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(From the “Garland of Rachael”)
HOW shall I sing you, Child, for whom | |
| So many lyres are strung; | |
| Or how the only tone assume | |
| That fits a Maid so young? | |
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| What rocks there are on either hand! | 5 |
| Suppose—’t is on the cards— | |
| You should grow up with quite a grand | |
| Platonic hate for bards! | |
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| How shall I then be shamed, undone, | |
| For ah! with what a scorn | 10 |
| Your eyes must greet that luckless One | |
| Who rhymed you, newly born,— | |
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| Who o’er your “helpless cradle” bent | |
| His idle verse to turn; | |
| And twanged his tiresome instrument | 15 |
| Above your unconcern! | |
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| Nay,—let my words be so discreet, | |
| That, keeping Chance in view, | |
| Whatever after fate you meet | |
| A part may still be true. | 20 |
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| Let others wish you mere good looks,— | |
| Your sex is always fair; | |
| Or to be writ in Fortune’s books,— | |
| She’s rich who has to spare: | |
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| I wish you but a heart that’s kind, | 25 |
| A head that’s sound and clear; | |
| (Yet let the heart be not too blind, | |
| The head not too severe!) | |
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| A joy of life, a frank delight; | |
| A not-too-large desire; | 30 |
| And—if you fail to find a Knight— | |
| At least … a trusty Squire. | |
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