GERALDINE.

This simple child has claims On your sentiment—her name's Geraldine. Be tender—but beware, For she's frolicsome as fair, And fifteen.

She has gifts that have not cloyed, For these gifts she has employed, And improved: She has bliss which lives and leans Upon loving—and that means She is loved.

She has grace. A grace refined By sweet harmony of mind: And the Art, And the blessed Nature, too, Of a tender, and a true Little heart.

And yet I must not vault Over any little fault That she owns: Or others might rebel, And might enviously swell In their zones.

She is tricksy as the fays, Or her pussy when it plays With a string: She's a goose about her cat, And her ribbons—and all that Sort of thing.

These foibles are a blot, Still she never can do what Is not nice, Such as quarrel, and give slaps— As I've known her get, perhaps, Once or twice.

The spells that move her soul Are subtle—sad or droll— She can show That virtuoso whim Which consecrates our dim Long-ago.

A love that is not sham For Stothard, Blake, and Lamb; And I've known Cordelia's sad eyes Cause angel-tears to rise In her own.

Her gentle spirit yearns When she reads of Robin Burns— Luckless Bard! Had she blossomed in thy time, How rare had been the rhyme —And reward!

Thrice happy then is he Who, planting such a Tree, Sees it bloom To shelter him—indeed We have sorrow as we speed To our doom!

I am happy having grown Such a Sapling of my own; And I crave No garland for my brows, But peace beneath its boughs Till the grave.