THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.
My own little darling-dead!
The dove of my happiness fled!
Just Heaven, forgive,
But let me not live,
Now my poor babe is dead!
No more to my yearning breast
Shall that sweet mouth be prest;
No more on my arm,
Nestled up warm,
Shall my fair darling rest:
Alas, for that dear glazed eye!
Why did it dim or die?
Those lips so soft
I have kissed so oft,
Why are they ice, oh why?
Alas, little frocks and toys,
Shadows of bygone joys,
Have I not treasure
Of bitterest pleasure
In these little frocks and toys?
O, harrowing sight! to behold
That marble-like face all cold,
That small cherish'd form
Flung to the worm,
Deep in the charnel-mould!
Where is each heart-winning way,
Thy prattle, and innocent play?
Alas, they are gone,
And left me alone,
To weep for them night and day!
Yet why should I linger behind? Kill me too! Death most kind, Where can I go
To meet thy blow,
And my sweet babe to find?
Yes, welcome pain, which Thou hast sent; Yes, farewell, blessings, Thou hast lent; With Thee alone I rest content,
For Thou art Heav'n :
My trust reposes, safe and still,
On the wise goodness of Thy will,
Grateful for earthly good-or ill,
Which Thou hast giv'n.
O, blessed Friend! O, blissful thought!
With happiest consolation fraught
Trust Thee I may, I will, I ought;
To doubt, were sin;
Then let whatever storms arise,
Their Ruler sits above the skies,
And lifting unto him mine eyes,
"Tis calm within.
Danger may threaten, foes molest,
Poverty brood, disease infest,
Yea, torn affections wound the breast,
For one sad hour.
But Faith looks to her home on high,
Hope casts around a cheerful eye,
And Love puts all the terrors by
With gladdening power.
WILT thou gaze with me on flowers,
And let their sparkling eyes,
Glancing brightly up to ours,
Teach us to be wise?
The pale narcissus tells of youth
Nurtured in purity and truth;
Violets on the moss-bank green,
Of sweet benevolence unseen;
A rose is blooming charity;
A snow-drop, fair humility;
Yon golden crocus, smiling sweetly,
Smiles, alas, to perish fleetly;
That hyacinth, with cluster'd bells,
Of sympathy in sorrow tells;
This young mimosa, as it trembles,
Affection's thrilling heart resembles;
And the glazed mirtle's fragrant bloom
Hints at a life that mocks the tomb.
What is a flower? a beauteous gem
Set in Nature's diadem,
A sunbeam o'er her tresses flung,
A word from her poetic tongue;
A silent burst of eloquence,
A plaything of Omnipotence;
The poet's eye sees much in these
To learn, and love, and praise, and please.
WEDDING-GIFTS.
YOUNG bride a wreath for thee!
Of sweet and gentle flowers;
For wedded love was pure and free
In Eden's happy bowers.
Young bride a song for thee!
A song of joyous measure,
For thy cup of hope shall be
Fill'd with honied pleasure.
Young bride a tear for thee!
A tear in all thy gladness;
For thy young heart shall not see
Joy unmixed with sadness.
Young bride a smile for thee!
To shine away thy sorrow,
For Heaven is kind to-day, and we
Will hope as well to-morrow.
Young bride a prayer for thee!
That all thy hopes possessing,
Thy soul may praise her God, and he
May crown thee with his blessing.
It is most genial to a soul refined
When love can smile, unblushing, unconceal'd, When mutual thoughts and words and acts are kind, And inmost hopes and feelings are reveal'd,
When interest, duty, trust, together bind,
And the heart's deep affections are unseal'd,
When for each other live the kindred pair,
Here is indeed a picture passing fair!
Hail, happy state! which few have heart to sing,
Because they feel how faintly words express
So kind, and dear, and chaste, and sweet a thing
As tried affection's lasting tenderness ;-
Yet stop, my venturous muse, and fold thy wing,
Nor to a shrine so sacred rudely press;
For, marriage-thine is still a silent boast,
Like "beauty unadorned, adorned the most."
A GLIMPSE OF PARADISE.
Not many rays of heaven's unfallen sun
Reach the dull distance of this world of ours,
Nor oft dispel its shadows cold and dun,
Nor oft with glory tint its faded flowers:
But, oh, if ever yet there wandered one,
Like Peri from her amaranthine bowers,
Or ministering angel, sent to bless,
'Twas to thy hearth, domestic happiness,
Where in the sunshine of a peaceful home
Love's choicest roses bud, and burst, and bloom,
And bleeding hearts, lull'd in a holy calm,
Bathe their deep wounds in Gilead's healing balm.
THOU, more than all endeared to this glad heart
By gentle smiles, and patience under pain,
I bless my God and thee, for all thou art,
My crowning joy, my richest earthly gain!
To thee is due this tributary strain
For all the well-observed kind offices
That spring spontaneous from a heart, imbued
With the sweet wish of living but to please;
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