The poetical works of Leigh Hunt Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould |
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TO THE INFANT PRINCESS ROYAL. |
 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
TO THE INFANT PRINCESS ROYAL.
Welcome, bud beside the rose,
On whose stem our safety grows;
Welcome, little Saxon Guelph;
Welcome for thine own small self;
Welcome for thy father, mother,
Proud the one and safe the other;
Welcome to three kingdoms; nay,
Such is thy potential day,
Welcome, little mighty birth,
To our human star the earth.
On whose stem our safety grows;
Welcome, little Saxon Guelph;
Welcome for thine own small self;
Welcome for thy father, mother,
Proud the one and safe the other;
Welcome to three kingdoms; nay,
Such is thy potential day,
Welcome, little mighty birth,
To our human star the earth.
Some have wish'd thee boy; and some
Gladly wait till boy shall come,
Counting it a genial sign
When a lady leads the line.
What imports it, girl or boy?
England's old historic joy
Well might be content to see
Queens alone come after thee,—
Twenty visions of thy mother
Following sceptred, each the other,
Linking with their roses white
Ages of unborn delight.
What imports it who shall lead,
So that the good line succeed?
So that love and peace feel sure
Of old hate's discomfiture?
Thee appearing by the rose
Safety comes, and peril goes;
Thee appearing, earth's new spring
Fears no winter's “grisly king;”
Hope anew leaps up, and dances
In the hearts of human chances:
France, the brave, but too quick-blooded,
Wisely has her threat re-studied;
England now, as safe as she
From the strifes that need not be,
And the realms thus hush'd and still,
Earth with fragrant thought may fill,
Growing harvests of all good,
Day by day, as planet should,
Till it clap its hands, and cry,
Hail, matur'd humanity!
Earth has outgrown want and war;
Earth is now no childish star.
Gladly wait till boy shall come,
Counting it a genial sign
When a lady leads the line.
What imports it, girl or boy?
England's old historic joy
303
Queens alone come after thee,—
Twenty visions of thy mother
Following sceptred, each the other,
Linking with their roses white
Ages of unborn delight.
What imports it who shall lead,
So that the good line succeed?
So that love and peace feel sure
Of old hate's discomfiture?
Thee appearing by the rose
Safety comes, and peril goes;
Thee appearing, earth's new spring
Fears no winter's “grisly king;”
Hope anew leaps up, and dances
In the hearts of human chances:
France, the brave, but too quick-blooded,
Wisely has her threat re-studied;
England now, as safe as she
From the strifes that need not be,
And the realms thus hush'd and still,
Earth with fragrant thought may fill,
Growing harvests of all good,
Day by day, as planet should,
Till it clap its hands, and cry,
Hail, matur'd humanity!
Earth has outgrown want and war;
Earth is now no childish star.
But behold, where thou dost lie,
Heeding nought, remote or nigh!
Nought of all the news we sing
Dost thou know, sweet ignorant thing;
Nought of planet's love, nor people's:
Nor dost hear the giddy steeples
Carolling of thee and thine,
As if heav'n had rain'd them wine;
Nor dost care for all the pains
Of ushers and of chamberlains,
Nor the doctor's learned looks,
Nor the very bishop's books,
Nor the lace that wraps thy chin,
No, nor for thy rank, a pin.
E'en thy father's loving hand
Nowise dost thou understand,
When he makes thee feebly grasp
His finger with a tiny clasp;
Nor dost know thy very mother's
Balmy bosom from another's,
Though thy small blind lips pursue it,
Nor the arms that draw thee to it,
Nor the eyes, that, while they fold thee,
Never can enough behold thee.
Mother true and good has she,
Little strong one, been to thee,
Nor with listless in-door ways
Weaken'd thee for future days;
But has done her strenuous duty
To thy brain and to thy beauty,
Till thou cam'st, a blossom bright,
Worth the kiss of air and light;
To thy healthy self a pleasure;
To the world a balm and treasure.
Heeding nought, remote or nigh!
Nought of all the news we sing
Dost thou know, sweet ignorant thing;
Nought of planet's love, nor people's:
Nor dost hear the giddy steeples
Carolling of thee and thine,
As if heav'n had rain'd them wine;
Nor dost care for all the pains
Of ushers and of chamberlains,
304
Nor the very bishop's books,
Nor the lace that wraps thy chin,
No, nor for thy rank, a pin.
E'en thy father's loving hand
Nowise dost thou understand,
When he makes thee feebly grasp
His finger with a tiny clasp;
Nor dost know thy very mother's
Balmy bosom from another's,
Though thy small blind lips pursue it,
Nor the arms that draw thee to it,
Nor the eyes, that, while they fold thee,
Never can enough behold thee.
Mother true and good has she,
Little strong one, been to thee,
Nor with listless in-door ways
Weaken'd thee for future days;
But has done her strenuous duty
To thy brain and to thy beauty,
Till thou cam'st, a blossom bright,
Worth the kiss of air and light;
To thy healthy self a pleasure;
To the world a balm and treasure.
| The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | |