A New Poet

257

With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint,

(Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)

Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!

(Are these torn clothes his best?)

Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)

Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,—

(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,

My elfin John!

Toss the light ball, bestride the stick,

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk!

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy and breathing music like the South,-
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,-
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove;-
(I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write unless he's sent above.)

Thomas Hood (1799-1845]

A NEW POET

I WRITE. He sits beside my chair,
And scribbles, too, in hushed delight,

He dips his pen in charmed air:

What is it he pretends to write?

He toils and toils; the paper gives

No clue to aught he thinks. What then? His little heart is glad; he lives

The poems that he cannot pen.

Strange fancies throng that baby brain.

What grave, sweet looks! What earnest eyes! He stops-reflects and now again

His unrecording pen he plies.

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.

To Laura W-, Two Years Old 259

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 God 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-
God 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 shine,

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 God'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 MY DAUGHTER

DEAR Fanny! nine long years ago,
While yet the morning sun was low,
And rosy with the eastern glow
The landscape smiled;

Whilst lowed the newly-wakened herds-
Sweet as the early song of birds,

I heard those first, delightful words,
"Thou hast a child!"

Along with that uprising dew

Tears glistened in my eyes, though few,

To hail a dawning quite as new

To me, as Time:

It was not sorrow-not annoy-
But like a happy maid, though coy,
With grief-like welcome, even Joy
Forestalls its prime.

So may'st thou live, dear! many years,
In all the bliss that life endears,

Not without smiles, nor yet from tears

Too strictly kept.

When first thy infant littleness

I folded in my fond caress,

The greatest proof of happiness
Was this-I wept.

Thomas Hood (1799-1845]

The Picture of Little T. C.

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.

261

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 grass she loves to lie,
And there with her fair aspect tames