Page images
PDF
EPUB

'Tis hard to lay thy darling
Deep in the damp cold earth;

His empty crib to see,

His silent nursery,

Once gladsome with bis mirth.

To meet again in slumber

His small mouth's rosy kiss; Then, wakened with a start, By thine own throbbing heart, His twining arms to miss!

To feel (half conscious why)

A dull, heart-sinking weight, Till memory on thy soul Flashes the painful whole, That thou art desolate'

And then to lie and weep,

And think the live-long night,
Feeding thine own distress
With accurate greediness
Of ever^ past delight.

Of all his winning ways,
His pretty, playful smiles,
His joy at sight of thee,
His tricks, his mimicry,
And all his little wiles!

Oh! these are recollections

Round mothers' hearts that cling, That mingle with the tears And smiles of after years,

With oft awakening.

But thou wilt then, fond mother,

In after years look back, (Time brings such wonderous easing,) With sadness not unpleasing,

E'en on this gloomy track.

Thou'lt say, ' My first born blessing!

It almost broke my heart, When thou wert forced to go; And yet, for thee I know,

'Twas better to depart.

'God took thee in his mei;cy,

A lamb untasked, untried, He fought the fight for thee, He won the victory I

And thou art sanctified!

[graphic]

'I look around and see

The evil ways of men, And Oh ! beloved child I I'm more than reconciled

To thy departure thenv

'The little aims that clasped me, The innocent lips that pressed,

Would they have been as pure

Till now, as when of yore
I lulled thee on my breast?

'Now. (like a dew drop shrined

Within a crystal stone,) Thou'rt safe in heaven my deve! Safe with the source of Love!

The everlasting One.

'And when the hour arrives,

From life that sets me free ,-
Thy spirit may await,
The first at heaven's gate,

To meet and welcome me.*

''. Anon SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers around her are sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying!

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,

Every note which he loved awaking:
Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!

He had lived for his love, for his country he died;

They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,

Nor long will his love stay behind him!

Oil! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;

'They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west,
From her own loved island of sorrow!

Moore.

TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LAD

She is gone far away to where Seraphs shall sing

Her welcome to bowers of bliss!
And the harps of the blest shall sweetly ring

For her flight from a world like this!

She has gone to the home of the gentle heart,

With spirits of light around her— Where the glow of that innocence ne'er shall depart

In which heaven's messenger found her.

Then weep not for her who brightly came

To beam round her path delight,
And ere earth sullied the soul's pure flame,

Has fled with an angel's flight.

.
Thou blossoming virtue '. thou could'st not die f

But a brighter clime is o'er thee,
And it is not thy fate that demands a sigh.
But the desolate hearts that depiere thee!

Anon

« PreviousContinue »