The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 60 : It seems a satire on myself,-- These dreamy nothings scrawled in air, This thought, thi

It seems a satire on myself,-- These dreamy nothings scrawled in air, This thought, this work! Oh tricksy elf, Wouldst drive thy father to despair?

Despair! Ah, no; the heart, the mind Persists in hoping,--schemes and strives That there may linger with our kind Some memory of our little lives.

Beneath his rock in the early world Smiling the naked hunter lay, And sketched on horn the spear he hurled, The urus which he made his prey.

Like him I strive in hope my rhymes May keep my name a little while,-- O child, who knows how many times We two have made the angels smile!

William Canton [1845-

TO LAURA W--, TWO YEARS OLD

Bright be the skies that cover thee, Child of the sunny brow,-- Bright as the dream flung over thee By all that meets thee now,-- Thy heart is beating joyously, Thy voice is like a bird's, And sweetly breaks the melody Of thy imperfect words.

I know no fount that gushes out As gladly as thy tiny shout.

I would that thou might'st ever be As beautiful as now, That time might ever leave as free Thy yet unwritten brow.

I would life were all poetry To gentle measure set, That naught but chastened melody Might stain thine eye of jet, Nor one discordant note be spoken, Till G.o.d the cunning harp hath broken.

I would--but deeper things than these With woman's lot are wove: Wrought of intensest sympathies, And nerved by purest love; By the strong spirit's discipline, By the fierce wrong forgiven, By all that wrings the heart of sin, Is woman won to heaven.

"Her lot is on thee," lovely child-- G.o.d keep thy spirit undefiled!

I fear thy gentle loveliness, Thy witching tone and air, Thine eye's beseeching earnestness May be to thee a snare.

The silver stars may purely s.h.i.+ne, The waters taintless flow: But they who kneel at woman's shrine Breathe on it as they bow.

Peace may fling back the gift again, But the crushed flower will leave a stain.

What shall preserve thee, beautiful child?

Keep thee as thou art now?

Bring thee, a spirit undefiled, At G.o.d's pure throne to bow?

The world is but a broken reed, And life grows early dim-- Who shall be near thee in thy need, To lead thee up to Him?

He who himself was "undefiled?"

With Him we trust thee, beautiful child!

Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]

TO ROSE

Rose, when I remember you, Little lady, scarcely two, I am suddenly aware Of the angels in the air.

All your softly gracious ways Make an island in my days Where my thoughts fly back to be Sheltered from too strong a sea.

All your luminous delight s.h.i.+nes before me in the night When I grope for sleep and find Only shadows in my mind.

Rose, when I remember you, White and glowing, pink and new, With so swift a sense of fun Although life has just begun; With so sure a pride of place In your very infant face, I should like to make a prayer To the angels in the air: "If an angel ever brings Me a baby in her wings, Please be certain that it grows Very, very much like Rose."

Sara Teasdale [1884-1933]

TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY

Timely blossom, Infant fair, Fondling of a happy pair, Every morn and every night Their solicitous delight, Sleeping, waking, still at ease, Pleasing, without skill to please; Little gossip, blithe and hale, Tattling many a broken tale, Singing many a tuneless song, Lavish of a heedless tongue; Simple maiden, void of art, Babbling out the very heart, Yet abandoned to thy will, Yet imagining no ill, Yet too innocent to blush; Like the linnet in the bush To the mother-linnet's note Moduling her slender throat; Chirping forth thy pretty joys, Wanton in the change of toys, Like the linnet green, in May Flitting to each bloomy spray; Wearied then and glad of rest, Like the linnet in the nest:-- This thy present happy lot, This, in time will be forgot: Other pleasures, other cares, Ever-busy Time prepares; And thou shalt in thy daughter see, This picture, once, resembled thee.

Ambrose Philips [1675?-1749]

THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T. C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS

See with what simplicity This nymph begins her golden days!

In the green gra.s.s she loves to lie, And there with her fair aspect tames The wilder flowers, and gives them names; But only with the roses plays, And them does tell What color best becomes them, and what smell.

Who can foretell for what high cause This darling of the G.o.ds was born?

Yet this is she whose chaster laws The wanton Love shall one day fear, And, under her command severe, See his bow broke, and ensigns torn.

Happy who can Appease this virtuous enemy of man!

O then let me in time compound And parley with those conquering eyes, Ere they have tried their force to wound, Ere with their glancing wheels they drive In triumph over hearts that strive, And them that yield but more despise: Let me be laid Where I may see the glories from some shade.

Meantime, whilst every verdant thing Itself does at thy beauty charm, Reform the errors of the Spring; Make that the tulips may have share Of sweetness, seeing they are fair, And roses of their thorns disarm But most procure That violets may a longer age endure.

But O young beauty of the woods, Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers, Gather the flowers, but spare the buds; Lest Flora, angry at thy crime To kill her infants in their prime, Do quickly make the example yours; And, ere we see, Nip, in the blossom, all our hopes and thee.

Andrew Marvell [1621-1678]

TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE Six Years Old

O thou! whose fancies from afar are brought: Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, And fittest to unutterable thought The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol; Thou fairy voyager! that dost float In such clear water, that thy boat May rather seem To brood on air than on an earthly stream; Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, Where earth and heaven do make one imagery: O blessed vision! happy child!

Thou art so exquisitely wild, I think of thee with many fears For what may be thy lot in future years.

I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, Lord of thy house and hospitality; And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest But when she sate within the touch of thee.

O too industrious folly!

O vain and causeless melancholy!

Nature will either end thee quite; Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, Preserve for thee, by individual right, A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks.

What hast thou to do with sorrow, Or the injuries of to-morrow?

Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, Ill-fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, Or to be trailed along the soiling earth; A gem that glitters while it lives, And no forewarning gives; But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife, Slips in a moment out of life.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY Five Years Old, 1704, The Author Then Forty