Presently, in the edge of the last tint
Of sunset, where the blue was melted in
To the faint golden mellowness-a star
Peep'd suddenly. A laugh of wild delight
Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands,
Her simple thoughts broke forth expressively—
“Father, dear father! God has made a star!"
TO MY LITTLE SON ON HIS LEAVING
WOULD that a mother's prayers could take the form Of guardian angels, hover o'er thy head,
Be round thy path where'er thy footsteps tread, And shield my child from every outward storm, From grief, or aught of ill that might deform That innocence and inward peace, which shed A joy in his young heart-where is no dread No guile, nor sin, but thoughts all pure and warm! And is there not, child of my cherished love And fondest hopes, an unseen heavenly band Of guardian spirits, sent by Him above, Who hath for thee, for all, a father's care ? Ye can not " perish," for your " angels" stand Before God's" face," and of His Spirit are!
Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise,
We love the play-place of our early days;
The scene is touching, and the heart is stone
That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.
The wall on which we tried our graving skill,
The very name we carved subsisting still;
The bench on which we sat, while deep employed,
Tho' mangled, hacked, and hewed, not yet destroyed:
The little ones, unbuttoned, glowing hot,
Playing our games, and on the very spot,
As happy as we once, to kneel and draw
The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw;
To pitch the ball into the grounded hat,
Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat;
The pleasing spectacle at once excites
Such recollection of our own delights,
That viewing it, we seem almost t' obtain
Our innocent sweet simple years again.
TO A CHILD BLOWING BUBBLES.
"Oh that I were once more a careless child."
THRICE happy babe! what golden dreams are thine, As thus thou bid'st thine air-born bubbles soar!Who would not wisdom's choicest gifts resign,
To be like thee, "a careless child” once more!
To share thy simple sports, thy sinless glee,
Thy breathless wonder, thy unfeigned delight,As one by one those sun-touched glories flee, In swift succession, from thy straining sight!—
To feel a power within himself to make,
Like thee, a rainbow wheresoe'er he goes;
To dream of sunshine, and like thee to wake
To brighter visions from his charmed repose?
Who would not give his all of worldly lore,
The hard-earned fruits of many a toil and
Might he but thus the faded past restore,—
Thy guileless thoughts and blissful ignorance
share?
Yet life hath bubbles too,—that soothe awhile
The sterner dreams of man's maturer years;
Love, Friendship, Fortune, Fame, by turn beguile,
But melt 'neath Truth's Ithuriel touch to tears!
Thrice happy child! a brighter lot is thine!
(What new illusion e'er can match the first?)
We weep to see each cherished hope decline;
Thy mirth is loudest when thy bubbles burst!
THE mother's face, it is pale with care,
Though lighted with smiles such as mothers wear:
Though sickly the hue which is on the brow,
The eye beams with love and with joy below;
There's a hope and a trust in that mother's heart—
She does not dream of the hour to part.
And now she has bended her knee to pray,
While sickness is wasting her life away;
Her hands are folded in fervent love,
Her spirit's desire is borne above;
O! not for herself those pleadings deep-
For the health of her child in his rosy sleep.
For him with the bright and the sunny face,
Which daily ripens in bloom and
grace;
Oh! her dreams are all of his future years:
She fancies his griefs with a mother's tears;
And yet at his smile sweet visions play,
To chase all those sadder thoughts away.
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