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THE LITTLE HAND.
��THOU wak'st, my baby boy, from sleep, And through its silken fringe
Thine eye, like violet, pure and deep, Gleams forth with azure tinge.
With what a smile of gladness, meek,
Thy radiant brow is drest, While fondly to a mother's cheek
Thy lip and hand are prest.
That little hand ! what prescient wit
Its history may discern, When time its tiny nerves hath knit
With manhood's sinews stern ?
The artist's pencil shall it guide ?
Or spread the adventurous sail ? Or guide the plough with rustic pride,
And ply the sounding flail ?
Through music's labyrinthine maze, With dexterous ardour rove,
�� �
