« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
And when I kneel me by her bed, or by her empty chair,
Oh, father! do you mind the day when here my mother stood,
Oh! the merry bells were ringing, and the Sabbath-day was calm,
diedDoes she hear the glorious music of the crowned and glorified ?
Beneath the illumined heavens at even-time we trod,
'Twas winter when she died, father; snow-clouds were falling fast;
Oh! when you told me she was dead I knew not what you meant,
There were snowdrops in her soft, white palms when she was laid
below, And an infant on her bosom, like a rose-bud i' the snow.
THE GOLDEN AGE.
They lay enclasped in silver shroud; her arms around it wove-
Oh, father! dash away those tears now raining from your eyes ;
Ah ! I long again to lay my head upon my mother's breast;
THE GOLDEN AGE.
NOTHING seems to weigh down their buoyant spirits long; mis fortune may fall to their lot, but the shadows it casts upon their life-path are fleeting as the clouds that come and go in an April sky. Their future may, perchance, appear dark to others, but to their fearless gaze it looms up brilliant and beautiful as the walls of a fairy palace. There is no tear which a mother's gentle hand cannot wipe away, no wound that a mother's kiss cannot heal, no anguish which the sweet murmuring of her soft, low voice cannot soothe. The warm generous impulses of their nature have not been fettered and cramped by the cold formalities of the world; they have not yet learned to veil a hollow heart with false smiles, or hide the basest purposes beneath honeyed words. Neither are they constantly on the alert to search out our faults and foibles with Argus eye; on the contrary, they exercise that blessed charity which " thinketh no evil.”
BETWEEN two breaths, what crowded mysteries lie!
THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD.
They tell me thou art come from a far world,
God! who gavest Into my guiding hand this wanderer, To lead her through a world whose darkling paths I tread with steps so faltering-leave not me To bring her to the gates of heaven, alone!
I feel my feebleness. Let these stay on-
I LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,
And my locks are not yet grey ;
And makes his pulses fly,
And the light of a pleasant eye.
I llave walked the world for fourscore years ;
And they say that I am old,
And my years are well-nigh told.
I'm old, and “I ’bide my time :"
And I half renew my prime.
Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
And the rush of the breathless swing.
And I whoop the smothered call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.
I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go;
And my pulse is getting low;
In treading its gloomy way;
To see the young so gay.
Be it weakness, it deserves some praise,