Maybe this homely face may hide A Stael before whose mannish pride Our frailer sex shall tremble; Perchance this audience anserine May hiss (O fluttering Muse of mine!)-- May hiss--a future Kemble! Or say the gingham shadows o'er An undeveloped Hannah More!-- A latent Mrs. Trimmer!! Who shall affirm it?--who deny?-- Since of the truth nor you nor I Discern the faintest glimmer? So then--Caps off, my Masters all; Reserve your final word,--recall Your all-too-hasty strictures; Caps off, I say, for Wisdom sees Undreamed potentialities In most unhopeful pictures. A FAIRY TALE. "_On court, helas! apres la verite; Ah! croyez-moi, l'erreur a son merite._" Voltaire. Curled in a maze of dolls and bricks, I find Miss Mary, _aetat_ six, Blonde, blue-eyed, frank, capricious, Absorbed in her first fairy book, From which she scarce can pause to look, Because it's "_so_ delicious!" "Such marvels, too. A wondrous Boat, In which they cross a magic Moat, That's smooth as glass to row on-- A Cat that brings all kinds of things; And see, the Queen has angel wings-- Then OGRE comes"--and so on. What trash it is! How sad to find (Dear Moralist!) the childish mind, So active and so pliant. Rejecting themes in which you mix Fond truths and pleasing facts, to fix On tales of Dwarf and Giant! In merest prudence men should teach That cats mellifluous in speech Are painful contradictions; That science ranks as monstrous things _Two_ pairs of upper limbs; so wings-- E'en angels' wings!--are fictions: That there's no giant now but Steam; That life, although "an empty dream," Is scarce a "land of Fairy." "Of course I said all this?" Why, no; I _did_ a thing far wiser, though,-- _I read the tale with Mary_. 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: