The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/To the Infant Princess Royal
TO THE INFANT PRINCESS ROYAL.
Welcome, bud beside the rose,On whose stem our safety grows;Welcome, little Saxon Guelph;Welcome for thine own small self;Welcome for thy father, mother,Proud the one and safe the other;Welcome to three kingdoms; nay,Such is thy potential day,Welcome, little mighty birth,To our human star the earth.
Some have wish'd thee boy; and someGladly wait till boy shall come,Counting it, a genial signWhen a lady leads the line.What imports it, girl or boy?England's old historic joyWell might be content to seeQueens alone come after thee,—Twenty visions of thy motherFollowing sceptred, each the other,Linking with their roses whiteAges of unborn delight.What imports it who shall lead,So that the good line succeed?So that love and peace feel sureOf old hate's discomfiture?Thee appearing by the roseSafety comes, and peril goes;Thee appearing, earth's new spring,Fears no winter's "griesly king;"Hope anew leaps up, and dancesIn the hearts of human chances: France, the brave, but too quick-blooded,Wisely has her threat re-studied;England now, as safe as sheFrom the strifes that need not be,And the realms thus hush'd and still,Earth with fragrant thought may fill,Growing harvests of all good,Day by day, as planet should,Till it clap its hands, and cry,Hail, matur'd humanity!Earth has outgrown want and war;Earth is now no childish star.
But behold, where thou dost lie,Heeding nought, remote or nigh!Nought of all the news we singDost thou know, sweet ignorant thing;Nought of planet's love, nor people's;Nor dost hear the giddy steeplesCarolling of thee and thine,As if heav'n had rain'd them wine;Nor dost care for all the painsOf ushers and of chamberlains,Nor the doctor's learned looks,Nor the very bishop's books,Nor the lace that wraps thy chin,No, nor for thy rank, a pin.E'en thy father's loving handNowise dost thou understand,When he makes thee feebly graspHis finger with a tiny clasp;Nor dost know thy very mother'sBalmy bosom from another's,Though thy small blind lips pursue it,Nor the arms that draw thee to it,Nor the eyes, that, while they fold thee,Never can enough behold thee.Mother true and good has she,Little strong one, been to thee, Nor with listless in-door waysWeaken'd thee for future days;But has done her strenuous dutyTo thy brain and to thy beauty,Till thou cam'st, a blossom bright,Worth the kiss of air and light;To thy healthy self, a pleasure;To the world, a balm and treasure.