To Lady Anne Fitzpatrick, when about Five Years Old, with a Present of Shells

O Nymph, compar'd 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 sly with nature's art, enquiring
In dear mamma's all-speaking eyes.

Shells, fairest Anne, are playthings, made
By a brave god call'd Father Ocean,
Whose frown from pole to pole's obey'd,
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 stuff'd with doves and sparrows;
And litter'd 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:
To-day the boy this sample sends,
—And some years hence he'll send the rest.