THE hour arrives, the moment wished and feared;
The child is born, by many a pang endeared.
And now the mother's ear has caught his cry;
Oh grant the cherub to her asking eye!
He comes-she clasps him. To her bosom pressed,
He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest.
Her by her smile how soon the stranger knows,
How soon by his the glad discovery shows!
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy,
What answering looks of sympathy and joy!
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard.
And ever, ever to her lap he flies,
When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise.
Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung,
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue,)
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And cheek to cheek her lulling song she sings,
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart ;
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove,
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!
WHY sits so long beside yon cottage-door
That aged man with tresses thin and hoar?
Fixed are his eyes in one continual gaze,
Nor seem to feel the sun's meridian blaze;
Yet are the orbs with youthlike colours bright,
As o'er the iris falls the trembling light.
Changeless his mien; not even one flitting trace
Of spirit wanders o'er his furrowed face;
No feeling moves his venerable head:
He sitteth there-an emblem of the dead!
The staff of age lies near him on the seat,
His faithful dog is slumbering at his feet,
And yon fair child, who steals an hour for play,
While thus her father rests upon his way,
Her sport will leave, nor cast one look behind,
Soon as she hears his voice, for he is blind!
List! as in tones through deep affection mild, He speaks by name to the delighted child!
Then, bending mute in dreams of painful bliss,
Breathes o'er her neck a father's tenderest kiss,
And with light hand upon her forehead fair
Smooths the stray ringlets of her silky hair!
A beauteous phantom rises through the night
For ever brooding o'er his darkened sight,
So clearly imaged both in form and limb,
He scarce remembers that his eyes are dim,
But thinks he sees in truth the vernal wreath
His gentle infant wove, that it might breathe
A sweet restoring fragrance through his breast,
Chosen from the wild-flowers that he loves the best.
In that sweet trance he sees the sparkling glee
That sanctifies the face of infancy;
The dimpled cheek where playful fondness lies,
And the blue softness of her smiling eyes;
The spirit's temple, unprofaned by tears,
Where God's unclouded loveliness appears;
Those gleams of soul to every feature given,
When youth walks guiltless by the light of Heaven !
OFT have been sung in poet's lays
The young child's beauty, and the winning grace
Of all his simple ways,
The loveliness of his sweet loving face,
The gladness of his days;
The unsought serene sleep
That gradually doth creep
On his soft eyelids,-delicately closing
Those inlets of the world without,
That he, in silence and in shade reposing,
His innocent young thoughts may fold
Around his heart, safe-gathered from the cold
Companionship of selfish fear and doubt.
These have been sung by many a sweet-toned lyre, But higher strains are theirs whose minds have
The depths of the child's heart to pierce, in pure
To commune with the beauty there enwrought
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