To my Infant Son

THOU happy, happy elf! (But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,) Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he ’s poking peas into his ear,) Thou merry, laughing sprite, With spirits, feather light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin; (My dear, the child is swallowing a pin!) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that rings the air,— (The door! the door! he ’ll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he ’ll set his pinafore afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In love’s dear chain so bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents;—(Drat the boy! There goes my ink.) Thou cherub, but of earth; Fit playfellow for fairies, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth’s Elysium ever sunny,— (Another tumble! That ’s his precious nose!) Thy father’s pride and hope! (He ’ll break that mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature’s mint, (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He ’ll have that ring off with another shove,) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are these torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He ’ll climb upon the table, that ’s his plan,) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He ’s got a knife!) Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball, bestride the stick,— (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk! (He ’s got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove; (I ’ll tell you what, my love, I cannot write unless he ’s sent above.)

Collection: 
1819
Sub Title: 
Poems of Home: I. About Children

More from Poet

  • Blank Verse in Rhyme EVEN is come; and from the dark Park, hark, The signal of the setting sun—one gun! And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,— Or hear Othello’s jealous doubt spout out,— Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade, Denying to his...

  • How hard, when those who do not wish To lend, thus lose, their books, Are snared by anglers—folks that fish With literary hooks— Who call and take some favorite tome, But never read it through; They thus complete their set at home By making one at you. I, of my “Spenser” quite bereft,...

  • Young Ben he was a nice young man, A carpenter by trade; And he fell in love with Sally Brown, That was a lady’s maid. But as they fetched a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew; And Sally she did faint away, Whilst Ben he was brought to. The boatswain swore with wicked words...

  • A Pathetic Ballad BEN BATTLE was a soldier bold, And used to war’s alarms; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms. Now as they bore him off the field, Said he, “Let others shoot; For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot.” The army-surgeons made him...

  • Let Taylor preach, upon a morning breezy, How well to rise while nights and larks are flying— For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying. What if the lark does carol in the sky, Soaring beyond the sight to find him out,— Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly...