It is Hope gilds the future,--Love welcomes it smiling; Thus wags this old world, therefore stay not to ask-- "My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?" If masked, still it pleases--then raise not the mask. Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing? He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust; For at most 'tis a footstep from cradle to coffin-- From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust. Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny! Though blossoms of promise are lost in the rose, I still see the face of my small Pic-a-ninny Unchanged, for these cheeks are as blooming as those. Ay, here is your Cradle! much, much to my liking, Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped; But, hark! as I'm talking there's six o'clock striking, It is time JENNY'S BABY should be in its bed! TO MY MISTRESS. O Countess, each succeeding year Reveals that Time is wasting here: He soon will do his worst by you, And garner all your roses too! It pleases Time to fold his wings Around our best and brightest things; He'll mar your damask cheek, as now He stamps his mark upon my brow. The same mute planets rise and shine To rule your days and nights as mine, I once was young as you,--and see...! You some day will be old as me. And yet I bear a mighty charm Which shields me from your worst alarm; And bids me gaze, with front sublime, On all these ravages of Time. You boast a charm that all would prize, This gift of mine, which you despise, May, like enough, still hold its sway When all your boast has passed away. My charm may long embalm the lures Of eyes, as sweet to me as yours: And ages hence the great and good Will judge you as I choose they should. In days to come the count or clown, With whom I still shall win renown, Will only know that you were fair Because I chanced to say you were. Fair Countess--I wax grey--awhile Your youthful swains will sigh or smile; But should you scorn, for smile or sigh, A grey old Bard--as great as I? KENWOOD, _July 21, 1864_. TO MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS They nearly strike me dumb, And I tremble when they come Pit-a-pat: This palpitation means That these boots are Geraldine's-- Think of that! Oh, where did hunter win So delicate a skin For her feet? You lucky little kid, You perished, so you did, For my sweet. The faery stitching gleams On the toes, and in the seams, And reveals That Pixies were the wags Who tipped these funny tags, And these heels. What soles! so little worn! Had Crusoe--soul forlorn!-- Chanced to view _One_ printed near the tide, How hard he would have tried For the two!