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 the 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. |