All know baby Beatrice!
With her clear eyes, nor sly nor simple,
And merry bright curls of sunstreak'd brown,
Her broad brow arch'd for a laurel crown,
Her shy lip curved for a mother's kiss,
Ankle and wrist that a fay might own,
Waxen cheeks with a lurking dimple,
A two years' shape, a six years' air,
A neck as white as the lily's wimple.
And better and happier far than this,
To keep her from doing or dreaming amiss,
Two guardian spirits hold her in care,
Whom wizards twain of matchless mind,
The greatest that ever have witch'd mankind,
Sang into being from ether and flame,
And gave to the nursling to brighten her name;
Dante for Italy, where her life groweth,
Shakespeare for England, whence her blood floweth.
She has Beatrice dark, and Beatrice fair,
Beatrice saint, and Beatrice woman.
One throned with the angels in deep blue air,
One sporting and jesting with all things human.
The wand of dominion they hold by turns,
Calling glad smiles to the eyes that love her,
Whether of this one or that she learns.
For her little bright soul, like a glassy stream,
Changing and ranging from shade to beam,
Tells which of her name- saints bends above her.

           Now 'tis grave-eyed Beatrice!
And tender and still as a new-made bride,
Her baby Saintship puts aside
Her frolicsome freaks, with deep eyes glistening,
And sits as her inner sense were listening
To a heartful of plaintive melodies.
Or over the cups of the wind-flowers pied,
After her sweet and earnest fashion,
She folds soft hands of adoration,
With such pure worship, through lawn and dell
The stern world-poet of heaven and hell
Saw Beatrice the angel glide
Over the golden and crimson blossoms
Of the penal mount, whose clear deep tide
"The brown perpetual shade" embosoms.
A lonely maiden who roam'd along,
Choosing fresh flowers to match her song.

            Anon 'tis madcap Beatrice!
Hazel-eyed Beatrice—flirt and sinner!
And straight her baby highness pleases
To banter her subjects, and twits and teazes,
(Shrieking with laughter and wild caprice.)
Her luckless Benedicks, frock'd and belted,
Who, spite of their sighs, get pinch'd and pelted.
Yet warm sweet womanhood buds within her,
Making her helpful, and kind, and tender
To all weak creatures that chance may send her.
           Kitten and cur
           Call friends with her,
And she rights their wrongs with a mighty stir,
Protecting, directing, and making them share
Her pretty previsions of motherly care.
With such warm service at Sicily's court,
The wise-world poet of sooth and sport
Saw Beatrice, the madcap, stand
(To never a jest nor a gibe replying),
And wring the glove from her small clench'd hand,
Looking hot scorn on the courtiers bland,
At sight of her "sweet coz " wrong'd and dying.
A brave true woman who sobb'd and spake,
"O were I man for my cousin's sake! "

           Bless thee, baby Beatrice
Bright little lode-star of many a love
Cherish'd and cherishing, priceless possession!
Say an amen to my heart's profession;—
The pretty so be it of one sweet kiss!
Then sleep, to the music that lull'd thee above,
For once on his bosom an angel wore thee.
            Therefore thou earnest
            Smiles from the sternest;
Therefore God's garden yet blooms before thee,
Rock'd in thy dream on the heart that bore thee.

PHYSIC A-FIELD.

PHYSIC was all a-field with the learned two
or three centuries ago, and it is so still with
the unlearned in our villages and country
towns.

Here is a book printed in black letter,
which contains nearly eight hundred
prescriptions, under the title of "A Rich
Storehouse or Treasurie for the Diseased,
wherein are many approved medicines for
divers and sundrie diseases which have beene
long hidden, and not come to light before this
time. First, set forth for the benefit of the
poorer sorte of people, that are not of abilitie
to goe to the Physicians." The book was
published upwards of two centuries ago, and
marvellous as its ideas may now seem to
educated people, it is proper to state that few
of them are altogether obsolete, that at least
every one can be matched with some notion
of its kind that will look quite as absurd in
the light of existing knowledge.

Physic a-field did not overlook even the
blades of meadow-grass. And who that took
note of the grass would overlook the little
modest, crimson-tippit flower which a good
modern poet has characterised in a tooth-
breaking line as:—

"Fringed with pink-tipped petals piled."

"Take a good quantitie of small daysies,"
says Master Blower, author of the Treasurie,
"and boyle them in a little faire running
water, and straine them, and let the patient
drinke the juyce thereof and it will cure him
of the ague."

Such being the strength of daisies, of course
primroses assert their power. It was not the
fault of the simple gatherer if the poets
talked of The rath Primrose that forsaken
blooms; by him, at least, its blossoms were
sought after. Powder of primroses blown
into the nose through a quill, is recommended
by Master Blower, as a certain cure for
stoppage in the nose and head resulting from a
cold.

When a man feels weak in the back let him
"Take a quart of sacke, a top of rosemary,
winter-sucory, and peniroyall, of each a like
quantitie, ginger and nuttrneggs, as much as
will burne the wine: then take two new-laid
egs, yolkes and all, and temper them with
three or foure spoonefulls of red rose-water,
and put thereto a good piece of fine suger,