In merest prudence men should teach Are painful contradictions; That there's no giant now but Steam; That life, although "an empty dream," Is scarce a "land of Fairy." "Of course I said all this?" Why, no; i did a thing far wiser, though,— I read the tale with Mary. TO A CHILD (FROM THE "GARLAND OF RACHEL") OW shall I sing you, Child, for whom Or how the only tone assume What rocks there are on either hand! You should grow up with quite a grand How shall I then be shamed, undone, Your eyes must greet that luckless One Who o'er your "helpless cradle" bent, And twanged his tiresome instrument Nay, let my words be so discreet, A part may still be true. Let others wish you mere good looks,— Or to be writ in Fortune's books,- I wish you but a heart that's kind, A joy of life, a frank delight; And if you fail to find a Knight- At least HOUSEHOLD ART "MINE be a cot," for the hours of play, Of the kind that is built by Miss GREEN AWAY; Where the walls are low, and the roofs are red, And do nought in the world (but Work) by halves, O Art of the Household! Men may prate Of their ways "intense" and Italianate,— Till the last sun sink in the last-lit West, 'Tis the Art at the Door that will please the best; To the end of Time 'twill be still the same, For the Earth first laughed when the children came! THE DISTRESSED POET A SUGGESTION FROM HOGARTH ONE NE knows the scene so well,—a touch, That room, not garnished overmuch, The empty safe, the child that cries, The good-wife with her patient eyes, And last, in that mute woe sublime, The "Bysshe," the foolscap and the rhyme,— Poor Bard to dream the verse inspired— Is built from cold abstractions squired |