Читать книгу The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe - Various - Страница 44

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Sweet is the sound of infant voice;

Young innocence is full of charms:

There's not a pleasure half so choice,

As tossing up a child in arms.

Babyhood is a blessed state,

Felicity expressly made for;

But still, on earth it is our fate,

That even "Children must be paid for."

If in an omnibus we ride,

It is a beauteous sight to see,

When full the vehicle inside, Age taking childhood on its knee.

But in the dog-days' scorching heat,

When a slight breath of air is pray'd for,

Half suffocated in our seat,

We feel that "Children must be paid for."

There is about the sports of youth

A charm that reaches every heart,

Marbles or tops are games of truth,

The bat plays no deceiver's part.

But if we hear a sudden crash,

No explanation need be stay'd for,

We know there's something gone to smash;

We feel that "Children must be paid for."

How exquisite the infant's grace,

When, clambering upon the knee,

The cherub, smiling, takes his place

Upon his mother's lap at tea;

Perchance the beverage flows o'er,

And leaves a stain there is no aid for,

On carpet, dress, or chair—Once more

We feel that "Children must be paid for."

Presiding at the festive board,

With many faces laughing round,

Dull melancholy is ignored

While mirth and jollity abound:

We see our table amply spread

With knives and forks a dozen laid for,

Then pause to think—"How are they fed?"

Yes, "Children must indeed be paid for!"

[Illustration: William Cullen Bryant]