URCHIN of the Syrian face,
And half melancholy grace,
With a look in your dark eyes,
Sometimes deep and overwise;
What shall be your mortal doom?
Desert blight, or healthful bloom?
Shall the lily, Virtue, shine
On your life, made thus divine;
Or Corinthian roses shed
Poisoned petals on your head?
Ah! the soul that dwells in you,
Heaven hath blent of flame and dew
Mixed by subtlest art together
In your nature's changeful weather,
Whence a lightning-glitter warm,
Now and then, portends a storm;
Such a storm of tropic strain,
Scathed by fire and big with rain;
All your being o'er and under,
Thrilled as if by spirit-thunder;
Till, exhausted at the source
Of its wild imperious course
Passion--like a blast that dies
Down the slowly brightening skies,
Thro' loud sob and weary moan
Falls to plaintive monotone!
Strange child-soul, but half unfurled,
Who shall scan its complex world?
Glimpsed 'twixt light and shadow dim,
Dare I prophesy of him?
Subtle, mystical, refined,
Seem the thoughts that haunt his mind,
While large forces play their part
On the boy's embattled heart,
Stubborn will--it irks to yield,
Always watchful--under shield;
Scorn of all who do him wrong,
Keen, implacable and strong;
Yet--toward the fair and just,
Love, that's crowned with generous trust;
And those graces, pure and high,
Born of tender loyalty!
With a firm and wise control,
Guide the currents of his soul!
Forceful are they, and must ride
Ever, with impetuous tide,
If to duty's strand they flow,
Fraught with all pure flowers that blow,
Or, the Syren's lotus-lea,
Fronting death's unfathomed sea!
