The world is but a broken reed, 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. Where my thoughts fly back to be Rose, when I remember you, I should like to make a prayer "If an angel ever brings Me a baby in her wings, Please be certain that it grows Very, very much like Rose." Sara Teasdale [1884 The Picture of Little T. C. TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY TIMELY blossom, Infant fair, Sleeping, waking, still at ease, Yet too innocent to blush; And thou shalt in thy daughter see, This picture, once, resembled thee. 273 Ambrose Philips [1675?-1749] THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T. C. IN A SEE with what simplicity. This nymph begins her golden days! · In the green grass she loves to lie, And there with her fair aspect tames The wilder flowers, and gives them names; But only with the roses plays, And them does tell What color best becomes them, and what smell. Who can foretell for what high cause Appease this virtuous enemy of man! O then let me in time compound Where I may see the glories from some shade. Meantime, whilst every verdant thing Reform the errors of the Spring; Make that the tulips may have share That violets may a longer age endure. But O young beauty of the woods, Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers, Lest Flora, angry at thy crime To kill her infants in their prime, Do quickly make the example yours; And, ere we see, Nip, in the blossom, all our hopes and thee. Andrew Marvell [1621–1678] To Hartley Coleridge 275 TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE SIX YEARS OLD O THOU! whose fancies from afar are brought: The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol; In such clear water, that thy boat May rather seem To brood on air than on an earthly stream; Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, Where earth and heaven do make one imagery: O blessed vision! happy child! I think of thee with many fears For what may be thy lot in future years. I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest But when she sate within the touch of thee. O too industrious folly! O vain and causeless melancholy! Nature will either end thee quite; Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, Preserve for thee, by individual right, A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. What hast thou to do with sorrow, Or the injuries of to-morrow? Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, Ill-fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, Or to be trailed along the soiling.earth; And no forewarning gives; But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife, Slips in a moment out of life. William Wordsworth [1770-1850] 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, 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] |