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("Vous eûtes donc hier un an.") {September, 1870.} You've lived a year, then, yesterday, sweet child, Prattling thus happily! So fledglings wild, New-hatched in warmer nest 'neath sheltering bough, Chirp merrily to feel their feathers grow. Your mouth's a rose, Jeanne! In these volumes grand Whose pictures please you—while I trembling stand To see their big leaves tattered by your hand— Are noble lines; but nothing half your worth, When all your tiny frame rustles with mirth To welcome me. No work of author wise Can match the thought half springing to your eyes, And your dim reveries, unfettered, strange, Regarding man with all the boundless range Of angel innocence. Methinks, 'tis clear That God's not far, Jeanne, when I see you here. Ah! twelve months old: 'tis quite an age, and brings Grave moments, though your soul to rapture clings, You're at that hour of life most like to heaven, When present joy no cares, no sorrows leaven When man no shadow feels: if fond caress Round parent twines, children the world possess. Your waking hopes, your dreams of mirth and love From Charles to Alice, father to mother, rove; No wider range of view your heart can take Than what her nursing and his bright smiles make; They two alone on this your opening hour Can gleams of tenderness and gladness pour: They two—none else, Jeanne! Yet 'tis just, and I, Poor grandsire, dare but to stand humbly by. You come—I go: though gloom alone my right, Blest be the destiny which gives you light. Your fair-haired brother George and you beside Me play—in watching you is all my pride; And all I ask—by countless sorrows tried— The grave; o'er which in shadowy form may show Your cradles gilded by the morning's glow. Pure new-born wonderer! your infant life Strange welcome found, Jeanne, in this time of strife. Like wild-bee humming through the woods your play, And baby smiles have dared a world at bay: Your tiny accents lisp their gentle charms To mighty Paris clashing mighty arms. Ah! when I see you, child, and when I hear You sing, or try, with low voice whispering near, And touch of fingers soft, my grief to cheer, I dream this darkness, where the tempests groan, Trembles, and passes with half-uttered moan. For though these hundred towers of Paris bend, Though close as foundering ship her glory's end, Though rocks the universe, which we defend; Still to great cannon on our ramparts piled, God sends His blessing by a little child. MARWOOD TUCKER.
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