 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
225
AN EPISTLE
From little Ellen to her Friend Mary,—with a Christmas Gift.
This morning, dear, I sent mamma,
(Too busy I to go so far,)
To find a doll as bright and pleasant,
As her for whom was meant the present;—
Now guess her name!—a charming child,
As e'er on life's rough changes smiled!
You cannot guess? ah! when you know
For whom, mamma, I lessoned so,
You'll say it was a hard embassy;—
'Twas Mary's self—my winsome lassie!
In truth she might have searched the world,
To match, in dolls, your speaking face,—
Your eyes,—your hair so richly curled,—
Your radiant smile,—your restless grace!
And I, I own, was rather stupid,
To think she'd find a waxen Cupid;
So, as she did her best, I told her,
I couldn't have the heart to scold her.
Then take the baby—will you, love?
She'll be as quiet as a dove;
And, with her, take the kiss I print,
Upon her lip of rosy tint;
But oh! be sure you do not press
Too fondly there your sweet caress,
Lest your own lovely mouth be tainted,
For 'tween ourselves I fear—she's painted!
(Too busy I to go so far,)
To find a doll as bright and pleasant,
As her for whom was meant the present;—
Now guess her name!—a charming child,
As e'er on life's rough changes smiled!
You cannot guess? ah! when you know
For whom, mamma, I lessoned so,
You'll say it was a hard embassy;—
'Twas Mary's self—my winsome lassie!
In truth she might have searched the world,
To match, in dolls, your speaking face,—
Your eyes,—your hair so richly curled,—
Your radiant smile,—your restless grace!
And I, I own, was rather stupid,
To think she'd find a waxen Cupid;
So, as she did her best, I told her,
I couldn't have the heart to scold her.
226
She'll be as quiet as a dove;
And, with her, take the kiss I print,
Upon her lip of rosy tint;
But oh! be sure you do not press
Too fondly there your sweet caress,
Lest your own lovely mouth be tainted,
For 'tween ourselves I fear—she's painted!
What pity that our modern belles
Are not content with Nature's pallette;
But steal their blush from carmine shells!
It shan't be our rose-maker,—shall it?
Are not content with Nature's pallette;
But steal their blush from carmine shells!
It shan't be our rose-maker,—shall it?
Yet take the doll,—and while you gaze
Upon her eyes of beaming blue,
And twist her golden hair all ways,
Except the right,—you fidget! you!
And pinch her little harmless nose,
And seek in vain her tiny toes,—
Remember, she must not be pressed
Too closely to that baby-breast;
For she has such a melting way,
When touched by love in such excess,
She'd faint,—nay more!—I've heard them say,
She'd die to show her tenderness!
And oh! in all your mirthful dealings,
Be careful not to hurt her feelings;
So sensitive her nature is,
That if you only touch her phiz
Too roughly with that finger fair,
'Twill make a deep impression there.
Oh! clasp her gently in thine arms,
And sing to rest her smiling charms;
And doff and don her pretty clothes,
And lightly tie her little bonnet;
And press her lip that softly glows,
To find the kiss I printed on it:
And then, when, weary of thy play,
Thy cradle-pillow wooes to sleep,—
While viewless cherubs pure and gay,
As thou, their vigil o'er thee keep,—
Sweet Mary, let poor Dolly lie
Beside thee, in thy downy dwelling,
And thou wilt dream that it is I,
And call the waxen baby—“Ellen!”
Upon her eyes of beaming blue,
And twist her golden hair all ways,
Except the right,—you fidget! you!
And pinch her little harmless nose,
And seek in vain her tiny toes,—
Remember, she must not be pressed
Too closely to that baby-breast;
For she has such a melting way,
When touched by love in such excess,
227
She'd die to show her tenderness!
And oh! in all your mirthful dealings,
Be careful not to hurt her feelings;
So sensitive her nature is,
That if you only touch her phiz
Too roughly with that finger fair,
'Twill make a deep impression there.
Oh! clasp her gently in thine arms,
And sing to rest her smiling charms;
And doff and don her pretty clothes,
And lightly tie her little bonnet;
And press her lip that softly glows,
To find the kiss I printed on it:
And then, when, weary of thy play,
Thy cradle-pillow wooes to sleep,—
While viewless cherubs pure and gay,
As thou, their vigil o'er thee keep,—
Sweet Mary, let poor Dolly lie
Beside thee, in thy downy dwelling,
And thou wilt dream that it is I,
And call the waxen baby—“Ellen!”
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |