To Dear Little Katy Hill

Oft have I conn'd, in merry mood or grave,
For many a babe a sad or meny stave,
In merry love of softly smiling baby.
Or love subdued by fear of what it may be.
But then all babies are so much alike,
'Twere easier far to single out a spike.
The fairest spike in all a field of barley ;
Or 'mid the drops of dew that late or early
Shine to the rising or the setting sun,
To mark and memorise a single one ;
In a long bank to find the violet
That is, or should be, Flora's own dear pet ;
To stamp a signet on the sweetest note
That spins itself in Philomela's throat ;
The very whitest spot of all to show
In a flat ocean of untainted snow ;
The blackest spot of utter dark to tell,
Or do aught else which is impossible,
Than to explain to each expectant mother
How her sweet thing is sweeter than another.
So ancient fathers deem'd, and wisely deem'd,
Or, if not so, yet beautifully dream'd.
At the last day of God's consummate love,
The cherish'd nestlings of the mystic dove
Shall spring from earth and meet the promised skies
All in one shape, one feature, and one size,
Welcome alike before the Almighty throne.
Each in the Saviour's likeness, not its own.
Alike all blessed, and alike all fair.
And only God remember who they were.
Yet love on earth will always make or find
(They saw but ill who said that Love was blind)
In things most like a lovely difference,
Distinguish innocence from innocence.
And lynx-eyed Love, my little Catherine,
Perceives a self in that smooth brow of thine :
Thy small sweet mouth, with speechless meaning rife,
Moves, opes, and smiles with something more than life:
The lucid whiteness of the flower-soft skin,
Transparent, shows a wakening soul within,
That ever and anon peeps through those eyes.
Soft as the tenderest light of vernal skies,
Blue as the shadow of the halcyon's breast,
On the calm wave herself has lull'd to rest ;
Inform'd with light, by turns reveal'd and hid
By fitful movement of the dewy lid :
E'en in the quivering of thy little hands
A spirit lives and almost understands.
Oh, may each omen of thy form and hue.
The lamb's pure white, the clear and hopeful blue.
The gracious blending of unbroken lines,
Which thy round shape continuously combines,
Portend the blended graces of a soul
Whose various virtues form a virtuous whole !