Harmless, happy little treasures,
Full of truth, and trust, and mirth,
Richest wealth and purest pleasures
In this mean and guilty earth,--

How I love you, pretty creatures,
Lamb-like flock of little things,
Where the love that lights your features
From the heart in beauty springs!

On these laughing rosy faces
There are no deep lines of sin,
None of passion's dreary traces
That betray the wounds within;

But your's is the sunny dimple
Radiant with untutor'd smiles,
Your's the heart, sincere and simple,
Innocent of selfish wiles;

Your's the natural curling tresses,
Prattling tongues and shyness coy,
Tottering steps, and kind caresses,
Pure with health, and warm with joy!

These dull slaves of gain, or passion
Cannot love you as they should;
Those poor worldly fools of fashion
Would not love you if they could:

Write them childless, as cold-hearted,
Who can scorn thy generous boon,
And whose souls with fear have smarted,
Lest -- Thy blessings come too soon!

While he hath a child to love him
No man can be poor indeed,
While he trusts a Friend above him,
None can sorrow, fear, or need:

But for thee, whose hearth is lonely
And unwarm'd by children's mirth,
Spite of riches, thou art only
Desolate and poor on earth:

All unkiss'd by innocent beauty,
All unloved by guileless heart,
All uncheer'd by sweetest duty,--
Childless one, how poor thou art!