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?
