"'Tis gone--forgotten--let me do My best--there was a smile or two, I can remember them, I see The smiles, worth all the world to me. Dear Baby! I must lay thee down; Thou troublest me with strange alarms; 60 Smiles hast Thou, sweet ones of thy own; I cannot keep thee in my arms, For they confound me: as it is, I have forgot those smiles of his." "Oh! how I love thee! we will stay Together here this one half day. My Sister's Child, who bears my name, From France across the Ocean came; She with her Mother cross'd the sea; The Babe and Mother near me dwell: 70 My Darling, she is not to me What thou art! though I love her well: Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here; Never was any Child more dear!" "--I cannot help it--ill intent I've none, my pretty Innocent! I weep--I know they do thee wrong, These tears--and my poor idle tongue. Oh what a kiss was that! my cheek How cold it is! but thou art good; 80 Thine eyes are on me--they would speak, I think, to help me if they could. Blessings upon that quiet face, My heart again is in its place!" "While thou art mine, my little Love, This cannot be a sorrowful grove; Contentment, hope, and Mother's glee. I seem to find them all in thee: Here's grass to play with, here are flowers; I'll call thee by my Darling's name; 90 Thou hast, I think, a look of ours, Thy features seem to me the same; His little Sister thou shalt be; And, when once more my home I see, I'll tell him many tales of Thee." _FORESIGHT_. Or the Charge of a Child to his younger Companion. That is work which I am rueing-- Do as Charles and I are doing! Strawberry-blossoms, one and all, We must spare them--here are many: Look at it--the Flower is small, Small and low, though fair as any: Do not touch it! summers two I am older, Anne, than you. Pull the Primrose, Sister Anne! Pull as many as you can. 10 --Here are Daisies, take your fill; Pansies, and the Cuckow-flower: Of the lofty Daffodil Make your bed, and make your bower; Fill your lap, and fill your bosom; Only spare the Strawberry-blossom! Primroses, the Spring may love them-- Summer knows but little of them: Violets, do what they will, Wither'd on the ground must lie; 20 Daisies will be daisies still; Daisies they must live and die: Fill your lap, and fill your bosom, Only spare the Strawberry-blossom! _A COMPLAINT_. There is a change--and I am poor; Your Love hath been, nor long ago, A Fountain at my fond Heart's door, Whose only business was to flow; And flow it did; not taking heed Of its own bounty, or my need.