To Jim

I gaze upon my son once more,     With eyes and heart that tire,     As solemnly he stands before     The screen drawn round the fire;     With hands behind clasped hand in hand,     Now loosely and now fast,     Just as his fathers used to stand     For generations past.     A fair and slight and childish form,     And big brown thoughtful eyes,     God help him! for a life of storm     And stress before him lies:     A wanderer and a gipsy wild,     Ive learnt the world and know,     For I was such another child,     Ah, many years ago!     But in those dreamy eyes of him     There is no hint of doubt,     I wish that you could tell me, Jim,     The things you dream about.     Dream on, my son, that all is true     And things not what they seem,     Twill be a bitter day for you     When wakened from your dream.     You are a child of field and flood,     But with the gipsy strains     A strong Norwegian sailors blood     Is running through your veins.     Be true, and slander never stings,     Be straight, and all may frown,     Youll have the strength to grapple things     That dragged your father down.     These lines I write with bitter tears     And failing heart and hand,     But you will read in after years,     And you will understand:     Youll hear the slander of the crowd,     Theyll whisper tales of shame,     But days will come when youll be proud     To bear your fathers name.     But oh! beware of bitterness     When you are wronged, my lad,     I wish I had the faith in men     And women that I had!     Tis better far (for I have felt     The sadness in my song)     To trust all men and still be wronged     Than to trust none and wrong.     Be generous and still do good     And banish while you live     The spectre of ingratitude     That haunts the ones who give.     But if the crisis comes at length     That your future might be marred,     Strike hard, my son, with all your strength!     For your own selfs sake, strike hard!