To Miss Charlotte Pulteney, in Her Mother's Arms

Timely blossom, infant fair, Fondling of a happy pair, Every morn and every night Their solicitous delight; Sleeping, waking, still at ease, Pleasing, without skill to please; Little gossip, blithe and hale, Tattling many a broken tale, Singing many a tuneless song, Lavish of a heedless tongue. Simple maiden, void of art, Babbling out the very heart, Yet abandoned to thy will, Yet imagining no ill, Yet too innocent to blush; Like the linnet in the bush, To the mother-linnet's note Moduling her slender throat, Chirping forth thy pretty joys; Wanton in the change of toys, Like the linnet green, in May, Flitting to each bloomy spray; Wearied then, and glad of rest, Like the linnet in the nest. This thy present happy lot, This, in time, will be forgot; Other pleasures, other cares, Ever-busy Time prepares; And thou shalt in thy daughter see This picture once resembled thee.