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 Appease this virtuous enemy of man! O then let me in time compound Where I may see the glories from some shade. Meantime, whilst every verdant thing That violets may a longer age endure. But O young beauty of the woods, Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers, 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 263 TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE SIX YEARS OLD O THOU! whose fancies from afar are brought: The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol; 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! 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, 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. 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 LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band My pen amongst the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read, Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed. Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbids me yet my flame to tell; For, while she makes her silkworms' beds She may receive and own my flame; For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet. Then too, alas! when she shall tear The rhymes some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends. For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!), That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it. Matthew Prior [1664-1721] The Child's Heritage 265 THE CHILD'S HERITAGE OH, there are those, a sordid clan, For what his hands have sold. And these shall deem thee humbly bred: Who walk and talk with thee! A tattered cloak may be thy dole, The blood of men hath dyed its brede, With Eld thy chain of days is one: Unaged the ancient tide shall surge, The old Spring burn along the bough: I give thy feet the hopeful sod, Thy mouth, the priceless boon of breath; The glory of the search for God Be thine in life and death! Unto thy flesh, the soothing dust; John G. Neikardt A GIRL OF POMPEII A PUBLIC haunt they found her in: Her supple outlines fixed in clay And turn Time's chariot back, and blend A sinless touch, austere yet warm, Caught the sweet imprint of her breast, Truer than work of sculptor's art A spirit's lovely counterpart, And bid mistrustful men be sure That form shall fate of flesh escape, And, quit of earth's corruptions, shape Itself, imperishably pure. Edward Sandford Martin [1856 ON THE PICTURE OF A "CHILD TIRED OF PLAY" TIRED of play! Tired of play! What hast thou done this live-long day! The bird is silent and so is the bee, The shadow is creeping up steeple and tree; And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves; Twilight gathers, and day is done,— How hast thou spent it, restless one? Playing! And what hast thou done beside To tell thy mother at eventide? |