O NYMPH, compared with whose young bloom Hebe's herself an ancient fright; May these gay shells find grace and room Both in your baby-house and sight! 'Shells! What are shells?' you ask, admiring With stare half pleasure half surprise; And fly with nature's art, enquiring In dear mamma's all-speaking eyes. Shells, fairest Anne, are playthings, made By a brave god called Father Ocean, Whose frown from pole to pole's obeyed, Commands the waves, and stills their motion. From that old sire a daughter came, As like mamma as blue to blue; And, like mamma, the sea-born dame An urchin bore, not unlike you. For him fond grand-papa compels The floods to furnish such a state Of corals and of cockleshells, Would turn a little lady's pate. The chit has tons of baubles more; His nurs'ry's stuffed with doves and sparrows; And littered is its azure floor With painted quivers, bows and arrows. Spread, spread your frock; you must be friends; His toys shall fill your lap and breast: Today the boy this sample sends, —And some years hence he'll send the rest. |