Sweet little baby mine, Gift from a Hand Divine, What shall I sing thee this bright summer morn? Is it a fairy dream? All things more lovely seem To this fond, grateful heart since thou wert born!
Strange that we love thee so! Let us the secret know, Tell us the way that all hearts thou hast won; Surely some magic lies Deep in thine earnest eyes, Or in that smile of thine, beautiful one!
Over thy baby brow Brown locks are waving now, When the sun toucheth them changing to gold, Sweeter art thou by far Than the pale lilies are, Or the blue violets that thou dost hold.
Dear little household pet, With thy bright eyes of jet, Shining so softly the long lashes through, Wert thou not born to be Cherished as tenderly, Treasured for aye by as fond hearts and true!
Oh! if a mother’s prayer Reach Heaven’s purer air, Not for the wealth of this world will I plead, But that the boon of love, Holy as that above, May be thine own in thine hour of need!
And that the smile of Him, Greater than seraphim, Before whom angels and archangels bow, Always may rest on thee, So shall my darling be Ever as pure and as happy as now!
Like most old things, I have “seen better days;” but I am strong and firm as in my youth. The misfortune that reduced me to “taking boarders,” was a change in the fashion. When I was built, the part of the town which I inhabit, was the residence of the “ton”—emphatically the West End! But as the city enlarged its limits, they gradually deserted my neighborhood, and removed to more remote situations. Besides, the large, airy houses of the past generation do not suit the degenerate taste of the present day. The exquisitely carved wood-work, so much admired in my youth, is sneered at by those whose brains can neither design, nor fingers execute, such beautiful devices. Such things have grown old-fashioned! And the mantle-pieces, with their elaborate ships under sail, and figures of the ancient gods; their satyrs, dryads, fauns and nymphs; their wreaths, doves, Hymens and Cupids, are torn away, and replaced by plain, smooth, black, funereal-looking marble, brought over seas from Alexandria, in degraded Egypt.
I had once a beautiful garden; but it has been destroyed. The tall, straight poplar, the trembling aspen, the delicate, lace-like fringe-tree, the majestic oak and unchanging cedar, have all fallen under the merciless hand of modern improvement. The sweet flowers have ceased to shed their grateful perfume on the air. The evergreen box no longer relieves the cheerless expanse of winter’s snow. The moon looks not on the maiden’s blushing face as she listens, in the garden-walk, to the welcome words of love, and tears the unoffending rose, lest it should breathe the tale. The musical laugh of little children echoes no more through blooming alcoves. The black Hamburgh grape, with its purple clusters of pulpy fruit, has ceased to shade the thoughtful old man from the noonday sun, or shield him in the enjoyment of his after-dinner nap. The apricot, trained, _espalier_-fashion, along the walls, has vanished, with its crimson fruit. The burning-bush and holly no longer retain their glowing berries and green leaves, through December storms, or adorn the Christmas board. The crocus, violet and daffodil have failed to herald the approach of spring. All, all are gone; my garden has disappeared. A little square, paven yard is the only trace of it which remains. A small border, a few inches wide, containing a weak, sickly rose, a few hardy hollyhocks, and an attenuated dahlia, betrays the extent of my landlady’s meagre devotion at the shrine of Flora. A few unfortunate flowers have been brought occasionally within my walls, but some unlucky chambermaid invariably tilted them out of the window.