First at one, and then its fellow In her upward eye of fire! Lets it go as fast, and then Has it in her power again : Now she works with three or four, Like an Indian conjurer; Quick as he in feats of art, Far beyond in joy of heart. 'Tis a pretty baby-treat; Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; Here for neither Babe nor me Other playmate can I see. Of the countless living things, That with stir of feet and wings, (In the sun or under shade, Upon bough or grassy blade,) Chirp and song, and murmurings, All have laid their mirth aside Where is he, that giddy Sprite, Blue-cap, with his colors bright, Who was blest as bird could be, Feeding in the apple-tree; Made such wanton spoil and rout, Turning blossoms inside out; Hung, head pointing towards the ground, Fluttered, perched, into a round Bound himself, and then unbound; Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin ! Prettiest tumbler ever seen! Light of heart, and light of limb; What is now become of him? Lambs, that through the mountains went Frisking, bleating merriment, When the year was in its prime, They are sobered by this time. If you look to vale or hill, If you listen, all is still, Save a little neighboring rill, Strikes a solitary sound. Vainly glitter hill and plain, Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell In the impenetrable cell Of the silent heart which Nature Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms, Even as ye do, thoughtless pair! Will walk through life in such a way I would fare like that or this, Keep the sprightly soul awake, Even from things by sorrow wrought, Matter for a jocund thought, Spite of care, and spite of grief, To gambol with Life's falling Leaf. 1804 XXXII. ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, DORA ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD THAT DAY, SEPTEMBER 16. HAST thou then survived,— Mild Offspring of infirm humanity, Meek Infant! among all forlornest things The most forlorn, one life of that bright star, The second glory of the heavens? Thou hast; thee, Frail, feeble Monthling!— by that name, methinks, Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out. Not idly. - Hadst thou been of Indian birth, Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves, And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, On the blank plains, the coldness of the night, |