Classic Poem

( 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.