L'Anne Terrible.

TO LITTLE JEANNE.     ("Vous etes donc hier un an.")     [September, 1870.]     You've lived a year, then, yesterday, sweet child,     Prattling thus happily! So fledglings wild,     New-hatched in warmer nest 'neath sheltering bough,     Chirp merrily to feel their feathers grow.     Your mouth's a rose, Jeanne! In these volumes grand     Whose pictures please you - while I trembling stand     To see their big leaves tattered by your hand -     Are noble lines; but nothing half your worth,     When all your tiny frame rustles with mirth     To welcome me. No work of author wise     Can match the thought half springing to your eyes,     And your dim reveries, unfettered, strange,     Regarding man with all the boundless range     Of angel innocence. Methinks, 'tis clear     That God's not far, Jeanne, when I see you here.     Ah! twelve months old: 'tis quite an age, and brings     Grave moments, though your soul to rapture clings,     You're at that hour of life most like to heaven,     When present joy no cares, no sorrows leaven     When man no shadow feels: if fond caress     Round parent twines, children the world possess.     Your waking hopes, your dreams of mirth and love     From Charles to Alice, father to mother, rove;     No wider range of view your heart can take     Than what her nursing and his bright smiles make;     They two alone on this your opening hour     Can gleams of tenderness and gladness pour:     They two - none else, Jeanne! Yet 'tis just, and I,     Poor grandsire, dare but to stand humbly by.     You come - I go: though gloom alone my right,     Blest be the destiny which gives you light.     Your fair-haired brother George and you beside     Me play - in watching you is all my pride;     And all I ask - by countless sorrows tried -     The grave; o'er which in shadowy form may show     Your cradles gilded by the morning's glow.     Pure new-born wonderer! your infant life     Strange welcome found, Jeanne, in this time of strife.     Like wild-bee humming through the woods your play,     And baby smiles have dared a world at bay:     Your tiny accents lisp their gentle charms     To mighty Paris clashing mighty arms.     Ah! when I see you, child, and when I hear     You sing, or try, with low voice whispering near,     And touch of fingers soft, my grief to cheer,     I dream this darkness, where the tempests groan,     Trembles, and passes with half-uttered moan.     For though these hundred towers of Paris bend,     Though close as foundering ship her glory's end,     Though rocks the universe, which we defend;     Still to great cannon on our ramparts piled,     God sends His blessing by a little child.     MARWOOD TUCKER.