The sick'ning waste of toil and cares. -And though, perchance, the ingrate knee Bends not in praise, or prayer to thee, Though Sin that stole with traitor-sway Even Peter's loyalty away, May strongly weave its seven-fold snare, Yet not the morn with cheering eye 17 "TWAS BUT A BABE. I ASKED them why the verdant turf was riven Rating its priceless idols as ye weigh Sink in the thronging tomb; but when the breath Repress your measured sympathies, and say "Twas but a babe." What know ye of her love Who patient watcheth, till the stars grow dim, What know ye of her woe who sought no joy More exquisite, than on his placid brow To trace the glow of health, and drink at dawn Go, ask that musing father, why yon grave, So narrow, and so noteless, might not close Without a tear? And though his lip be mute, Feeling the poverty of speech to give Fit answer to thee, still his pallid brow, And the deep agonising prayer that loads Midnight's dark wing to Him, the God of strength, May satisfy thy question. Ye, who mourn Whene'er yon vacant cradle, or the robes That decked the lost one's form, call back a tide Of alienated joy, can ye not trust Your treasure to His arms, whose changeless care Passeth a mother's love? When a few hasting years Can ye not hope their course have run, To go to him, though he no more on earth Returns to you? And when glad faith doth catch Some echo of celestial harmonies, Archangel's praises, with the high response Of cherubim, and seraphim, oh think Think that your babe is there. A MOTHER'S COUNSELS. DAUGHTER, the Book Divine, When prosperous skies unclouded shine, Is ever open to thine eye, Imprint it on thy soul, And wisdom that can never die Shall thy young thoughts control. Sweetest, the cheek of bloom, The clay-cold coloring of the tomb : Who loves the humble mind, And whose high promise is, that all Come, ere thy hand hath wove Come, ere a worn and wither'd love Is all thou hast to bring, Remember thy Creator's power, While life from care is free, That when the days of darkness lower, He may remember thee. Yes, give thy heart to Him, While budding Hope is green, And when thy mother's eye is dim When this fond arm that circles thee Must chill and powerless lie, Our parting tear, the pledge shall be 17* |