I hold it a religious duty
To love and worship children's beauty;
They've least the taint of earthly clod,
They're freshest from the hand of God;
With heavenly looks they make us sure
The heaven that made them must be pure;
We love them not in earthly fashion,
But with a beatific passion.
I chanced to, yesterday, behold
A maiden child of beauty's mould;
'Twas near, more sacred was the scene,
The palace of our patriot Queen.
The little charmer to my view
Was sculpture brought to life anew.
Her eyes had a poetic glow,
Her pouting mouth was Cupid's bow:
And through her frock I could descry
Her neck and shoulders' symmetry.
'Twas obvious from her walk and gait
Her limbs were beautifully straight;
I stopp'd th' enchantress and was told,
Though tall, she was but four years' old.
Her guide so grave an aspect wore
I could not ask a question more;
But follow'd her. The little one
Threw backward ever and anon
Her lovely neck, as if to say,
"I know you love me, Mister Grey;"
For by its instincts childhood's eye
Is shrewd in physiognomy;
They well distinguish fawning art
From sterling fondness of the heart.
And so she flirted, like a true
Good woman, till we bade adieu.
'Twas then I with regret grew wild,
Oh, beauteous, interesting child!
Why ask'd I not thy home and name?
My courage fail'd me--more's the shame.
But where abides this jewel rare?
Oh, ye that own her, tell me where!
For sad it makes my heart and sore
To think I ne'er may meet her more.
--_Thomas Campbell._
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