Volume I Part 60 (1/2)

It seems a satire on myself,-- These dreamy nothings scrawled in air, This thought, this work! Oh tricksy elf, Wouldst drive thy father to despair?

Despair! Ah, no; the heart, the mind Persists in hoping,--schemes and strives That there may linger with our kind Some memory of our little lives.

Beneath his rock in the early world Smiling the naked hunter lay, And sketched on horn the spear he hurled, The urus which he made his prey.

Like him I strive in hope my rhymes May keep my name a little while,-- O child, who knows how many times We two have made the angels smile!

William Canton [1845-

TO LAURA W--, TWO YEARS OLD

Bright be the skies that cover thee, Child of the sunny brow,-- Bright as the dream flung over thee By all that meets thee now,-- Thy heart is beating joyously, Thy voice is like a bird's, And sweetly breaks the melody Of thy imperfect words.

I know no fount that gushes out As gladly as thy tiny shout.

I would that thou might'st ever be As beautiful as now, That time might ever leave as free Thy yet unwritten brow.

I would life were all poetry To gentle measure set, That naught but chastened melody Might stain thine eye of jet, Nor one discordant note be spoken, Till G.o.d the cunning harp hath broken.

I would--but deeper things than these With woman's lot are wove: Wrought of intensest sympathies, And nerved by purest love; By the strong spirit's discipline, By the fierce wrong forgiven, By all that wrings the heart of sin, Is woman won to heaven.

”Her lot is on thee,” lovely child-- G.o.d keep thy spirit undefiled!

I fear thy gentle loveliness, Thy witching tone and air, Thine eye's beseeching earnestness May be to thee a snare.

The silver stars may purely s.h.i.+ne, The waters taintless flow: But they who kneel at woman's shrine Breathe on it as they bow.

Peace may fling back the gift again, But the crushed flower will leave a stain.

What shall preserve thee, beautiful child?

Keep thee as thou art now?

Bring thee, a spirit undefiled, At G.o.d's pure throne to bow?

The world is but a broken reed, And life grows early dim-- Who shall be near thee in thy need, To lead thee up to Him?

He who himself was ”undefiled?”

With Him we trust thee, beautiful child!

Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]

TO ROSE

Rose, when I remember you, Little lady, scarcely two, I am suddenly aware Of the angels in the air.

All your softly gracious ways Make an island in my days Where my thoughts fly back to be Sheltered from too strong a sea.

All your luminous delight s.h.i.+nes before me in the night When I grope for sleep and find Only shadows in my mind.

Rose, when I remember you, White and glowing, pink and new, With so swift a sense of fun Although life has just begun; With so sure a pride of place In your very infant face, I should like to make a prayer To the angels in the air: ”If an angel ever brings Me a baby in her wings, Please be certain that it grows Very, very much like Rose.”