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120 Who, when their parents they hold in their arms, Hold the whole world and feel sheltered from harms; Your young soul from Alice your kind mother turns To Charles your father, and in them discerns Matter for laughter, for tears and for dreams; Their love is your all, and it sheds rainbow gleams O'er your horizon. Your universe, your heaven, Are in these,—one that rocks you at even, And one that smiling looks on. At this hour, The brightest of life, as light to the flower Is their presence to you. O blessed trust! In your parents you live, and this is but just. I stand by, humble grandsire; not to grudge To be your playmate, your slave, or your drudge; But content to follow you, and have my part As one of your toys, somewhere in your heart; You come and I go; awaiting for night I hail and worship the dawn of your light. Your blonde brother George and you are enough To a heart not seared by the world's contact rough. I see your glad sports and I wish for no more, After my numberless trials are o'er, Than that your shadow should fall on my tomb While smiling you play 'mid sunshine and bloom. Ah! Our new innocent guest, you were born In an hour for France most sad and forlorn,— Familiar with terrors you played with the asp, You smiled while Paris was at its last gasp, You murmured, dear Jeanne, like bees in a wood, While she girded her arms in wrathful mood; 'Mid clank of the sword and roar of the gun You woke and slept, as though danger were none; And when I see you, Jeanne, and when I hear Your timid accents breaking low, yet clear,