My dear little children, while softly you sleep,
By your bedside for you a present I keep,
These leaflets in print, where, hid like a bee
In the heart of a flower, my soul you may see
Lapped in the shadow delightful of rhyme,—
To you my first born, grave and lovely Maxime,
Who at six with the wisdom of seven years are blest,
Who con o'er Blue-Beard, Tom-Thumb, and the rest,
But can't grasp very clearly all that you read;
And to you, Eusebius, an angel indeed,
An angel that totters about as in fetters,
Eighteen months old, not great in belles-lettres
At present, but who, I'm sure, in the skies
Where seraphs must miss your voice and your eyes,
Could read like a doctor, and speak by the day,
But who've lost all your skill it seems on the way;
To you, my darlings both, this present I bring,
Swathed with my love is the poor offering.
Not a gift, after all, for which much may be said,
For this 'forget-me-not,' upon us weighs often like lead:
Still,—when you're grown, 'twould be good to discover
If these pages in print are worth their fair cover,
