To A Child.

(FROM THE "GARLAND OF RACHEL.") How shall I sing you, Child, for whom So many lyres are strung; Or how the only tone assume That fits a Maid so young? What rocks there are on either hand! Suppose—'tis on the cards— You should grow up with quite a grand Platonic hate for bards! How shall I then be shamed, undone, For ah! with what a scorn Your eyes must greet that luckless One Who rhymed you, newly born,— Who o'er your "helpless cradle" bent His idle verse to turn; And twanged his tiresome instrument Above your unconcern! Nay,—let my words be so discreet, That, keeping Chance in view, Whatever after fate you meet A part may still be true. Let others wish you mere good looks,— Your sex is always fair; Or to be writ in Fortune's books,— She's rich who has to spare: I wish you but a heart that's kind, A head that's sound and clear; (Yet let the heart be not too blind, The head not too severe!) A joy of life, a frank delight; A not-too-large desire; And—if you fail to find a Knight— At least ... a trusty Squire.