 | Poems by Bernard Barton |  |
214
TO A CHILD
OF THREE YEARS OLD.
Thou art a thing made up of all
Delightful glorious elements,
Which thought, in fancy's sweetest thrall,
By her creative power invents.
Delightful glorious elements,
Which thought, in fancy's sweetest thrall,
By her creative power invents.
For could she by her spell command
That there should stand before me now
A denizen of fairy-land,
It were not lovelier than thou!
That there should stand before me now
A denizen of fairy-land,
It were not lovelier than thou!
Yet not for this alone, have I
With tender fondness gaz'd on thee;
There is another, stronger tie
Which makes thee dearer still to me.
With tender fondness gaz'd on thee;
There is another, stronger tie
Which makes thee dearer still to me.
It is a tie I would not name,
Because by few 'twere understood;
Yet holier, purer far, its claim,
Than consanguinity of blood.
Because by few 'twere understood;
Yet holier, purer far, its claim,
Than consanguinity of blood.
215
And thus to feel, and this to know,
That I would seek thee, more than shun,
Wakes in my heart a warmer glow
Than all it ever wish'd has done!
That I would seek thee, more than shun,
Wakes in my heart a warmer glow
Than all it ever wish'd has done!
To form fallacious schemes of joy;
To wish and hope, we know not what;
To see reality destroy
Such phantoms, is a common lot.
To wish and hope, we know not what;
To see reality destroy
Such phantoms, is a common lot.
But, while beholding others blest,
To feel no vain regrets intrude,
Convinc'd that Heaven has order'd best,
Is cause of sober gratitude!
To feel no vain regrets intrude,
Convinc'd that Heaven has order'd best,
Is cause of sober gratitude!
| Poems by Bernard Barton | |