On Being Reminded That She Was a Month Old That Day, September 16

--Hast thou then survived--Mild Offspring of infirm humanity,Meek Infant! among all forlornest thingsThe most forlorn--one life of that bright star,The second glory of the Heavens?--Thou hast;Already hast survived that great decay,That transformation through the wide earth felt,And by all nations. In that Being's sightFrom whom the Race of human kind proceed,A thousand years are but as yesterday;And one day's narrow circuit is to HimNot less capacious than a thousand years.But what is time? What outward glory? neitherA measure is of Thee, whose claims extendThrough "heaven's eternal year." --Yet hail to Thee,Frail, feeble, Monthling!--by that name, methinks,Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned outNot idly.--Hadst thou been of Indian birth,Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves,And rudely canopied by leafy boughs,Or to the churlish elements exposedOn the blank plains,--the coldness of the night,Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful faceOf beauty, by the changing moon adorned,Would, with imperious admonition, thenHave scored thine age, and punctually timedThine infant history, on the minds of thoseWho might have wandered with thee.--Mother's love,Nor less than mother's love in other breasts,Will, among us warm-clad and warmly housed,Do for thee what the finger of the heavensDoth all too often harshly executeFor thy unblest coevals, amid wildsWhere fancy hath small liberty to graceThe affections, to exalt them or refine;And the maternal sympathy itself,Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tieOf naked instinct, wound about the heart.Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours!Even now--to solemnise thy helpless state,And to enliven in the mind's regardThy passive beauty--parallels have risen,Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect,Within the region of a father's thoughts,Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky.And first;--thy sinless progress, through a worldBy sorrow darkened and by care disturbed,Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered clouds,Moving untouched in silver purity,And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom.Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain:But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy hornWith brightness! leaving her to post along,And range about, disquieted in change,And still impatient of the shape she wears.Once up, once down the hill, one journey, BabeThat will suffice thee; and it seems that nowThou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine;Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'stIn such a heedless peace. Alas! full soonHath this conception, grateful to behold,Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'erBy breathing mist; and thine appears to beA mournful labour, while to her is givenHope, and a renovation without end.--That smile forbids the thought; for on thy faceSmiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn,To shoot and circulate; smiles have there been seen;Tranquil assurances that Heaven supportsThe feeble motions of thy life, and cheersThy loneliness: or shall those smiles be calledFeelers of love, put forth as if to exploreThis untried world, and to prepare thy wayThrough a strait passage intricate and dim?Such are they; and the same are tokens, signs,Which, when the appointed season hath arrived,Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt;And Reason's godlike Power be proud to own.

That way look, my Infant, lo!What a pretty baby-show!See the Kitten on the wall,Sporting with the leaves that fall,Withered leaves--one--two--and three--From the lofty elder-tree!Through the calm and frosty airOf this morning bright and fair,Eddying round and round they sinkSoftly, slowly: one might think,From the motions that are made,Every little leaf conveyedSylph or Faery hither tending,--To this lower world descending,Each invisible and mute,In his wavering parachute.----But the Kitten, how she starts,Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!First at one, and then its fellowJust as light and just as yellow;There are many now--now one--Now they stop and there are none:What intenseness of desireIn her upward eye of fire!With a tiger-leap half-wayNow she meets the coming prey,Lets it go as fast, and thenHas it in her power again:Now she works with three or four,Like an Indian conjurer;Quick as he in feats of art,Far beyond in joy of heart.Were her antics played in the eyeOf a thousand standers-by,Clapping hands with shout and stare,What would little Tabby careFor the plaudits of the crowd?Over happy to be proud,Over wealthy in the treasureOf her own exceeding pleasure!

'Tis a pretty baby-treat;Nor, I deem, for me unmeet;Here, for neither Babe nor me,Other play-mate can I see.Of the countless living things,That with stir of feet and wings(In the sun or under shade,Upon bough or grassy blade)And with busy revellings,Chirp and song, and murmurings,Made this orchard's narrow space,And this vale so blithe a place;Multitudes are swept awayNever more to breathe the day:Some are sleeping; some in bandsTravelled into distant lands;Others slunk to moor and wood,Far from human neighbourhood;And, among the Kinds that keepWith us closer fellowship,With us openly abide,All have laid their mirth aside.

Where is he that giddy Sprite,Blue-cap, with his colours bright,Who was blest as bird could be,Feeding in the apple-tree;Made such wanton spoil and rout,Turning blossoms inside out;Hung--head pointing towards the ground--Fluttered, perched, into a roundBound himself, and then unbound;Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin!Prettiest tumbler ever seen!Light of heart and light of limb;What is now become of Him?Lambs, that through the mountains wentFrisking, bleating merriment,When the year was in its prime,They are sobered by this time.If you look to vale or hill,If you listen, all is still,Save a little neighbouring rill,That from out the rocky groundStrikes a solitary sound.Vainly glitter hill and plain,And the air is calm in vain;Vainly Morning spreads the lureOf a sky serene and pure;Creature none can she decoyInto open sign of joy:Is it that they have a fearOf the dreary season near?Or that other pleasures beSweeter even than gaiety?

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwellIn the impenetrable cellOf the silent heart which NatureFurnishes to every creature;Whatsoe'er we feel and knowToo sedate for outward show,Such a light of gladness breaks,Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,--Spreads with such a living graceO'er my little Dora's face;Yes, the sight so stirs and charmsThat almost I could repineThat your transports are not mine,That I do not wholly fareEven as ye do, thoughtless pair!And I will have my careless seasonSpite of melancholy reason,Will walk through life in such a wayThat, when time brings on decay,Now and then I may possessHours of perfect gladsomeness.--Pleased by any random toy;By a kitten's busy joy,Or an infant's laughing eyeSharing in the ecstasy;I would fare like that or this,Find my wisdom in my bliss;Keep the sprightly soul awake,And have faculties to take,Even from things by sorrow wrought,Matter for a jocund thought,Spite of care, and spite of grief,To gambol with Life's falling Leaf.