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Hemans, Felicia Dorothea Browne, "The Child and Flowers." in The Bijou; (London: from The Bijou Literary Annual, 1828 The Child and Flowers By Mrs. Hemans Fraser, William (1796-1854), compiler The Poetess Archive General Editor, and P5 encoding by Laura Mandell Transcribing and proofreading by Zach Weir 1828 TEI formatted filesize uncompressed: approx. 684 kbytes Laura Mandell, Texas A&M University College Station, TX 20170606 Freely available via a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License bijou1828.poemP1 The Bijou Literary Annual Edited by Laura Mandell bijou1828-p5.xml Felicia Dorothea Browne Hemans, 1793-1835 The Child and Flowers The Bijou; or Annual of Literature and the Arts William Fraser London William Pickering 1828 1-3 This copy is transcribed from the volume held by Miami University Special Collections Department. The page images come from the Internet Archive: Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from Duke University Libraries." 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Some transient griefs will touch thy heart, Griefs that along thy altered face Will breathe a more subduing grace, Than even those looks of joy that lie On the soft cheek of infancy. WILSON, To a Sleeping Child HAST thou been in the woods with the honey-bee? Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free? With the hare through to copses and the dingles wild? With the butterfly over the heath, fair child? Yes: the light fall of thy bounding feet Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat; Yet hast thou ranged the green forest-dells, And brought back a treasure of buds and bells. Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng; The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim, The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim: These are old words, that have made each grove A dreary haunt for romance and love; Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie A place for the gushings of Poesy. Thou know'st not the light wherewith fairy lore Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o'er; Enough for thee are the dews that sleep Like hidden gems in the flower-urns deep; Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell; And the by the blossoming sweet-briars shed, And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth's head. Oh! Happy child in thy fawn-like glee! What is remembrance or thought to thee? Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring, O'er thy green pathway their colours fling; Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon— What if to droop and to perish soon? Nature hath mines of such wealth—and thou Never wilt prize its delights as now! For a day is coming to quell the tone That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one! And to dim thy brow with a touch of care. Under the gloss of its clustering hair; And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes Into the stillness of autumn skies; And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part, Midst the hidden things of each human heart! Yet shall we mourn, gentle child! for this? Life hath enough of yet holier bliss! Such be thy portion!—the bliss to look With a reverent spirit, through nature's book; By fount, by forest, by river's line, To track the paths of a love divine; To read its deep meanings—to see and hear God in earth's garden—and not to fear. , 1828)View: HTML | XML