Aubrey de Vere (1814–1902)

[See also 1842, 1855, 1861 and 1893]

To an Infant

FAMILIAR Spirit! that so graciously

Dost take whatever fortune may befall;

Trusting thy fragile form to the arms of all,

And never counting it indignity

To be caressed upon the humblest knee;

Thou, having yet no words, aloud dost call

Upon our hearts: the fever and the gall

Of our dark bosoms are reproved in thee.

From selfish fears and lawless wishes free,

Thou hast no painful feeling of thy weakness;

From shafts malign and pride's base agony

Protected by the pillows of thy meekness—

Thou hast thy little loves which do not grieve thee,

Unquiet make thee, or unhappy leave thee.

‘Nations, their mission o'er, their office done’

NATIONS, their mission o'er, their office done,

Are forcibly drawn downwards: and that tide

Which raised them, homeward summoned doth subside.

What man by art can stay the sinking sun,

Or Spring departing when her goal is won?

States too are transient! longer none may bide

When once, its lesson taught or place supplied,

That steadying weight by it sustained is gone.

Be wise then, States! Whate'er the course ye hold,

Strive that your furthest aim subservient be

To the virtuous progress of Humanity.

Woe to that greatness which commercial gold

Alone creates, or seals. Such leaves no trace,

Sinking—and lighter things float up into its place.