 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
TO LITTLE FANNY,—WITH A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.
I will not wish thy coming year
May pass unsullied by a tear;
For well I know, in baby-eyes,
Those pearly pleaders daily rise.
I dare not hope thy lip of rose,
May never curl with grief or scorn,
For well I know this life has woes,
Not e'en by babies to be borne.
Nor would I idly quell thy hopes,
Nor sing with raven note to thee;
But Destiny her volume opes,
And on the page thy name I see.
May pass unsullied by a tear;
For well I know, in baby-eyes,
Those pearly pleaders daily rise.
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May never curl with grief or scorn,
For well I know this life has woes,
Not e'en by babies to be borne.
Nor would I idly quell thy hopes,
Nor sing with raven note to thee;
But Destiny her volume opes,
And on the page thy name I see.
It tells—thy dearest toy will break!
It tells—thy prettiest dress will tear!
It tells, alas! that thou wilt take
A cold,—and cry for mother's care.
That oft thou'lt sob thyself to sleep,
No lullaby be nigh to soothe,
And oft wilt wake to watch and weep,
At parting day, or coming tooth.
That sometimes thou wilt vainly play
Thy Pat-a-cake,—or Peep-a-boo!
While mother,—sister,—turn away
Unheeding, from those eyes of blue.
It darkly hints thy tiny feet
That tottle proudly round the room,
Some wrinkle in the rug may meet,
And many a tumble be thy doom!
It tells—thy prettiest dress will tear!
It tells, alas! that thou wilt take
A cold,—and cry for mother's care.
That oft thou'lt sob thyself to sleep,
No lullaby be nigh to soothe,
And oft wilt wake to watch and weep,
At parting day, or coming tooth.
That sometimes thou wilt vainly play
Thy Pat-a-cake,—or Peep-a-boo!
While mother,—sister,—turn away
Unheeding, from those eyes of blue.
It darkly hints thy tiny feet
That tottle proudly round the room,
Some wrinkle in the rug may meet,
And many a tumble be thy doom!
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Yes, these are ills that all must bear,
And these are thine, devoted child!
Yet 'mid them, dearest, calmly wear
A stoic spirit, high and mild.
And should thy sister, or thy brother,
Cry o'er thy fall with mocking air;
That's right! jump up, and take another,—
Learn thou the martyr's lesson there,—
The tumble and the taunt to meet
With smile resigned, forbearing, sweet.
Life's smoothest path has wrinkles too;
And Pride, that deigns no downward look,
Too oft, and ah! too late, must rue
The fall it knows not how to brook!
And these are thine, devoted child!
Yet 'mid them, dearest, calmly wear
A stoic spirit, high and mild.
And should thy sister, or thy brother,
Cry o'er thy fall with mocking air;
That's right! jump up, and take another,—
Learn thou the martyr's lesson there,—
The tumble and the taunt to meet
With smile resigned, forbearing, sweet.
Life's smoothest path has wrinkles too;
And Pride, that deigns no downward look,
Too oft, and ah! too late, must rue
The fall it knows not how to brook!
And now, one simple prayer be mine,
To breathe for thee, my pretty pet!—
That smiles more oft than tears may shine
Beneath my gift—the silken net;
That all thy ways on earth may be
Soft as that fireside rug to thee.
As meekly gliding one by one,
Pale through the glowing clouds of even,
The stars peep forth at set of sun,
And smile with tranquil light in Heaven,—
So may thy little pearly teeth
With soft and painless motion come,
And starlike, smile, revealed beneath
Thy laughing lips and rosy gum.
As sweet in Persia's garden floats
The night-bird's voice of music low,
While soothed to slumber by his notes
His rose-bud bends her balmy brow,—
So may the voice most dear to thee,
Beside thy couch at evening be;
So lightly yielding to thy rest,
Like Iran's Rose, may'st thou be blest.
And oh! may rapture swell the notes,
When thine own spirit sings thee, love,
To thy last sleep, then warbling floats,
Like Persia's heaven-taught bird above;
And thus, although thy future years
May pass not “all undimmed by tears,”
Thou'lt wear that spirit high but mild,
Amid the fleeting clouds, fair child!
To breathe for thee, my pretty pet!—
That smiles more oft than tears may shine
Beneath my gift—the silken net;
That all thy ways on earth may be
Soft as that fireside rug to thee.
As meekly gliding one by one,
Pale through the glowing clouds of even,
The stars peep forth at set of sun,
And smile with tranquil light in Heaven,—
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With soft and painless motion come,
And starlike, smile, revealed beneath
Thy laughing lips and rosy gum.
As sweet in Persia's garden floats
The night-bird's voice of music low,
While soothed to slumber by his notes
His rose-bud bends her balmy brow,—
So may the voice most dear to thee,
Beside thy couch at evening be;
So lightly yielding to thy rest,
Like Iran's Rose, may'st thou be blest.
And oh! may rapture swell the notes,
When thine own spirit sings thee, love,
To thy last sleep, then warbling floats,
Like Persia's heaven-taught bird above;
And thus, although thy future years
May pass not “all undimmed by tears,”
Thou'lt wear that spirit high but mild,
Amid the fleeting clouds, fair child!
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |