Imagini ale paginilor
PDF
ePub

That on the fleck and moult of brutish beasts
Had been too happy, sleep in cloth of gold
Whereof each thread is to this beating heart
As a peculiar darling? Lo, the flies

Hum o'er him! lo, a feather from the crow
Falls in his parted lips! Lo, his dead eyes
See not the raven! Lo, the worm, the worm,
Creeps from his festering corse? My God! my

God!

O Lord, Thou doest well. I am content.
If Thou have need of him he shall not stay.
But as one calleth to a servant, saying
"At such a time be with me," so, O Lord,
Call him to Thee! O, bid him not in haste
Straight whence he standeth. Let him lay aside
The soiléd tools of labor. Let him wash
His hands of blood. Let him array himself
Meet for his Lord, pure from the sweat and fume
Of corporal travail! Lord, if he must die,
Let him die here. O, take him where Thou gavest!

THE MOTHER'S HOPE

BY LAMAN BLANCHARD

Is there, when the winds are singing
In the happy summer-time,-
When the raptured air is ringing
With Earth's music heavenward springing,

Forest chirp, and village chime,

Is there, of the sounds that float

Unsighingly, a single note

Half so sweet and clear and wild
As the laughter of a child?

Listen! and be now delighted:

Morn hath touched her golden strings;
Earth and Sky their vows have plighted;
Life and light are reunited
Amid countless carollings;
Yet, delicious as they are,

There's a sound that's sweeter far,-
One that makes the heart rejoice
More than all,-the human voice!

Organ finer, deeper, clearer,

Though it be a stranger's tone,-
Than the winds or waters dearer,
More enchanting to the hearer,
For it answereth to his own.
But, of all its witching words,
Sweeter than the song of birds,
Those are sweetest, bubbling wild
Through the laughter of a child.

Harmonies from time-touched towers,
Haunted strains from rivulets,
Hum of bees among the flowers,
Rustling leaves, and silver showers,-
These, ere long, the ear forgets;
But in mine there is a sound
Ringing on the whole year round,—

Heart-deep laughter that I heard
Ere my child could speak a word.

Ah! 'twas heard by ear far purer,
Fondlier formed to catch the strain,-
Ear of one whose love is surer,—
Hers, the mother, the endurer

Of the deepest share of pain ;
Hers the deepest bliss to treasure
Memories of that cry of pleasure,
Hers to hoard, a lifetime after,
Echoes of that infant laughter.

'Tis a mother's large affection

Hears with a mysterious sense,-
Breathings that evade detection,
Whisper faint, and fine inflection,

Thrill in her with power intense.
Childhood's honeyed words untaught
Hiveth she in loving thought,—
Tones that never thence depart;
For she listens with her heart.

[ocr errors]

THE MOTHER'S HEART

BY MRS. NORTON

When first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond,
My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure,

My heart received thee with a joy beyond

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure;

Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years,
And natural piety that leaned to heaven;
Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,

Yet patient to rebuke when justly given;
Obedient, easy to be reconciled,

And meekly cheerful; such wert thou, my child!

Not willing to be left- still by my side,

Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to glide

Through the dark room where I was sadly lying; Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, Watch the dim eye, and kiss the fevered cheek.

O boy! of such as thou are oftenest made
Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower,
No strength in all freshness, prone to fade,

And bending weakly to the thunder-shower;
Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind,
And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind!

Then THOU, my merry love,- bold in thy glee,
Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing,
With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free,-
Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing,
Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth,

Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth!

Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of joy,

Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth; Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy,

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth; And many a mirthful jest and mock reply Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye.

And thine was many an art to win and bless,

The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming; The coaxing smile, the frequent soft caress,

The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming! Again my heart a new affection found,

But thought that love with thee had reached its bound.

At length THOU camest,- thou, the last and least, Nicknamed" the Emperor " by thy laughing brothers, Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast,

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others, Mingling with every playful infant wile

A mimic majesty that made us smile.

And O, most like a regal child wert thou!

An eye of resolute and successful scheming!
Fair shoulders, curling lips, and dauntless brow,
Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming;
And proud the lifting of thy stately head,
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.

Different from both! yet each succeeding claim
I, that all other love had been forswearing,
Forthwith admitted, equal and the same;

Nor injured either by this love's comparing,

« ÎnapoiContinuă »