Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/To my Child at Play

To My Child at Play.

Play on, my little one! fair is thine hour; How jocund thy spirit, how cloudless and bright!While care haunts the court, and the camp, and the bower, Thy heart only feels the warm thrill of delight!

Play on! for thy gambols so blithesome and free, It were pleasure to share, as 'tis joy to behold;Thou art merry and wild as the revelling bee; Thou art blithe as a lamb just escaped from the fold.

Oh! could'st thou thro' life be as happy as now, With thy heart as unclouded, thy bosom as pure;Could the joy of that smile which enlightens thy brow, And the rapturous glow of thy spirits endure.

But I would not with dread of the future oppress thee; Play on! and remember, that nothing can tearFrom thy innocent bosom the hopes that now bless thee, Save the vice of the world:—all thy dangers lie there.

And when its temptations beset thee, my child, Oh! think of the truth which my verse would impart,And be ne'er by its folly, its madness, beguiled, But in purity keep all the thoughts of thy heart!

More joy will it give me in life, if thy name Be a word to awaken the feelings of worth;More joy than to see thee exalted by fame, And rich in the wealth and the grandeur of earth!

Yes; goodness will yield to thy soul a delight Which the splendour of greatness can never bestow;And while virtue directs thee, her heavenly light Will reveal the sweet flowers in thy pathway below!

Thus favoured and happy, thus blessing and blest, Thou wilt pass through the world unallured by its crime;Thus living, be honoured; thus dying, thy rest Will be endless in glory—thy triumph o'er time!