But when I think what troubles
Thou hast passed through,
The obligation doubles
What I've to do—
In rhyming for thee, Fred,
My dark-eyed boy;
And I have left my bed
To sing the joy.
I feel from day to day
In seeing thee
So full of lively play—
Most sweet to see.
By such most lovely smiles,
Such crowing, too,
Ah, Fred, thy many wiles
Have charmed me through!
'Tis true Ma lost much rest,
By day and night,
Through thee when so distressed.
Which scarce seemed right.
But doubtless 'twill be seen
To be for good,
Since God our Friend has been,
And by us stood.
Then, with this full in view
I 'll close my rhyme,
And hope that it may do
Thee good some time.
TO MY DAUGHTER IDA, WHEN THREE MONTHS OLD.
1859.
Ida, it is a burning shame
That thy short, sweet poetic name
Has not a single lay called forth
From my cranium since thy birth!
Thy pale-face, brown-eyed style of beauty
Every day points out my duty.
Conscience, too, whispers 'tis not right
That I this task should longer slight.
So now I take thee on my knee
And woo the Muse right eagerly,
In earnest hope she'll lend her aid
Until this tribute be well paid.