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First at one, and then its fellow
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now,- now one, –
Now they stop and there are none:
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire !
With a tiger-leap half-way
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again :
Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian conjurer;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were her antics played in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd?
Over happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure !

'T is a pretty baby-treat; Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; Here for neither Babe nor me Other playmate can I see. Of the countless living things, That with stir of feet and wings, (In the sun or under shade,

Upon bough or grassy blade,)
And with busy revellings,
Chirp and song, and murmurings,
Made this orchard's narrow space,
And this vale, so blithe a place ;
Multitudes are swept away,
Never more to breathe the day:
Some are sleeping; some in bands
Travelled into distant lands;
Others slunk to moor and wood,
Far from human neighborhood;
And, among the Kinds that keep
With us closer fellowship,
With us openly abide,
All have laid their mirth aside

Where is he, that giddy Sprite, Blue-cap, with his colors bright, Who was blest as bird could be, Feeding in the apple-tree ; Made such wanton spoil and rout, Turning blossoms inside out ; Hung, head pointing towards the ground, Fluttered, perched, into a round Bound himself, and then unbound; Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin ! Prettiest tumbler ever seen! Light of heart, and light of limb; What is now become of him? Lambs, that through the mountains went

Frisking, bleating merriment,
When the year was in its prime,
They are sobered by this time.
If you look to vale or hill,
If you listen, all is still,
Save a little neighboring rill,
That from out the rocky ground
Strikes a solitary sound.
Vainly glitter hill and plain,
And the air is calm in vain;
Vainly Morning spreads the lure
Of a sky serene and pure;
Creature none can she decoy
Into open sign of joy:
Is it that they have a fear
Of the dreary season near?
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter even than gayety?

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell In the impenetrable cell Of the silent heart which Nature Furnishes to every creature; Whatsoe'er we feel and know Too sedate for outward show, — Such a light of gladness breaks, Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks, – Spreads with such a living grace O'er my little Dora's face ; Yes, the sight so stirs and charms

Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms,
That almost I could repine
That your transports are not mine,
That I do not wholly fare
Even as ye do, thoughtless pair !
And I will have my careless season
Spite of melancholy reason,
Will walk through life in such a way
That, when time brings on decay,
Now and then I may possess
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
Pleased by any random toy, -
By a kitten's busy joy,
Or an infant's laughing eye
Sharing in the ecstasy, —
I would fare like that or this,
Find my wisdom in my bliss ;
Keep the sprightly soul awake,
And have faculties to take,
Even from things by sorrow wrought,
Matter for a jocund thought,
Spite of care, and spite of grief,
To gambol with Life's falling Leaf.

1804.

VOL. 11.

XXXII.

ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, DORA,

ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD

THAT DAY, SEPTEMBER 16.

- Hast thou then survived, Mild Offspring of infirm humanity, Meek Infant ! among all forlornest things The most forlorn, - one life of that bright star, The second glory of the heavens ? - Thou hast; Already hast survived that great decay, That transformation through the wide earth felt, And by all nations. In that Being's sight From whom the Race of human kind proceed, A thousand years are but as yesterday; And one day's narrow circuit is to Him Not less capacious than a thousand years. But what is time? What outward glory ? Neither A measure is of thee, whose claims extend Through “ heaven's eternal year.” — Yet hail to

thee, Frail, feeble Monthling!— by that name, methinks, Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out Not idly. - Hadst thou been of Indian birth, Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves, And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, Or to the churlish elements exposed On the blank plains, — the coldness of the night,

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