Page:The poetical works of Leigh Hunt, containing many pieces now first collected 1849.djvu/151

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TO T. L. H.
133
It is not that I envy autumn there,
Nor the sweet river, though my fields have none;
Nor yet that in its all-productive air
Was born Humanity's divinest son,
That sprighthest, gravest, wisest, kindest one—
Shakspeare; nor yet, oh no—that here I miss
Souls not unworthy to be named with his.

No; but it is, that on this very day,
And upon Shakspeare's stream, a little lower,
Where, drunk with Delphic air, it comes away
Dancing in perfume by the Peary Shore,[1]
Was born the lass that I love more and more;
A fruit as fine as in the Hesperian store,
Smooth, roundly smiling, noble to the core;
An eye for art: a nature, that of yore
Mothers and daughters, wives and sisters wore,
When in the golden age one tune they bore;
Marian,—who makes my heart and very rhymes run o'er.



TO T. L. H.

SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNESS.

Sleep breathes at last from out thee,
My little, patient boy;
And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.
I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.

  1. Pershore, or Pearshore, on the Avon; so named probably from its abundance of pears.