Gerald Massey (Джеральд Масси)

Ode to a Very Lovely Little Child

        Daughter of Mr. T. W——n, Tring.*

Beautiful flow'r of Paradise!
    What dost thou in this vale of time?
The tender radiance of those eyes
    Bespeak thee of a summer clime.
Earth's loveliest blossoms are most frail,
And bow beneath each passing gale.
Love's sweetest flow'rs are wither'd soon;
Bud, bloom, and die long ere 'tis noon.
Young rose-bud, blushing on thy stem,
    Where vernal flowers around thee cling,
Long may thy parents, beauteous gem,
    Hail thee the loveliest flow'r of spring.
Oh, thou should'st be a living spring
    Of rapture, in man's earth-cold bosom,
Like tears from Heaven, warm-mellowing
    The chilled heart of an icy blossom;
Telling of all that's fair and bright,
    In yonder starry-circled world,
Where soul ne'er mourned in sorrow's night,
    Nor love wept with his pinion furl'd.
How fair thou art! divinely fair;
    I gaze upon thy cherub beauty;
And deem to adore thee, Child of Air,
    A sacred, heaven-inspired duty.
I know not whence this mystery,
Nor why these drops start to mine eye;
Yet tranquil are the tears I weep,
As spring-flow'rs, shed in evening sleep;
Thy presence hath a strange control
To wake soft music in my soul,
All pleasant as the dew that drips
In summer-roses' burning lips.
My spirit aches, and still I seem
Steep'd in some dear, enchanting dream.
I deem'd that nought upon this earth
Could give once more such feelings birth.
How pure that heart is beating now,
How calm the heaven of thy fair brow—
Like moonlight through a silvery cloud
Thy soul-light melts its lucid shroud,
Yet time will come when love shall start
Its maddening impulse in thy heart,
When every smile or tender sigh
Shall thrill a soul or dim an eye.
Oh, what all extacy of pain
And bliss to drink their honey'd strain,
When those rose-lips melodious move,
And wake delicious words of love.
Sweet child! Heaven shield thy budding years,
    Why rosy paths thy footsteps press,
Smiles light thine eyes, nor anguish's tears.
    Dim their serene luxuriousness;
May no heart-worm nor tempest rude
    Nip childhood's blossoms on their tree,
But may thou burst in womanhood
    Like some rich swell of melody.
While thou art in this maze of life,
Kind angels guard thee 'mid the strife,
And watch thy blooming charms expand,
Then waft thee to their own bright land.
Farewell; and, when I'm far away,
Oft 'shall I turn to bless this day;
Sigh for these thrills of pleasure rare,
And breathe for thee a silent prayer. 

                          A TRING PEASANT BOY.

* At the time of the 1851 Census (four years after
 this poem was published), the most likely candidate
 for 'Mr. T. W——n, Tring' was Thomas Wilson (34),
a baker, who lived at West End with his wife Elizabeth
(31), daughters Emma (12) and Elizabeth (8), and son
Gideon (10) — Ed.

1. Yet We Are Brothers Still
2. I Love England
3. Spring Is Coming
4. Now or Never
5. Stanzas to Amy

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