A Bard's Address to his Youngest Daughter

Come to my arms, my dear wee pet ! ,
My gleesome, gentle Harriet !
The sweetest babe art thou to me
That ever sat on parent's knee ;
Thy every feature is so cheering,
And every motion so endearing.
Thou hast that eye was mine erewhile,
Thy mother's blithe and grateful smile,
And such a playful, merry mien,
That Care flies off whene'er thourt seen.

And, if aright I read thy mind,
The child of nature thourt design'd ;
For, even while yet upon the breast,
Thou mimick'st child, and bird, and beast ;
Canst cry like Maggy o'er her book,
And crow like cock, and caw like rook,
Boo like a bull, or blare like ram,
And bark like dog, and bleat like lamb :
And when afield, in sunshine weather.
Thou minglest all these sounds together, —
Then who can say, thou happy creature !
Thou'rt not the very child of nature ?

Child of my age and dearest love !
As precious gift from God above,
I take thy pure and gentle frame,
And tiny mind of mounting flame;
And hope that through life's chequer'd glade, —
That weary path that all must tread, —
Some credit from thy name will flow
To the old bard who loved thee so :
At least thou shalt not want thy meed, —
His blessing on thy beauteous head,
And prayers to Him whose sacred breath
Lighten'd the shades of life and death —
Who said with sweet benignity,
" Let little children come to me."

And now', sweet child, one boon I crave,—
And pout not, for that boon I'll have, —

One kiss I ask for grandam's sake.
Who never saw thy tiny make ;
And one for her who left us late,
Laid low, but not forgotten yet ;
And thy sweet mother, too, the nearest
To thee and me, the kindest, dearest, —
Thou sacred, blest memorial,
When I kiss thee, I kiss them all !

'Tis very strange, my little dove!
That all I ever loved, or love,
In wondrous visions still I trace,
While gazing on thy guiltless face,
Thy very name brings to my mind
One, whose high birth and soul refined
Withheld her not from naming me,
Even in life's last extremitye.
Sweet babe ! thou art memorial dear
Of all I honour and revere !

Come, look not sad : though sorrow now
Broods on thy father's thoughtful brow,
And on the reverie he would dwell —
Thy prattle soon will that expel.
— How darest thou frown, thou freakish fay !
And turn thy chubby face away,
And pout, as if thou took'st amiss
Thy partial parent's offer'd kiss ?
Full well I know thy deep design ;
'Tis to turn back thy face to mine,
With triple burst of joyous glee,
And fifty strains at mimicrye \