To A Child.

(From The "Garland Of Rachel.")     How shall I sing you, Child, for whom     So many lyres are strung;     Or how the only tone assume     That fits a Maid so young?     What rocks there are on either hand!     Suppose--'tis on the cards--     You should grow up with quite a grand     Platonic hate for bards!     How shall I then be shamed, undone,     For ah! with what a scorn     Your eyes must greet that luckless One     Who rhymed you, newly born,--     Who o'er your "helpless cradle" bent     His idle verse to turn;     And twanged his tiresome instrument     Above your unconcern!     Nay,--let my words be so discreet,     That, keeping Chance in view,     Whatever after fate you meet     A part may still be true.     Let others wish you mere good looks,--     Your sex is always fair;     Or to be writ in Fortune's books,--     She's rich who has to spare:     I wish you but a heart that's kind,     A head that's sound and clear;     (Yet let the heart be not too blind,     The head not too severe!)     A joy of life, a frank delight;     A not-too-large desire;     And--if you fail to find a Knight--     At least ... a trusty Squire.