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Poetics

Or, a series of poems, and disquisitions on poetry. By George Dyer

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ODE IV. TO AN INFANT,
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52

ODE IV. TO AN INFANT,

FOURTEEN MONTHS OLD, VERY FORWARD IN ITS INTELLECTS, AND FULL OF OBSERVATION, BUT VERY SHY TO STRANGERS.

Sweet Sophia, light and gay,
Like bee, that sips the flowers of May;
When your ears drink-in every sound,
And eyes so glance on all around;
Tell me, little damsel, why,
Only on me you look so shy?
Archest maiden, I am told,
That you are not yet two years old;
Yet you, young mock-bird, how you sing,
And have a name for every thing!
Why to me then still the same,
Will you nor talk, nor learn my name?
I in vain my gambols play;
In vain the pretty things I say;
As shrinks the plant with touch imprest,
So cling you to your mother's breast:
Seem I sad, or sour, or stern?
Or is my name too hard to learn?

53

By the shadows on thy face,
What moves within thee well I trace;
In that true magic glass I see,
The infant fears that hurry thee;
There I read the reason, why
My little Sophy is so shy.
Me you have but seldom seen,
Unknown my voice, my name, my mien;
And till we're more familiar grown,
I still shall seem a strange unknown,
Like, perchance, a hawk or kite,
That seizes little birds in sight.
Thus, young maid, still act your part;
Thus ever guard your virgin-heart;
Be not too anxious to inthral;
Nor give your smiles alike to all;
But each wooing gallant prove,
And know your lover, ere you love.
Be not early fond or gay,
The rose of April or of May;
But, as for better times repos'd,
Long keep your beauties all unclos'd:
Thus bloom safely, though not soon,
Nor be the full-blown rose, till June.