For the same sound is in my ears Thus fares it still in our decay; Mourns less for what Age takes away Than what it leaves behind. 'The blackbird amid leafy trees, Let loose their carols when they please, With Nature never do they wage A happy youth, and their old age But we are pressed by heavy laws; If there be one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The household hearts that were his own It is the man of mirth. My days, my friend, are almost gone, My life has been approved, And many love me; but by none Am I enough beloved." "Now both himself and me he wrongs, The man who thus complains! I live and sing my idle songs And, Matthew, for thy children dead I'll be a son to thee !" At this he grasped my hand, and said, "Alas! that cannot be." We rose up from the fountain-side, And ere we came to Leonard's Rock, And the bewildered chimes. WORDSWORTH. FROM INDIA. Он, come you from the Indies, and, soldier, can you tell Aught of the gallant 90th, and who are safe and well? O soldier, say my son is safe, (for nothing else I care,) And you shall have a mother's thanks-shall have a widow's prayer!" Oh, I've come from the Indies, I've just come from the war, And well I know the 90th, and gallant lads they are: From colonel down to rank and file, I know my comrades well, And news I've brought for you, mother, your Robert bade me tell." "And do you know my Robert now! oh, tell me, tell me true O soldier, tell me word for word all that he said to you! His very words-my own boy's words-O tell me every one! You little know how dear to his old mother is my son!" "Through Havelock's fights and marches the 90th were there; In all the gallant 90th did, your Robert did his share : Twice he went into Lucknow, untouched by steel or ball; And you may bless your God, old dame, that brought him safe through all.” 66 Oh, thanks unto the living God, that heard his mother's prayer, The widow's cry that rose on high her only son to spare! O bless'd be God, that turned from him the sword and shot away! And what to his old mother did my darling bid you say?" 'Mother, he saved his colonel's life, and bravely it was done; In the despatch they told it all, and named and praised your son: A medal and a pension's his; good luck to him, I say; And he has not a comrade but will wish him well to-day." “Now, soldier, blessings on your tongue!--O husband, that you knew How well our boy pays me this day for all that I've gone through; All I have done and borne for him the long years since you're dead! But, soldier, tell me how he looked, and all my Robert said." "He's bronzed, and tanned, and bearded, and you'd hardly know him, dame: We've made your boy into a man, but still his heart's the same; For often, dame, his talk's of you, and always to one tune;— But there, his ship is nearly home, and he'll be with you soon." "Oh! is he really coming home, and shall I really see My boy again, my own boy, home? and when, when will it be? Did you say soon?"- "Well, he is home; keep cool, old dame; he's here." "O Robert! my own blessed boy !"--"O mother!-mother dear!" W. BENNETT. EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL. HUSH! 'tis a holy hour!-the quiet room Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom And the sweet stillness, down on bright young heads, With all their clustering locks untouched by care, And bowed-as flowers are bowed with night-in prayer. Gaze on!-'tis lovely!-childhood's lip and cheek And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? O joyous creatures! that will sink to rest Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs Her lot is on you!-silent tears to weep; A patient smile to wear through suffering's hour; And sumless riches, from affection's deep, To pour on broken reed: a wasted shower; And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship;--therefore pray! Her lot is on you!—to be found untired, Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, And, oh! to love through all things!-therefore pray! And take the thought of this calm vesper-time, With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, On through the dark days fading from their prime, As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight! Earth will forsake-oh! happy to have given The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven! B. BARTON. WE'LL BIDE TOGETHER. GREAT tears rolled down his rugged cheek, Till pillowed on his aged breast The little outcast slept; And while he viewed the early marks Of sorrow and neglect, Some pitying angel bade him then That orphan child protect. "Thou canst not brave," he softly said, A smile was on the old man's face, As Gerty, when the spring returned, Her trembling hand in his he held : Ah! Heaven was kind to me," He said, "who sent this orphan child, My joy in age to be. 'Tis sweet to rove this old green lane, And know that I am not alone Thank Heaven! we bide together." |