I see the cot with spreading eaves Embosom’d bright in summer leaves, As heretofore: The gables quaint, the pansy bed,— Old Robin train’d the roses red About the door. A seat did most blithe Susan please, Beneath two shady elder trees, Of rustic make: Old Robin’s handiwork again, He dearly lov’d those elders twain For Susan’s sake. Her gleeful tones and laughter gay Lent sunshine to a gloomy day, And trouble fled: Yet when her mirth was passing wild, Though still the faithful Robin smil’d, He shook his head. Perchance the old man harbour’d fears That happiness is wed with tears On this poor earth: Or else, may be, his fancies were That youth and beauty are a snare If link’d with mirth. * * * * * And times are chang’d,—how chang’d that scene, For mark old Robin’s alter’d mien, And feeble tread. His toil has ceased to be his pride, At Susan’s name he turns aside, And shakes his head. And summer smiles, but summer spells Can never charm where sorrow dwells, Nor banish care. No fair young form the passer sees, And still the much-lov’d elder trees Throw shadows there. The well-remember’d seat is gone, And where it stood is set a stone, A simple square: The worlding gay, or man austere, May pass the name recorded here, But we will stay to shed a tear, And breathe a prayer. MY FIRSTBORN “But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day, Her delicate creation!” WORDSWORTH. It shall not be “Albert” nor “Arthur,” Though both are respectable men, His name shall be that of his father, My Benjamin shorten’d to “Ben.” Yes, much as I wish for a corner In each of my relative’s wills, I will not be reckon’d a fawner— That creaking of boots must be Squills. It is clear, though his means may be narrow, This infant his age will adorn; I shall send him to Oxford from Harrow— I wonder how soon he’ll be born. A spouse thus was airing his fancies Below—’twas a labour of love— And calmly reflecting on Nancy’s More practical labour above. Yet while it so pleas’d him to ponder, Elated, at ease, and alone, That pale, patient victim up yonder Had budding delights of her own; Sweet thoughts in their essence diviner Than dreams of ambition and pelf; A cherub, no babe will be finer, Invented and nursed by herself! One breakfasting, dining, and teaing, With appetite nought can appease, And quite a young Reasoning Being When called on to yawn and to sneeze.