MY FIRST-BORN. "He shan't be their namesake, the rather That both are such opulent men: His name shall be that of his father,-- My Benjamin--shortened to Ben. "Yes, Ben, though it cost him a portion In each of my relative's wills, I scorn such baptismal extortion-- (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 pleased 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 paltry 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. What cares that heart, trusting and tender, For fame or avuncular wills! Except for the name and the gender, She is almost as tranquil as Squills. That father, in reverie centered, Dumbfoundered, his thoughts in a whirl, Heard Squills, as the creaking boots entered, Announce that his Boy was--a Girl. SUSANNAH. I. THE ELDER TREES. At Susan's name the fancy plays With chiming thoughts of early days, And hearts unwrung; When all too fair our future smiled, When she was Mirth's adopted child, And I was young. I see the cot with spreading eaves, The sun shines bright through summer leaves, But does not scorch,-- The dial stone, the pansy bed;-- Old Robin trained the roses red About the porch. 'Twixt elders twain a rustic seat Was merriest Susan's pet retreat To merry make; Good Robin's handiwork again,-- Oh, must we say his toil was vain, For Susan's sake? Her gleeful tones and laughter gay Were sunshine for the darkest day; And yet, some said That when her mirth was passing wild, Though still the faithful Robin smiled, He shook his head. Perchance the old man harboured 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 linked with mirth. * * * * * And now how altered is that scene! For mark old Robin's mournful mien, And feeble tread. His toil has ceased to be his pride, At Susan's name he turns aside, And shakes his head.