Author: Algernon Charles Swinburne

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    Praise of the knights of old
    May sleep: their tale is told,
    And no man cares:
    The praise which fires our lips is
    A knights whose fame eclipses
    All of theirs.

    The ruddiest light in heaven
    Blazed as his birth-star seven
    Long years ago:
    All glory crown that old year
    Which brought our stout small soldier
    With the snow!

    Each baby born has one
    Star, for his friends a sun,
    The first of stars:
    And we, the more we scan it,
    The more grow sure your planet,
    Child, was Mars.

    For each one flower, perchance,
    Blooms as his cognizance:
    The snowdrop chill,
    The violet unbeholden,
    For some: for you the golden
    Daffodil

    Erect, a fighting flower,
    It breasts the breeziest hour
    That ever blew,
    And bent or broke things brittle
    Or frail, unlike a little
    Knight like you.

    Its flower is firm and fresh
    And stout like sturdiest flesh
    Of children: all
    The strenuous blast that parches
    Spring hurts it not till March is
    Near his fall

    If winds that prate and fret
    Remark, rebuke, regret,
    Lament, or blame
    The brave plants martial passion,
    It keeps its own free fashion
    All the same.

    We that would fain seem wise
    Assume grave mouths and eyes
    Whose looks reprove
    Too much delight in battle:
    But your great heart our prattle
    Cannot move.

    We say, small children should
    Be placid, mildly good
    And blandly meek:
    Whereat the broad smile rushes
    Full on your lips, and flushes
    All your cheek.

    If all the stars that are
    Laughed out, and every star
    Could here be heard,
    Such peals of golden laughter
    We should not hear, as after
    Such a word.

    For all the storm saith, still,
    Stout stands the daffodil:
    For all we say,
    Howeer he look demurely,
    Our martialist will surely
    Have his way.

    We may not bind with bands
    Those large and liberal hands,
    Nor stay from fight,
    Nor hold them back from giving i
    No lean mean laws of living
    Bind a knight

    And always here of old
    Such gentle hearts and bold
    Our land has bred:
    How durst her eye rest else on
    The glory shed from Nelson
    Quick and dead?

    Shame were it, if but one
    Such once were born her son,
    That one to have borne,
    And brought him neer a brother:
    His praise should bring his mother
    Shame and scorn.

    A child high-souled as he
    Whose manhood shook the sea
    Smiles haply here:
    His face, where love lies basking,
    With bright shut mouth seems asking,
    What is fear?

    The sunshine-coloured fists
    Beyond his dimpling wrists
    Were never closed
    For saving or for sparing
    For only deeds of daring
    Predisposed

    Unclenched, the gracious hands
    Let slip their gifts like sands
    Made rich with ore
    That tongues of beggars ravish
    From small stout hands so lavish
    Of their store.

    Sweet hardy kindly hands
    Like these were his that stands
    With heel on gorge
    Seen trampling down the dragon
    On sign or flask or flagon,
    Sweet Saint George.

    Some tournament, perchance,
    Of hands that couch no lance,
    Might mark this spot
    Your lists, if here some pleasant
    Small Guenevere were present,
    Launcelot.

    My brave bright flower, you need
    No foolish song, nor heed
    It more than spring
    The sighs of winter stricken
    Dead when your haunts requicken
    Here, my king.

    Yet O, how hardly may
    The wheels of singing stay
    That whirl along
    Bright paths whence echo raises
    The phantom of your praises,
    Child, my song!

    Beyond all other things
    That give my words fleet wings,
    Fleet wings and strong,
    You set their jesses ringing
    Till hardly can I, singing,
    Stint my song.

    But all things better, friend,
    And worse must find an end:
    And, right or wrong,
    Tis time, lest rhyme should baffle,
    I doubt, to put a snaffle
    On my song.

    And never may your ear
    Aught harsher hear or fear,
    Nor wolfish night
    Nor dog-toothed winter snarling
    Behind your steps, my darling
    My delight!

    For all the gifts you give
    Me, dear, each day you live,
    Of thanks above
    All thanks that could be spoken
    Take not my song in token,
    Take my love.

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Type of Poem: Reflective Poem

Date Written:

Date Published:

Language: English

Keywords: Public Domain

Source: Public Domain Collection

Publisher:

Rights/Permissions: Public Domain

Comments/Notes: This poem is a beautiful tribute to the spirit of youthful courage, resilience, and generosity, likening the subject to the enduring, vibrant daffodil and the martial planet, Mars. The child, presumably a boy, is celebrated in a vivacious and playful tone that speaks volumes about the poet's admiration and affection. The theme of knightly valor and chivalry is evident as the child is compared to a knight, whose fame outshines that of the knights of yore.

The structure of the poem is fairly consistent, allowing for a steady rhythm that complements its playful, yet profound, message. The poet makes extensive use of metaphors, similes, and personification, enhancing the overall imagery and emotional resonance of the piece. For instance, the child's laughter is compared to "peals of golden laughter" from the stars. The daffil's resilience against the storm is used to symbolize the child's indomitable spirit. Such literary devices contribute to the poem's overall charm and depth.

The poet's fondness for the child is clear, as is the child's joyful defiance of societal expectations for children to be "placid, mildly good and blandly meek." Through this poem, the poet lauds the child's vibrant spirit, resilience, and generosity, all while challenging traditional notions of childhood behavior and demeanor.