e wardrobe of the world!
You shall not find me there
So rarely made, so richly wrought,
So glorious a pair.

And why? Because they tell of her,
Now sound asleep above,
Whose form is moving beauty, and
Whose heart is beating love.

They tell me of her merry laugh;
Her rich, whole-hearted glee;
Her gentleness, her innocence,
And infant purity.

They tell me that her wavering steps
Will long demand my aid;
For the old road of human life
Is very roughly laid.

High hills and swift descents abound;
And, on so rude a way,
Feet that can wear these coverings
Would surely go astray.

Sweet little girl! be mine the task
Thy feeble steps to tend!
To be thy guide, thy counsellor,
Thy playmate and thy friend!

And when my steps shall faltering grow,
And thine be firm and strong,
Thy strength shell lead my tottering age
In cheerful peace along.

The Old Cradle

And this was your cradle?
Why, surely, my Jenny,
Such slender dimensions
Go somewhat to show
You were a delightfully
Small picaninny
Some nineteen or twenty
Short summers ago.

Your baby-day flowed
In a much troubled channel;
I see you as then
In your impotent strife,
A tight little bundle
Of wailing and flannel,
Perplexed with that
Newly-found fardel called Life,

To hint at an infantine
Frailty is scandal;
Let bygones be bygones--
And somebody knows
It was bliss such a baby
To dance and to dandle,
Your cheeks were so velvet,
So rosy your toes.

Ay, here is your cradle,
And Hope, a bright spirit,
With love now is watching
Beside it, I know.
They guard the small nest
You yourself did inherit
Some nineteen or twenty
Short summers ago.

It is Hope gilds the future--
Love welcomes it smiling;
Thus wags this old world,
Therefore stay not to ask,
"My future bids fair,
Is my future beguiling?"
If masked, still it pleases--
Then raise not the mask.

Is life a poor coil
Some would gladly be doffing?
He is riding post-haste
Who their wrongs will adjust;
For at most 'tis a footstep
From cradle to coffin--
From a spoonful of pap
To a mouthful of dust.

Then smile as your future
Is smiling, my Jenny!
Tho' blossoms of promise
Are lost in the rose,
I still see the face
Of my small picaninn