Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint!) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He's got a knife!) Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, My elfin John ! Toss the light ball-bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque and antic brisk With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above!) Thomas Hood. FOUR YEARS OLD. A Nursery Song. Pien d'amor, Pien di canto, e pien di fiori. AH, little ranting Johnny, For ever blithe and bonny, FRUGONI. Sir Richard, too, your rattler, My tricksome Puck, my Robin, One cannot turn a minute, In midst of which your nose is; No matter how unstable, And turning up your quaint eye And half-shut teeth with, "Mayn't I?" And there you dance, and clap hands, Or on the grass go rolling, Or plucking flowers, or bowling, And getting me expenses Or, as the constant trade is, With, "What a young rogue this is!" Ah, rogue! and do you know, John, Do what you like, and pet ye, Still more, John, than you teaze 'em; And in the midst of pleasure But see, the sun shines brightly; And we'll among the bushes, And hear your friends, the thrushes; And, when we home must jog, you Leigh Hunt. WHO THE RIDE IN A WHEEL-BARROW. HO does not remember the keen relish of the rapid run in the wheel-barrow of early youth, bumping and rolling about, and finally turning a corner at full speed and upsetting? Who does not remember the delight of the little springless carriage that threatened to dislocate and grind down the bones? Luxury destroys real enjoyment. There is more real enjoyment in riding in a wheel-barrow than in driving in a carriageand-four. Boyd. AMANTIUM IRÆ AMORIS REDINTEGRATIO EST. IN going to my naked bed, as one that would have slept, I heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept. She sighed sore, and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest, That would not cease, but cried still in sucking at her breast. |