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TO MY INFANT NEPHEW.
Is this new life so sweet to thee, my little baby boy,
That thus thy minutes seem to be a constant course of joy?
I gaze upon thy laughing face, I hear thy joyous tone,
Till the glad feeling of thy heart oft passes to my own.
No titled infant for whose brow a coronet shines fair
Is blest with better health than thou or nursed with tenderer care;
And be it prince or peasant's child, the station high or low,
These blessings are the only ones its earliest days can know.
I would not damp thy present joy with tales of future care,
Nor paint the ills of life, dear boy, which thou must feel and bear;
The early dew is fair to view although it vanish soon,
And lovely is the morning flower that withers when 'tis noon.
