SELECT POETRY.

New Zealander, Volume 9, Issue 782, 12 October 1853, Page 3

SELECT POETRY.

A CHILD’S FIRST LETTER. To write to papa, ’tis an enterprise bold For the fairy-likc maiden scarce seven years old. And see! what excitement the purpose hath wrought In eyes that when gravest seem playing at thought! The light little figure surprised into rest— The smiles that will come so demurely repressed— The long-pausing hand On the paper that lies— Hie sweet puzzled look in the pretty blur eyes. ’Tis a beautiful picture of childhood in calm. One cheek swelling soft o’er the white dimpled palm Sunk deep in Its crimson, and just the clear tip Of an ivory tooth on the full under lip. How the smooth forehead knits! With her arm round his neck. It were easier far than on paper to speak; We must loop up those ringlets ; their rich falling gold Would blot out the story as fast as 'twas told. And she meant to have made it in bed, but it seems Sleep melted too soon all her thoughts into dreams ; But hush! by that sudden expansion of brow. Some fairy familiar has whispered it now. How she labours cxaetly each letter to sign. Goes over the whole at the end of each line, . And lays down the pen to clap hands with delight When she finds an idea especially bright. At last the small fingers have crept to an end; No statesman his letter ’twist nations hath penned With more sense of its serious importance, and few In a spirit so loving, so earnest, and true, She smiles at a feat so unwonted and grand, Draws a very long breath, rubs the cramped little hand; May we read it ? Oh yes, my sweet maiden, may be One day you will write what one only must see. “ Hut no one must change it!” No, truly, it ought To keep the fresh bloom on each natural thought! Who would shake off the dew to the rose-leaf that clings? Or the delicate dust from the butterflies wings ? Is it surely a letter. So bashfully lies Uncertainty yet in those beautiful eyes, And the parting lips’ coral is deepening in glow, And the eager flush mounts to the fc rehead of snow. ’Tis informal and slightly discursive, we fear: Not a line without love, but the love is sincere ; Uuchanged, papa said he would have it depart. Like a bright leaf cropped out of her innocent heart. Great news of her garden, her lamb, and her bird, Of mamma, and of baby’s last wonderful won!; With an ardent assurance—they neither can play, Nor learn, nor be happy, while he is away. Will he like it ? Ay, will he ! what letter could seem, Though an angel indited, so charming to him ? How the fortunate poem to honour would rise That should never be read by more critic al eyes! Ah, would for poor rhynuters such favour could be As waits, my fair child, on thy letter and thee!

—Household Words,