Come, when no graver cares employ,God-father, come and see your boy: Your presence will be sun in winter,Making the little one leap for joy.
For, being of that honest few,Who give the Fiend himself his due, Should eighty-thousand college-councilsThunder 'Anathema,' friend, at you;
Should all our churchmen foam in spiteAt you, so careful of the right, Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight;
Where, far from noise and smoke of town,I watch the twilight falling brown All round a careless-order'd gardenClose to the ridge of a noble down.
You'll have no scandal while you dine,But honest talk and wholesome wine. And only hear the magpie gossipGarrulous under a roof of pine:
For groves of pine on either hand,To break the blast of winter, stand; And further on, the hoary ChannelTumbles a breaker on chalk and sand;
Where, if below the milky steepSome ship of battle slowly creep, And on thro' zones of light and shadowGlimmer away to the lonely deep,
We might discuss the Northern sinWhich made a selfish war begin; Dispute the claims, arrange the chances;Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win:
Or whether war's avenging rodShall lash all Europe into blood; Till you should turn to dearer matters,Dear to the man that is dear to God;
How best to help the slender store,How mend the dwellings, of the poor; How gain in life, as life advances,Valour and charity more and more.
Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as yetIs hoar with rime, or spongy-wet; But when the wreath of March has blossom'd,Crocus, anemone, violet,
Or later, pay one visit here,For those are few we hold as dear; Nor pay but one, but come for many,Many and many a happy year.
January, 1854.