The Poet and the Child.
There is a man in England by the name of Thomas Campbell. He is a poet, and wrote two famous pieces, “The Pleasures of Hope,” and “Gertrude of Wyoming,”—besides many other smaller poems, which are among the most beautiful in our language. A short time since he was passing through one of the parks of London, which are extensive fields ornamented with fine trees, and he there saw a beautiful girl, four years old, led along by a woman. Mr. Campbell seems to be a lover of children, and so he wrote the following lines about this little girl. They are very pleasing lines; and I introduce them here that my fair young readers may see how kindly a famous poet looks on the face of a child, which bespeaks goodness.
LINES ON HIS NEW CHILD-SWEETHEART.
I hold it a religious duty
To love and worship children’s beauty;
They’ve least the taint of earthly clod,—
They’re freshest from the hand of God.
With heavenly looks, they make us sure
The heaven that made them must be pure.
We love them not in earthly fashion,
But with a beatific passion.
I chanced to, yesterday, behold
A maiden child of beauty’s mould;
’Twas near (more sacred was the scene)
The palace of our patriot Queen.
The little charmer to my view
Was sculpture brought to life anew;
Her eyes had a poetic glow—
Her pouting mouth was Cupid’s bow,
And through her frock I could descry
Her neck and shoulders’ symmetry.
’Twas obvious, from her walk and gait,
Her limbs were beautifully straight.
I stopped th’ enchantress, and was told,
Though tall, she was but four years old.
Her guide so grave an aspect wore
I could not ask a question more—
But followed her. The little one
Threw backward ever and anon
Her lovely neck, as if to say,
I know you love me, Mister Grey.
For, by its instinct, childhood’s eye
Is shrewd in physiognomy;
They well distinguish fawning art
From sterling fondness of the heart.
And so she flirted, like a true
Good woman, till we bade adieu!
’Twas then I with regret grew wild—
Oh! beauteous, interesting child!
Why asked I not thy home and name?
My courage failed me—more’s the shame.
But where abides this jewel rare?
Oh! ye that own her, tell me, where?
For sad it makes my heart, and sore,
To think I ne’er may meet her more.
