And laughed and prattled in her world-wide bliss!
But when we turned her sweet unlearned eye
On our own Isle, she raised a joyous cry,-
"O yes! I see it, Letty's home is there!"
And while she hid all England with a kiss,
Bright over Europe fell her golden hair.

Charles Tennyson Turner [1808-1879]

DOVE'S NEST

"SYLVIA, hush!" I said, "come here,
Come see a fairy-tale, my dear!

Tales told are good, tales seen are best!"
The dove was brooding on the nest

In the lowest crotch of the apple tree.

I lifted her up so quietly,

That when she could have touched the bird

The soft gray creature had not stirred.
It looked at us with a wild dark eye.
But, "Birdie, fly!" was Sylvia's cry,
Impatient Sylvia, "Birdie, fly."

Ah, well: but when I touched the nest,
The child recoiled upon my breast.
Was ever such a startling thing?
Sudden silver and purple wing,
The dove was out, away, across,
Struggling heart-break on the grass.
And there in the cup within the tree
Two milk-white eggs were ours to see.
Was ever thing so pretty? Alack,
"Birdie!" Sylvia cried, "come back!"

Joseph Russell Taylor [1868

THE SHEPHERD BOY

LIKE some vision olden

Of far other time,
When the age was golden,

In the young world's prime,

Her hair is like the waving grain
In summer's golden light;
And, best of all, her little soul

Is, like a lily, white.

Gustav Kobbé [1857

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!) Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite,

With spirits feather-light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin,—

(My dear, 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!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents,-(Drat the boy! There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub, but of earth;

Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him, if he pulls its tail!)

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny.(Another tumble! That's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)

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,
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 morn, and brilliant as its star,-
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove;—
(I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write unless he's sent above.)

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

A NEW POET

I WRITE. He sits beside my chair,
And scribbles, too, in hushed delight,

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,
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.