 | Flotsam and Jetsam |  |
120
CHILDREN.
I
Children! from the darklingSpirit-region, sparkling
With its fresh night-dew!
Lovely laughing Sphinxes,
Pretty mystic minxes,
Everyone who thinks is
Puzzled oft by you!
II
Here's a tiny creature,Mirth in every feature—
Veins that run delight!
Such a pet and plaything—
Midsummer and May-thing!—
Cheeks whose gipsy white
121
Eyes—with wondrous fringes
Curling—long—blue-black,
Which, above, beneath are
Thick, close-set as teeth are
For fine hair refining,
In a sable-shining
Comb of polished lining
Of the turtle's back;
III
Well, this plaything playing,Pet—her pets arraying,
This quicksilver Blanche,
Though a romp so wild too,
Though a thorough child too,
Still to toys so staunch:
Four years old or nearly,
Loved and loving dearly,—
Yes, this midge, this fly,
Pauses 'mid her raptures—
Coming life's pre-captures—
Those long lashes gravely
Lifts, and tells you bravely,
Calmly too and suavely,
She would like to die!
122
IV
Not that she has notionsCaught from babe-devotions,
Angel, harp or throne!—
Vainly you remind her
What she'd leave behind her;
Chocolate cream-nuts gone!
‘Turk's Delight,’ she craves for;
Dolls she dotes on—slaves for;
From her surplus life
Six at once supplying
With mock laughter—crying;
Whims for ranks and stations,
Dress—a hundred fashions,
Prattle, pets and passions,
Mimic love and strife!
V
What! leave sister Marion—Those dark eyes Hilarion—
Any devotee
Might have prayed with surely;
They look up so purely
Innocent and free!
123
Miniature Madonna;
Brow serene and clear,
Open, and alluring
With the frank assuring
Goodness it expresses;
Everything one blesses!—
Then such golden tresses!—
Could she leave her here?
VI
What! leave sister Saintie—Elfin!—like a dainty
Fairy-hunter's horn,
Little nose upturning;
Eyes so shrewd—discerning—
Whence sly sparks are born,
Gleams of speaking muteness—
Comical acuteness;
Locks across the brow
Short-clipt like a valance,
Down each cheek to balance.
Silky curtains, flowing;
Tongue satiric showing
Thoughts so odd and knowing!—
Would she lose her now?
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VII
Blanche! so full of fun too!Who the chair will run to,
‘No—no kiss for you!’
Wheedling looks entreating,
Eyes that coax repeating,
‘Come and take one—do!’
Thread-ball-chasing kitten—
Hearts, when some day smitten,
Will they smart for this?
Baby yet—beginning
Tiny wiles of winning;
Traps of nature's setting;
Artless spirit-netting;
Infantine coquetting
For a mother's kiss!
VIII
Well, your talk—she knows it;So repeats, to close it,
Yes! she would be dead!
Then away she dances,
Tosses—tumbles—prances—
Scarce knows heels from head!
125
Say, Kate Vaughan escaping
Earth, the air to tread;
When, with many an antic
Fancifully frantic,
Thistledown kept twirling
Madly in a hurling
Hurricane—her whirling
Leaves but lumps of lead!
IX
What can be her reason?Summer her one season—
Eden every breath!
Does the mite discover,
Brimful life runs over
Into love of death?
Does to heaven her nearness
Give unconscious clearness
To her faith in bliss?
Seems it to such joyance—
Spirit-fount's upbuoyance,
Nothing new is frightful?
Change, or wrong or rightful,
Can but be delightful—
Cannot come amiss?—
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X
O the more one ponders,Children—mystic wonders—
Less one looks you through!
Lovely little Sphinxes,
Pretty puzzling minxes,
Wisest wight that thinks is
Staggered oft by you!
1877.
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