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 THE CHILD'S HERITAGE Oн, there are those, a sordid clan, For what his hands have sold. And these shall deem thee humbly bred: 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: For thee, the new and old converge In one eternal Now! 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; 265 John G. Neihardt 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; The doves have flown to the sheltering caves, 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? The Reverie of Poor Susan What promise of morn is left unbroken? There will come an eve to a longer day Well will it be for thee then if thou A tale like this, of a day spent well! If thine open hand hath relieved distress, If Nature's voices have spoken to thee From the creeping worm to the brooding dove- Hath plead with thy human heart unheard— It will bring relief to thine aching brow, 267 And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest, THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN Ar the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, TO A HURT CHILD WHAT, are you hurt, Sweet? So am I; Though I may neither moan nor cry, Where was it, Love? Just here! So wide Oh happy pain that needs no pride, Lay here your pretty head. One touch While I, whose wound bleeds overmuch, Go all unnursed. There, Sweet. Run back now to your play, Forget your woes. I too was sorely hurt this day, But no one knows. Grace Denio Litchfield [1849 |