The nerveless limb, and starts the sleepless eye.
Take too, the stormy joy of deadly strife,
Spill blood, and trample on the mangled form
And like a demon, drink the groans of pain.
Yet sometimes, when the midnight bowl is drained
And thou art tossing in thy broken dream,
Bethink thee, soldier, of a cottage home
All desolate, its drooping vines untrained,
Its wintry hearth unfed, and she, with cheek
As pale as penury and woe can make,
(Why dost thou start?) and her once blooming ones Some at hard service, where their bitter bread
Is scantily doled out, and some who ask
Her shuddering heart, for what she cannot give.
-Still doth the vision open?
The white-hair'd father hath his rest in one,
And she, who died lamenting for the son
Who snatch'd the morsel from her feeble hand,
Nor sought her blessing when he went to war,
Sleeps in the other.
Dreamer! wake not yet.
Toward the peaceful shades
Of his own village, comes a poor, lone man
Whom misery and vice have made their own.
His head is bandaged, and his swollen limbs
Drag heavily. He hath no th.eshold stone,
No friend to welcome.
His heaven sworn duties, and his humble home, And chose his pittance from the cannon's mouth?
BAPTISM OF THE FIRST BORN.
"Come dearest, come, the Sabbath-bell
Hath almost rung its closing knell;
Give me our babe, and haste away,
With gladness on its christening day."
Yet still the youthful mother prest
Her first-born darling to her breast,
And, careful o'er the grassy way,
That 'tween the church and cottage lay,
The precious burden chose to take,
Scarce breathing, lest its sleep should break.
-And those were near, who well might say
How late, the gayest of the gay,
Her footstep in the dance was light,
Her eye, in mirthful revels bright,
And she, the fairest of the fair,
Elate with joy, and free from care.
But now, while holier thoughts prevail,
Her chasten'd beauty, lily-pale,
The fervor of the prayer that stole
In new devotion from her soul,
Gave higher charms to brow and cheek,
Such as an angel's love might speak.
Close in her steps, an aged pair,
With furrow'd face, and silver hair,
Press toward the font, intent to see
The honor done to infancy.
Oh, Grandsire! short the season seems,
An April day of showers and beams,
Since she, who totters by thy side,
Blush'd in her loveliness, a bride,
Since here, with hope's bright visions fraught
Thy consecrated babes were brought.
-The rite is o'er, the blessing said,
The first-born finds his cradle-bed;
Young Mother! prompt must be thy part
To pour instruction o'er his heart;
For scarce upon our infant eyes
The sprinkled dew of baptism dries,
Ere the thick frost of manhood's care,
And strong Death's icy seal are there.
COME, gather to this burial-place, ye gay!
Ye, of the sparkling eye, and frolic brow,
I bid ye hither. She, who makes her bed
This day 'neath yon damp turf, with spring-flowers sown,
Was one of you. Time had not laid his hand
On tress or feature, stamping the drear lines
Of chill decay, till death had nought to do,
Save that slight office which the passing gale
Doth to the wasted taper. No, her cheek
Shamed the young rose-bud; in her eye was light
By gladness kindled; in her footsteps grace;
Song on her lips; affections in her breast,
Like soft doves nesting. Yet, from all she turned,
All she forsook, unclasping her warm hand
From friendship's ardent pressure, with such smile
As if she were the gainer. To lie down
In this dark pit she cometh, dust to dust,
Ashes to ashes, till the glorious morn
Of resurrection. Wondering do you ask,-
Where is her blessedness? Go home, ye gay,
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