TO A CHILD OF QUALITY

FIVE YEARS OLD, 1704, THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY

LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned by her high command
To show their passions by their letters.

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;
Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.

For, while she makes her silkworms' beds
With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby's hair;

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,
With pride in gaud and faith in gold,
Who prize the sacred soul of man

For what his hands have sold.

And these shall deem thee humbly bred:
They shall not hear, they shall not see
The kings among the lordly dead
Who walk and talk with thee!

A tattered cloak may be thy dole,
And thine the roof that Jesus had:
The broidered garment of the soul
Shall keep thee purple-clad!

The blood of men hath dyed its brede,
And it was wrought by holy seers
With sombre dream and golden deed,
And pearled with women's tears.

With Eld thy chain of days is one:
The seas are still Homeric seas;
Thy skies shall glow with Pindar's sun,
The stars of Socrates!

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;
Thy soul, the gift of being free:
The torch my fathers gave in trust,
Thy father gives to thee!

265

John G. Neihardt

A GIRL OF POMPEII

A PUBLIC haunt they found her in:
She lay asleep, a lovely child;
The only thing left undefiled
Where all things else bore taint of sin.

Her supple outlines fixed in clay
The universal law suspend,

And turn Time's chariot back, and blend
A thousand years with yesterday.

A sinless touch, austere yet warm,
Around her girlish figure pressed,

Caught the sweet imprint of her breast,
And held her, surely clasped, from harm.

Truer than work of sculptor's art
Comes this dear maid of long ago,
Sheltered from woeful chance, to show

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?
What kind word to thy playmate spoken?
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?
How with thy faults has duty striven?
What hast thou learned by field and hill,
By greenwood path and by singing rill?

There will come an eve to a longer day
That will find thee tired, but not with play!
And thou wilt learn, as thou learnest now,
With wearied limbs and aching brow,
And wish the shadows would faster creep
And long to go to thy quiet sleep.

Well will it be for thee then if thou
Art as free from sin and shame as now!
Well for thee if thy tongue can tell

A tale like this, of a day spent well!

If thine open hand hath relieved distress,
And thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness-
If thou hast forgiven the sore offence
And humbled thy heart with penitence;

If Nature's voices have spoken to thee
With her holy meanings, eloquently-
If every creature hath won thy love,

From the creeping worm to the brooding dove-
If never a sad, low-spoken word

Hath plead with thy human heart unheard—
Then, when the night steals on, as now

It will bring relief to thine aching brow,

267

And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest,
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.
Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]

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,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colors have all passed away from her eyes!
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

TO A HURT CHILD

WHAT, are you hurt, Sweet? So am I;
Cut to the heart;

Though I may neither moan nor cry,
To ease the smart.

Where was it, Love? Just here! So wide
Upon your cheek!

Oh happy pain that needs no pride,
And may dare speak.

Lay here your pretty head. One touch
Will heal its worst,

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