The eye, the lip, the cheek, the brow, Where are they now?-those smiles, those tears, Thy mother's darling treasure? She sees them still, and still she hears Thy tones of pain or pleasure, To her quick pulse revealing Hush'd in a moment on her breast, Thy dreams-no thought can guess them; For then this waking eye could see, In many a vain vagary, The things that never were to be, Imaginations airy; Fond hopes that mothers cherish, Mine perish'd on thy early bier; Yet would these arms have chain'd thee, And long from heaven detain'd thee. Sarah! my last, my youngest love, Though thou art born in heaven above, Nor will affection let me Believe thou canst forget me. Then, thou in heaven and I on earth, May this one hope delight us, That thou wilt hail my second birth, When death shall re-unite us, Where worlds no more can sever Parent and child for ever. SPRING. MARY HOWITT. THE Spring-she is a blessed thing! The partner of their revelries, Our star of hope through wintry hours. The many children, when they see They leap upon the cottage floor, And run to meet her night and morn. They are soonest with her in the woods, The little brooks run on in light, The aged man is in the field. The maiden 'mong her garden flowers; The sons of sorrow and distress Are wandering in forgetfulness Of wants that fret and care that lowers. She comes with more than present good- Up-let us to the fields away, And breathe the fresh and balmy air: The bird is building in the tree, The flower has opened to the bee, And health and love and peace are there. THE DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN. A. A. WATTS. My sweet one, my sweet one, the tears were in my eyes When first I clasp'd thee to my heart, and heard thy feeble cries; For I thought of all that I had borne as I bent me down to kiss Thy cherry lips and sunny brow, my first-born bud of bliss! I turn'd to many a wither'd hope, to years of grief and pain, And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world flash'd o'er my boding brain; I thought of friends grown worse than cold, of persecuting foes, And I ask'd of Heaven, if ills like these must mar thy youth's repose. I gazed upon thy quiet face-half blinded by my tears Till gleams of bliss, unfelt before, came brightening on my fears, Sweet rays of hope that fairer shone 'mid the clouds of gloom that bound them, As stars dart down their loveliest light when midnight skies are round them. My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o'er, And a father's anxious fears for thee can fever me no more; And for the hopes, the sun-bright hopes, that blossom'd at thy birth, They too have fled, to prove how frail are cherish'd things of earth! 'Tis true that thou wert young, my child, but though brief thy span below, To me it was a little age of agony and woe; For from thy first faint dawn of life thy cheek began to fade, And my heart had scarce thy welcome breathed ere my hopes were wrapp'd in shade. Oh the child, in its hours of health and bloom, that is dear as thou wert then, Grows far more prized-more fondly loved-in sickness and in pain; And thus 'twas thine to prove, dear babe, when every hope was lost, Ten times more precious to my soul, for all that thou hadst cost! Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, we watch'd thee, day by day, Pale, like the second bow of Heaven, as gently waste away; And, sick with dark foreboding fears, we dared not breathe aloud, |