A buglar boy from barrack (it is over the hill
There)—boy bugler, born, he tells me, of Irish
        Mother to an English sire (he
Shares their best gifts surely, fall how things will), 

This very very day came down to us after a boon he on
My late being there begged of me, overflowing
        Boon in my bestowing,
Came, I say, this day to it—to a First Communion. 

Here he knelt then ín regimental red.
Forth Christ from cupboard fetched, how fain I of feet
        To his youngster take his treat!
Low-latched in leaf-light housel his too huge godhead. 

There! and your sweetest sendings, ah divine,
By it, heavens, befall him! as a heart Christ's darling, dauntless;
        Tongue true, vaunt- and tauntless;
Breathing bloom of a chastity in mansex fine. 

Frowning and forefending angel-warder
Squander the hell-rook ranks sally to molest him;
        March, kind comrade, abreast him;
Dress his days to a dexterous and starlight order. 

How it dóes my heart good, visiting at that bleak hill,
When limber liquid youth, that to all I teach
        Yields tender as a pushed peach,
Hies headstrong to its wellbeing of a self-wise self-will! 

Then though I should tread tufts of consolation
Dáys áfter, só I in a sort deserve to
        And do serve God to serve to
Just such slips of soldiery Christ's royal ration. 

Nothing élse is like it, no, not all so strains
Us: fresh youth fretted in a bloomfall all portending
        That sweet's sweeter ending;
Realm both Christ is heir to and thére réigns. 

O now well work that sealing sacred ointment!
O for now charms, arms, what bans off bad
        And locks love ever in a lad!
Let mé though see no more of him, and not disappointment 

Those sweet hopes quell whose least me quickenings lift,
In scarlet or somewhere of some day seeing
        That brow and bead of being,
An our day's God's own Galahad. Though this child's drift 

Seems by a divíne doom chánnelled, nor do I cry
Disaster there; but may he not rankle and roam
        In backwheels though bound home?—
That left to the Lord of the Eucharist, I here lie by; 

Recorded only, I have put my lips on pleas
Would brandle adamantine heaven with ride and jar, did
        Prayer go disregarded:
Forward-like, but however, and like favourable heaven heard these.

Added: Feb 21 2003 | Viewed: 1403 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Poem: The Bugler's First Communion
Volume: Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins
Poem of the Day on:
Feb 23 2007
There are no comments for this poem. Why not be the first one to post something about it?

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, The Bugler's First Communion, has not yet been commented on. You can click here to be the first to post a comment about it. Of course you can also always discuss poems by Gerard Manley Hopkins with others on the Poetry Connection poetry forum!