АH, little ranting Johnny,
For ever blithe and bonny,
And singing nonny, nonny,
With hat just thrown upon ye;
Or whistling like the thrushes,
With voice in silver gushes;
Or twisting random posies
With daisies, weeds, and roses;
And strutting in and out so,
Or dancing all about so;
With cock-up nose so lightsome,
And sidelong eyes so brightsome,
And cheeks as ripe as apples,
And head as rough as Dapple's,
And arms as sunny shining

As if their veins they 'd wine in,
And mouth that smiles so truly
Heav'n seems to have made it newly-
It breaks into such sweetness
With merry-lipped completeness;
Ah Jack, ah Gianni mio,
As blithe as Laughing Trio!
-Sir Richard, too, you rattler,
So christened from the Tatler,
My Bacchus in his glory,
My little Cor-di-fiori,

My tricksome Puck, my Robin,
Who in and out come bobbing,
As full of feints and frolics as
That fibbing rogue Antolycus,
And play the graceless robber on
Your grave-eyed brother Oberon,—
Ah Dick, ah Dolce-riso,
How can you, can you be so?

One cannot turn a minute,
But mischief-there you 're in it:
A-getting at my books, John,
With mighty bustling looks, John;
Or poking at the roses,

In midst of which your nose is;
Or climbing on a table,

No matter how unstable,

And turning up your quaint eye

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And half-shut teeth, with "May n't I?'
Or else you 're off at play, John,
Just as you'd be all day, John,
With hat or not, as happens;

And there you dance, and clap hands,
Or on the grass go rolling,

Or plucking flowers, or bowling,

And getting me expenses
With losing balls o'er fences;

Or, as the constant trade is,
Are fondled by the ladies

With "What a young rogue this is!"
Reforming him with kisses;
Till suddenly you cry out,
As if you had an eye out,
So desperately tearful,
The sound is really fearful;
When lo! directly after,
It bubbles into laughter.

Ah rogue! and do you know, John,
Why 't is we love you so, John?
And how it is they let ye

Do what you like and pet ye,
Though all who look upon ye,
Exclaim "Ah, Johnny, Johnny!"
It is because you please 'em

Still more, John, than you teaze 'em;
Because, too, when not present,
The thought of you is pleasant;
Because, though such an elf, John,
They think that if yourself, John,

Had something to condemn too,
You'd be as kind to them too;
In short, because you 're very
Good-tempered, Jack, and merry ;
And are as quick at giving
As easy at receiving;
And in the midst of pleasure
Are certain to find leisure
To think, my boy, of ours,
And bring us lumps of flowers.

But see, the sun shines brightly;
Come, put your hat on rightly,
And we 'll among the bushes,
And hear your friends, the thrushes;
And see what flowers the weather
Has rendered fit to gather;
And, when we home must jog, you
Shall ride my back, you rogue you,—
Your hat adorned with fine leaves,
Horse-chestnut, oak, and vine-leaves;
And so, with green o'erhead, John,
Shall whistle home to bed, John.

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 wrongs, without a strife
Slips in a moment out of life.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

TO H. C.

SIX YEARS OLD.

LEIGH HUNT.

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 streamSuspended 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 sat within the touch of thee.

TO A CHILD, DURING SICKNESS.

SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,

My little, patient boy;

And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.

I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness,

Thy thanks to all that aid,

Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears:

These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.

Sorrows I've had, severe ones, I will not think of now; And calmly, midst my dear ones, Have wasted with dry brow; But when thy fingers press And pat my stooping head, I cannot bear the gentlenessThe tears are in their bed.

TO A SLEEPING CHILD.

ART thou a thing of mortal birth, Whose happy home is on our earth? Does human blood with life imbue Those wandering veins of heavenly blue, That stray along that forehead fair, Lost mid a gleam of golden hair? Oh! can that light and airy breath Steal from a being doomed to death; Those features to the grave be sent In sleep thus mutely eloquent;

Or, art thou, what thy form would seem, A phantom of a blessed dream?

A human shape I feel thou artI feel it at my beating heart, Those tremors both of soul and sense Awoke by infant innocence! Though dear the forms by Fancy wove, We love them with a transient love; Thoughts from the living world intrude Even on her deepest solitude: But, lovely child! thy magic stole At once into my inmost soul, With feelings as thy beauty fair, And left no other vision there.

