still to you, my dear.
Instead of "A Child" it ought to be "The Child". There
was only one Child in the world for Scribbler. It was writing
for her benefit, probably, made his style what it is. That is
the best excuse we can put forward for Scribbler.
The scenery of the Bocas, generally, is wild, majestic,
soul-stirring. Parts have a softer charm. Our illustrations
may give some idea of the latter. Not of the former - enormous
cleavages among primeval rocks, such as the Second Boca, defy
photography. The Mountains of Paria to Eastward, distinctly
visible, yet far enough removed to look "en-skyed," are a
background to the whole.
To be amid such surroundings and produce only bur-
lesques! Could there be a more signal proof of poetical
"Patria est communis omnium parens" - Our native land is the common parent of us all. Keep it beautiful, make it even more so.
Blessed is all of creation
Blessed be my beautiful people
Blessed be the day of our awakening
Blessed is my country
Blessed are her patient hills.
Mweh ka allay!