TO MY DAUGHTER IDA,

Ida, it is a burning shame That thy short, sweet poetic name Has not a single lay called forth From my cranium since thy birth! Thy pale-face, brown-eyed style of beauty Every day points out my duty. Conscience, too, whispers 'tis not right That I this task should longer slight. So now I take thee on my knee And woo the Muse right eagerly, In earnest hope she'll lend her aid Until this tribute be well paid.

Ida, thou art of babes the best; This much at least must be confessed, Unless thy mother's words are wrong— Words shadowing forth Affection strong. Thou art indeed, sweet tempered pet, As good a child as I have met. And oh, my heart for thee' has bled, When thou wert forced to be spoon-fed, Because of Mamma's trying weakness. Yet this thou didst still bear with meekness, And ever from the first thy cries Had for companions tearful eyes, And such a mournful, piteous mien As is not in bad temper seen. When I saw this thou may'st be sure, I felt quite ready to endure Thy tediousness by night or day, While mother on a sick-bed lay. Now, as reward for all my toil, Thou cheerest me by many a smile. And while I gaze on thy sweet face Bedecked with every infant grace, My soul's best feelings are called Forth— I see in thee increasing worth.

Say, sweetly smiling, pretty creature, So perfect in each limb and feature, What means that dreamy sort of look Thou wear'st at times? Art thou then struck With wonder at our household ways? At brother's, sister's childish plays? I would give something just to know How thoughts within the mind can grow. I fancy sometimes thou art thinking On what's around thee or else drinking Thou fill of heavenly visions sweet, Such as would prove to me a treat: Art silent still? Ah, then, young Miss, Thou must eve'n give a parting kiss! Farewell, my dear, my lovely child, Fair Ida, with the look so mild!