To a Child

(From the “Garland of Rachael”)

HOW shall I sing you, Child, for whom

So many lyres are strung;

Or how the only tone assume

That fits a Maid so young?

What rocks there are on either hand!

Suppose—’t is on the cards—

You should grow up with quite a grand

Platonic hate for bards!

How shall I then be shamed, undone,

For ah! with what a scorn

Your eyes must greet that luckless One

Who rhymed you, newly born,—

Who o’er your “helpless cradle” bent

His idle verse to turn;

And twanged his tiresome instrument

Above your unconcern!

Nay,—let my words be so discreet,

That, keeping Chance in view,

Whatever after fate you meet

A part may still be true.

Let others wish you mere good looks,—

Your sex is always fair;

Or to be writ in Fortune’s books,—

She’s rich who has to spare:

I wish you but a heart that’s kind,

A head that’s sound and clear;

(Yet let the heart be not too blind,

The head not too severe!)

A joy of life, a frank delight;

A not-too-large desire;

And—if you fail to find a Knight—

At least … a trusty Squire.