May that dear hand uphold me still,
Through life's uncertain race,
To bring me to thine holy hill,
And to thy dwelling-place.
OH, Charity! our helpless nature's pride,
Thou friend to him who knows no friend beside,
Is there in morning's breath, or the sweet gale
That steals o'er the tired pilgrim of the vale,
Cheering with fragrance fresh his weary frame,
Aught like the incense of thy holy flame?
Is aught in all the beauties that adorn
The azure heav'n, or purple lights of morn?
Is aught so fair in ev'ning's ling'ring gleam,
As from thine eye the meek and pensive beam
That falls like saddest moonlight on the hill,
And distant grove, when the wide world is still?
Thine are the ample views, that unconfined
Stretch to the utmost walks of humankind;
Thine is the spirit that with widest plan
Brother to Brother binds, and Man to Man!
WHO loves me best? my mother sweet,
Whose every look with love is replete :
Who held me an infant on her knee,
Who hath ever watched me tenderly;
And yet I have heard my mother say
That she some time must pass away;
Who then shall shield me from earthly ill?
Some one must love me better still!
Who loves me best? my father dear,
Who loveth to have me always near;
He whom I fly each eve to meet,
When past away is the noontide heat;
Who from the bank where the sunbeam lies
Brings me the wild wood-strawberries;
Oh he is dear as my mother to me,
But he will perish, even as she!
Who loves me best? the gentle dove,
That I have tamed with my childish love,
That every one, save myself, doth fear,
Whose soft coo soundeth when I come near :
Yet perhaps it but loves me because I bring
To its cage the drops from the clearest spring,
And hang green branches round its door;
Something, surely, must love me more!
Who loves me best? my sister fair,
With her laughing eyes, and her clustering hair;
Who flowers around my head doth twine,
Who presseth her rosy lips to mine,
Who singeth me songs in her artless glee,
Can any love me better than she?
Yet when I asked, that sister confest,
Of all, she did not love me best!
Who loves me best? my brother young,
With his healthy cheek, and his lisping tongue,
Who delighteth to lead me in merry play
Far down the greenwood's bushy way;
Who showeth me where the hazel-nuts grow,
And where the fairest field-flowers blow;
Yet perhaps he loves me no more than the rest— How shall I find who loves me best?
My white dove loves me-but that may fly;
My father loves me--he may be changed;
I have heard of brothers and sisters estranged:
If they should forsake me, what should I do?
Where should I bear my sad heart to?
Some one surely would be my stay,
Some one must love me better than they!
Yes, fair child, there is One above,
Who loves thee with an unchangeable love;
He who formed these frail, dear things,
To which the young heart fondly clings,
Even though all should forsake thee, still
He would protect thee through every ill :
Oh, is not such love worth all the rest?
Child! it is God who loves thee best!
TO TWO YOUNG LADIES.
WHEN tender rose-trees first receive,
On half-expanded leaves, the shower,
Hope's gayest pictures we believe,
And anxious watch each coming flower.
Then, if beneath the genial sun,
That spreads abroad the full-blown May, Two infant stems the rest outrun,
Their buds the first to meet the day,
With joy their op'ning tints we view, While morning's precious moments fly : My pretty maids, 'tis thus with you; The fond admiring gazer, I.
Still may the favouring Muse be found;
Still circumspect the paths ye tread:
Plant moral truths in Fancy's ground,
And meet old age without a dread.
Yet, ere that comes, while yet we quaff
The cup of health without a pain,
I'll shake my gray hairs when you laugh,
And when you sing be young again.
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