WHO WILL CARE?-NIGHT AND DEATH.
Never more to know of sighing,
Evermore to know of rest?
Who will care? No one can tell us,
But if rest and peace befall,
Will it matter if they miss us,
Or they miss us not at all?
Not at all!
Mysterious night! when our first parent knew
Thee from report Divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorius canopy of light and blue?
Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came,
And lo! creation widened in man's view.
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O sun! or who could find,
Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind?
Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife?
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?
No shoes to hide her tiny toes,
No stockings on her feet;
Her supple ankles white as snow,
Or early blossoms sweet.
Her simple dress of sprinkled pink,
Her double, dimpled chin,
Her puckered lip and balmy mouth,
With not one tooth within.
Her eyes so like her mother's eyes,
Two gentle liquid things;
Her face is like an angel's face-
We're glad she has no wings.
She is the budding of our love,
A gift God gave to us;
We must not love the gift o'er well,
'Twould be no blessing thus.
-Changed from the Scotch.
AY my babe upon my bosom,
Let me feel her sweet, warm breath;
A strange chill is passing o'er me,
And I know that it is death.
Let me gaze once more on the treasure
Scarcely given, ere I go;
Feel her rosy, dimpled fingers
Wander o'er my cheeks of snow.
I am passing through the waters;
But the blessed shore appears.
Kneel beside me, husband dearest,
Let me kiss away thy tears.
Wrestle with thy grief as Jacob
Strove from midnight until day;
It will seem an angel visit
When it vanishes away.
Lay my babe upon my bosom-
'Tis not long I'll know she's there.
See how to my heart she nestles-
'Tis a pearl I'd love to wear.
Tell her sometimes of her mother;
You will call her by my name.
Shield her from the winds of sorrow,
If she errs, oh! gently blame.
Lead her sometimes where I'm sleeping,
I will answer when she calls;
And my breath shall stir her ringlets
When my voice in whisper falls,
And her mild, blue eyes will brighten
She will wonder whence it came-
In her heart when years roll o'er her,
She will find her mother's name.
If in after years, beside thee
Sits another in my chair,
If her voice is sweeter music,
And her face than mine, more fair,
If a cherub calls thee "Father,"
Far more beautiful than this,
Love your first-born, oh! my husband,
Turn not from the motherless.
N the dome of my sires as the clear moonbeam falls
Through silence and shade o'er its desolate walls,
It shines from afar like the glories of old:
It gilds but it warms not,-'tis dazzling but cold.
Let the sunbeam be bright for the younger of days;
'Tis the light that should shine on a race that decays,
When the stars are on high and the dews on the ground,
And the long shadow lingers the ruin around.
And the step that o'er-echoes the gray floor of stone
Falls sullenly now, for 'tis only my own;
And sunk are the voices that sounded in mirth,
And empty the goblets, and dreary the hearth.
And vain was each effort to raise and recall
The brightness of old to illumine our hall;
And vain was the hope to avert our decline,
And the fame of my fathers has faded to mine.
And theirs was the wealth and the fullness of fame,
And mine to inherit too haughty a name;
|