When wiser, meeker thoughts are given, The color draws from Heaven. If something saith for earthly pain, JOYOUSNESS OF CHILDREN. How should it be otherwise? I can bear a melancholy man, but never a melancholy child. Into whatever quagmire the former sinks, he may raise his eyes either to the realm of reason, or to that of hope; but the little child sinks and perishes in a single black poison-drop of the present time. Only imagine a child conducted to the scaffold, Cupid in a German coffin, or fancy a butterfly crawling like a caterpillar, with his four wings pulled off, and you will feel what I mean. TO MY CHILDREN SLEEPING. WHAT holy calmness brooded o'er the nest, Arthur's luxuriant curls, and front of snow, So droops the slight laburnum, fond to blend A single bird within her downy nest; A pearl detached, too precious for the rest: Just lent to earth, but ripening for the skies. A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS. THOU happy, happy elf! (But stop,- first let me kiss away that tear!) (My love, he 's poking peas into his ear!) With spirits feather light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin !) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door! the door! he 'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he 'll set his pinafore afire!) In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) 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 those 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 moon, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!) |