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, My elfin John! Toss the light ball, bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) I cannot write unless he's sent above.) Thomas Hood (1799-1845] A NEW POET I WRITE. He sits beside my chair, 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, Despair! Ah, no; the heart, the mind Beneath his rock in the early world And sketched on horn the spear he hurled, Like him I strive in hope my rhymes TO LAURA W TWO YEARS OLD BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee, Bright as the dream flung over thee And sweetly breaks the melody To Laura W-, Two Years Old 259 I know no fount that gushes out I would that thou might'st ever be That time might ever leave as free I would life were all poetry To gentle measure set, That naught but chastened melody Nor one discordant note be spoken, I would--but deeper things than these "Her lot is on thee," lovely child- I fear thy gentle loveliness, The silver stars may purely shine, The waters taintless flow: But they who kneel at woman's shrine Peace may fling back the gift again, But the crushed flower will leave a stain. What shall preserve thee, beautiful child? The world is but a broken reed, And life grows early dim- 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, Whilst lowed the newly-wakened herds- I heard those first, delightful words, 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- So may'st thou live, dear! many years, 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 Thomas Hood (1799-1845] The Picture of Little T. C. TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY TIMELY blossom, Infant fair, Yet too innocent to blush; 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 SEE with what simplicity This nymph begins her golden days! In the green grass she loves to lie, |