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To me thy parents are unknown; Glad would they be their child to own! And well they must have loved before, If since thy birth they loved not more. Thou art a branch of noble stem, And, seeing thee, I figure them. What many a childless one would give, If thou in their still home would'st live! Though in thy face no family line Might sweetly say, "This babe is mine!" In time thou would'st become the same As their own child,-all but the name. How happy must thy parents be Who daily live in sight of thee! Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak, And feel all natural griefs beguiled By thee, their fond, their duteous child. What joy must in their souls have stirred When thy first broken words were heardWords, that, inspired by heaven, expressed The transports dancing in thy breast! And for thy smile!-thy lip, cheek, brow, Even while I gaze, are kindling now.

I called thee duteous; am I wrong?
No! truth, I feel, is in my song:
Duteous, thy heart's still beatings move
To God, to nature, and to love!
To God!—for thou, a harmless child,
Hast kept his temple undefiled:
To nature!-for thy tears and sighs
Obey alone her mysteries:

To love!-for fiends of hate might see
Thou dwell'st in love, and love in thee.
What wonder then, though in thy dreams
Thy face with mystic meaning beams!

Oh! that my spirit's eye could see Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy! That light of dreaming soul appears To play from thoughts above thy years; Thou smilest as if thy soul were soaring To heaven, and heaven's God adoring. And who can tell what visions high May bless an infant's sleeping eye? What brighter throne can brightness find To reign on, than an infant's mind, Ere sin destroy, or error dim, The glory of the seraphim?

But now thy changing smiles express
Intelligible happiness.

I feel my soul thy soul partake.
What grief! if thou would'st now awake!
With infants happy as thyself

I see thee bound, a playful elf;
I see thou art a darling child,
Among thy playmates bold and wild;
They love thee well; thou art the queen
Of all their sports, in bower or green;
And if thou livest to woman's height,
In thee will friendship, love, delight.
And live thou surely must; thy life
Is far too spiritual for the strife
Of mortal pain; nor could disease
Find heart to prey on smiles like these.
Oh! thou wilt be an angel bright-
To those thou lovest, a saving light-
The staff of age, the help sublime
Of erring youth, and stubborn prime;
And when thou goest to heaven again,
Thy vanishing be like the strain
Of airy harp-so soft the tone
The ear scarce knows when it is gone!
Thrice blessed he whose stars design
His pure spirit to lean on thine,

And watchful share, for days and years,

Thy sorrows, joys, sighs, smiles, and tears!
For good and guiltless as thou art,
Some transient griefs will touch thy heart—
Griefs that along thy altered face
Will breathe a more subduing grace
Than even those looks of joy that lie
On the soft cheek of infancy.

Though looks, God knows, are cradled there.
That guilt might cleanse, or soothe despair.
Oh! vision fair! that I could be
Again as young, as pure, as thee!
Vain wish! the rainbow's radiant form
May view, but cannot brave, the storm;
Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes
That paint the bird of Paradise;
And years, so Fate hath ordered, roll
Clouds o'er the summer of the soul.
Yet, sometimes, sudden sights of grace,
Such as the gladness of thy face,
O sinless babe, by God are given
To charm the wanderer back to heaven.
No common impulse hath me led
To this green spot, thy quiet bed,
Where, by mere gladness overcome,
In sleep thou dreamest of thy home.
When to the lake I would have gone,
A wondrous beauty drew me on-
Such beauty as the spirit sees
In glittering fields and moveless trees,
After a warm and silent shower
Ere falls on earth the twilight hour.
What led me hither, all can say
Who, knowing God, his will obey.

Thy slumbers now cannot be long;
Thy little dreams become too strong
For sleep-too like realities;

Soon shall I see those hidden eyes.
Thou wakest, and starting from the ground,
In dear amazement look'st around;
Like one who, little given to roam,
Wonders to find herself from home!
But when a stranger meets thy view,
Glistens thine eye with wilder hue.
A moment's thought who I may be,
Blends with thy smiles of courtesy.

Fair was that face as break of dawn,
When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn,
Like a thin veil that half concealed
The light of soul, and half revealed.
While thy hushed heart with visions wrought,
Each trembling eye-lash moved with thought,