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 bones 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?
Though music's labyrinthine maze,
With dexterous ardour rove,
And weave those tender, tuneful lays
That beauty wins from love?
Old Coke's or Blackstone's mighty tome,
With patient toil turn o'er?
Or trim the lamp in classic dome,
Till midnight's watch be o'er?
Well skilled the pulse of sickness press?
Or such high honour gain,
As o'er the pulpit raised to bless
A pious, listening train?
Say, shall it find the cherished grasp
Of friendship's fervour cold?
Or shuddering feel the envenomed clasp
Of treachery's serpent-fold?
Yet oh! may that Almighty Friend,
From whom existence came,
That dear and powerless hand defend
From deeds of guilt and shame.
Grant it to dry the tear of woe,
Bold folly's course restrain,
The alms of sympathy bestow,
The righteous cause maintain;
Write wisdom on the wing of time,
Even 'mid the morn of youth,
And with benevolence sublime,
Dispense the light of truth,
Discharge a just, an useful part
Through life's uncertain maze,
Till, coupled with an angel's heart,
It strike the lyre of praise.