G

To Little Renée i

But I, the first, this very day,
Will tune for her my humble lay,
Invoking this new Muse to render
My oaten reed more sweet and tender,
Within its vibrant hollows wake

Such dulcet voices for her sake

As, curvèd hand at straining ear,

I long have stood and sought to hear
Borne with the warm midsummer breeze
With scent of hay and hum of bees
Faintly from far-off Sicily.

Ah, well I know that not for us
Are Virgil and Theocritus,

And that the golden age is past
Whereof they sang, and thou, the last,
Sweet Spenser, of their god-like line,
Soar far too swift for verse of mine!
One strain to compass of your song.
Yet there are poets that prolong
Of your rare voice the ravishment
In silver cadences; content

Were I if I could but rehearse

One stave of Wither's starry verse,
Weave such wrought richness as recalls
Britannia's lovely Pastorals,

Or in some garden-spot suspire
One breath of Marvell's magic fire
When in the green and leafy shade
He sees dissolving all that's made.
Ah, little Muse, still far too high

On weak, clipped wings my wishes fly.

Transform them then and make them doves,
Soft-moaning birds that Venus loves,

That they may circle ever low

Above the abode where you shall grow
Into your gracious womanhood.

And

you

shall feed the gentle brood From out your hand-content they'll be

Only to coo their songs to thee.

William Aspenwall Bradley (1878

A RHYME OF ONE

You sleep upon your mother's breast,
Your race begun,

A welcome, long a wished-for Guest,
Whose age is One.

A Baby-Boy, you wonder why
You cannot run;

You try to talk-how hard you try!-
You're only One.

Ere long you won't be such a dunce:
You'll eat your bun,

And fly your kite, like folk who once
Were only One.

You'll rhyme and woo, and fight and joke,
Perhaps you'll pun!

Such feats are never done by folk
Before they're One.

Some day, too, you may have your joy,
And envy none;

Yes, you, yourself, may own a Boy,
Who isn't One.

He'll dance, and laugh, and crow; he'll do
As you have done:

(You crown a happy home, though you
Are only One.)

But when he's grown shall you be here
To share his fun,

And talk of times when he (the Dear!)
Was hardly One?

Dear Child, 'tis your poor lot to be
My little Son;

I'm glad, though I am old, you see,

While you are One.

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]

To a New-Born Child

TO A NEW-BORN CHILD
SMALL traveler from an unseen shore,
By mortal eye ne'er seen before,
To you, good-morrow.

You are as fair a little dame

As ever from a glad world came
To one of sorrow.

We smile above you, but you fret;
We call you gentle names, and yet
Your cries redouble.

'Tis hard for little babes to prize
The tender love that underlies

A life of trouble.

And have you come from Heaven to earth?
That were a road of little mirth,

A doleful travel.

"Why did I come?" you seem to cry,

But that's a riddle you and I

Can scarce unravel.

Perhaps you really wished to come,
But now you are so far from home
Repent the trial.

What! did you leave celestial bliss

To bless us with a daughter's kiss?
What self-denial!

Have patience for a little space,

You might have come to a worse place,
Fair Angel-rover.

No wonder now you would have stayed,
But hush your cries, my little maid, 1,
The journey's over.

For, utter stranger as you are,
There yet are many hearts ajar

For your arriving,

And trusty friends and lovers true
Are waiting, ready-made for you,

Without your striving.

91

The earth is full of lovely things,
And if at first you miss your wings, ; [`

You'll soon forget them;

And others, of a rarer kind

Will grow upon your tender mind

If you will let them

Until you find that your exchange

Of Heaven for earth expands your range

E'en as a flier,

And that your mother, you and I,

If we do what we should, may fly?

Than Angels higher...

Cosmo Monkhouse [1840-1901]

BABY MAY

1

CHEEKS as soft as July peaches,
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches
Poppies paleness-round large eyes.
Ever great with new surprise,
Minutes filled with shadeless gladness,
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness,
Happy smiles and wailing cries,

Crows and laughs and tearful eyes,

Lights and shadows swifter born

Than on wind-swept Autumn corn,

Ever some new tiny notion or

Making every limb all motion-bago 【

Catching up of legs and arms,

Throwings back and small alarms,

LJA

Hands all wants and looks all wonder
At all things the heavens under,
Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings.
That have more of love than lovings,

Alice to ampo¶

Mischiefs done with such a winning 10
Archness, that we prize such sinning, I
Breakings dire of plates and glasses,
Graspings small at all that passes,
Pullings off of all that's able

To be caught from tray or table; 1. J I
Silences-small meditations, 1 i ameidl
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations,
Breaking into wisest speeches
In a tongue that nothing teaches,
All the thoughts of whose possessing
Must be wooed to light by guessing;
Slumbers such sweet angel-seemings,
That we'd ever have such dreamings,
Till from sleep we see thee breaking,
And we'd always have thee waking;
Wealth for which we know no measure,
Pleasure high above all pleasure,
Gladness brimming over gladness,
Joy in care-delight in sadness,'
Loveliness beyond completeness,
Sweetness distancing all sweetness,

Beauty all that beauty may be

7

I

That's May Bennett, that's my baby. I

William Cox Bennett (1826-1895]

Of that fine gold the autumn's wear
Is wrought the glory of her hair.

Of rose leaves fashioned in the south /
Is shaped the marvel of her mouth. T
4. al

And from the honeyed lips of bliss
Is drawn the sweetness of her kiss,

'Mid twilight thrushes that rejoice i
Is found the cadence of her voice,