FOR A LITTLE GIRL .

'T IS dark and cold abroad, my love, but warm and bright within,
So ransack o'er thy treasured store, and evening's sports begin;
Thy playthings, what an endless list! thy dolls, both great and small;
Empty thy Lilliputian hoard, and let us see them all.

There's not a king who wears a crown, nor miser hoarding pelf,
More absolute and rich than thou, my little sportive elf;
Those dolls thy docile subjects are, that footstool is thy throne.
And all the wealth which mammon boasts is worthless to thy own.

Or must it be a living thing, to please thy fancy now,
There's puss, although she looks so grave, as fond of play as thou;
Who patiently submits to sports which common cats would tire,
Contented, if she can but keep her post beside the fire.
She quietly consents to be in baby garments drest,
Or, in thy little cradle rock'd, as quietly will rest;
I know not which most happy seems when mirthful is your air,
Nor could I find a puck, or puss, with either to compare.

But if a graver meed be thine — with needle and with thread —
When sport grows dull, e'en give it o'er, and play at work instead;
Yet much I doubt, though sage thy look, and busy as a bee,
Whether that fit of sempstress-ship will long suppress thy glee.

But hark! I hear the curfew-bell — thy little eyes grow dim;
Put by thy work, dolls, toys, and all — and say thy evening hymn:
'Tis said! now bid us all farewell, kiss dear mamma — and then
Sweet sleep and pleasant dreams be thine till morning dawn again.