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To thee that passing sweet perfume, that soothing
light is given ; And precious art thou to my soul, but dearer far that
tbou,A messenger of peace and love,-art sent to cheer me
What though my heart be crowded close with inmates
dear though few, Creep in, my little smiling babe, there's still a piche
for you! And should another claimant rise, and clamour for a
place, Who knows but room may yet be found, if it wears as
fair a face!
I listen to thy feeble cry, till it wakens in my breast The sleeping energies of love-sweet hopes too long
represt! For weak as that low wail may seem to other ears
than mine, It stirs my heart like a trumpet's voice, to strive for
thee and thine!
It peals upon my dreaming soul, sweet tidings of the
birth Of a new and blessed link of love, to fetter me to earth; And, strengthening many a bright resolve, it bids me
do and dare All that a father's heart may brave, to make thy so
I cannot shield thee from the blight a bitter world may
fling O'er all the promise of thy youth-the visions of thy
spring ;For I would not warp thy gentle heart-each kindlier
impulse ban, By teaching thee—what I have learned-how base a
thing is man!
I cannot save thee from the griefs to which our flesh
is heir; But I can arm thee with a spell life's keepest ills to
bear. I may not fortune's frowns avert, but I can bid thee
pray For wealth this world can never give, nor ever take
From altered friendship's chilling glance~from hate's
envenomed dart ; Misplaced affection's withering pang- or "true love's"
wonted smart, I cannot shield my sin less child ; but I can bid him
seek Such faith and love from heaven above, as will leave
earth's malice weak.
But wherefore doubt that He who makes the smallest
bird his care, And tempers to the new-shorn lamb the blast it ill
Will still His 'guiding arm extend, his glorious plan
pursue, And, if He gives thee ills to bear, will grant thee
Dear youngling of my little fold, the loveliest and the
last! 'Tis sweet to deem what thou may'st be, when long,
long years have past; To think, when time hath blanched my hair, and
others leave my side, Thou may'st be still my prop and stay, my blessing,
and my pride.
And when the world has done its worst-when life's
fever fit is o'er, And the griefs that wring my weary heart can never
touch it more ; How sweet to think thou may'st be near, to catch my
latest sigh, To bend beside my dying bed, and close my glazing
Oh! 'tis for offices like these the last sweet child is
given, The mother's joy-the father's pride, the fairest boon
of Heaven; Their fireside plaything first, and then, of their failing
strength the rock ; The rainbow to their waning years—the Youngling of
their Flock !
L. E. LANDON.
I PRAY thee let me weep to-night,
'Tis rarely I am weeping ; My tears are buried in my heart,
Like cave-lock'd fountains sleeping.
But oh, to-night, those words of thine
Have brought the past before me ; And shadows of long-vanish'd years
Are passing sadly o'er me.
The friends I loved in early youth,
The faithless and forgetting, Whom, though they were not worth my love,
I cannot help regretting ;
My feelings, once the kind, the warm,
But now the hard, the frozen ; The errors I've too long pursued,
The path I should have chosen ;
The hopes that are like falling iights.
Around my pathway dying ;
Their vacant place supplying ;
The knowledge by experience'taught,
The useless, the repelling;
For what avails to know how false
Is all the charmer's telling ?
I would give worlds, could I believe
One half that is profess'd me; Affection ! could I think it Thee,
When flattery has caress'd me?
I cannot bear to think of this,
Oh, leave me to my weeping;
Where hope in death is sleeping.
THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH SONG.
MOURNFULLY, sing mo
mournfully, Aud die away, my heart
the glorious rose is gone, And I too will depart.
The skies have lost their splendour,
The waters changed their tone, And wherefore, in the faded world,
Should music linger on ?
Where is the golden sunshine,
And where the flower-cup's glow,
And the fountain's laughing flow?