A Name

The name the Gallic exile bore,     St. Malo! from thy ancient mart,     Became upon our Western shore     Greenleaf for Feuillevert.     A name to hear in soft accord     Of leaves by light winds overrun,     Or read, upon the greening sward     Of May, in shade and sun.     The name my infant ear first heard     Breathed softly with a mothers kiss;     His mothers own, no tenderer word     My father spake than this.     No child have I to bear it on;     Be thou its keeper; let it take     From gifts well used and duty done     New beauty for thy sake.     The fair ideals that outran     My halting footsteps seek and find     The flawless symmetry of man,     The poise of heart and mind.     Stand firmly where I felt the sway     Of every wing that fancy flew,     See clearly where I groped my way,     Nor real from seeming knew.     And wisely choose, and bravely hold     Thy faith unswerved by cross or crown,     Like the stout Huguenot of old     Whose name to thee comes down.     As Marots songs made glad the heart     Of that lone exile, haply mine     May in lifes heavy hours impart     Some strength and hope to thine.     Yet when did Age transfer to Youth     The hard-gained lessons of its day?     Each lip must learn the taste of truth,     Each foot must feel its way.     We cannot hold the hands of choice     That touch or shun lifes fateful keys;     The whisper of the inward voice     Is more than homilies.     Dear boy! for whom the flowers are born,     Stars shine, and happy song-birds sing,     What can my evening give to morn,     My winter to thy spring!     A life not void of pure intent,     With small desert of praise or blame,     The love I felt, the good I meant,     I leave thee with my name.