This simple child has claims On your sentiment — her name's Geraldine. Be tender — but beware,
For she's frolicsome as fair, And fifteen. She has gifts that have not cloyed, For these gifts she has employed,
And improved: She has bliss which lives and leans Upon loving — and that means She is loved.
She has grace. A grace refined By sweet harmony of mind: And the Art, And the blessed Nature, too,
Of a tender, and a true Little heart. And yet I must not vault Over any little fault
That she owns: Or others might rebel, And might enviously swell In their zones.
She is tricksy as the fays, Or her pussy when it plays With a string: She's a goose about her cat,
And her ribbons — and all that Sort of thing. These foibles are a blot, Still she never can do what
Is not nice, Such as quarrel, and give slaps — As I've known her get, perhaps, Once or twice.
The spells that move her soul Are subtle — sad or droll — She can show That virtuoso whim
Which consecrates our dim Long-ago. A love that is not sham For Stothard, Blake, and Lamb;
And I've known Cordelia's sad eyes Cause angel-tears to rise In her own.
Her gentle spirit yearns When she reads of Robin Burns — Luckless Bard! Had she blossomed in thy time,
How rare had been the rhyme — And reward! Thrice happy then is he Who, planting such a Tree,
Sees it bloom To shelter him — indeed We have sorrow as we speed To our doom!
I am happy having grown Such a Sapling of my own; And I crave No garland for my brows,
But peace beneath its boughs Till the grave.
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