Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/207

 THE LITTLE HAND.

��THOU wak'st, my baby boy, from sleep, And through its silken fringe

Thine eye, like violet, pure and deep, Gleams forth with azure tinge.

With what a smile of gladness, meek,

Thy radiant brow is drest, While fondly to a mother's cheek

Thy lip and hand are prest.

That little hand ! what prescient wit

Its history may discern, When time its tiny nerves hath knit

With manhood's sinews stern ?

The artist's pencil shall it guide ?

Or spread the adventurous sail ? Or guide the plough with rustic pride,

And ply the sounding flail ?

Through music's labyrinthine maze, With dexterous ardour rove,

�� �