LINES FROM A MOTHER TO HER INFANT.
Soon, soon shall pass the sunny hours
Of youth and hope, when life is new: And thorns shall mingle with the flow'rs, And clouds conceal the fairy view.
But shall I grieve that these are thine,
That health and joy shall cease to bless,
That life no more shall brightly shine,
And thou wilt learn to love it less ?
Ah no!-so be thy future years
Unstain'd by crime, to virtue given"Tis all my prayer; the path of tears Is oft the surest path to heaven.
LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG FRIEND.
WHO loves not more to view the op'ning Spring
Rich in the promise of fair fruits and flow'rs,
While health and pleasure lead the dancing hours,
And woods and vales with mirth and music ring,
Than all that Summer's lavish hand can bring,
Or Autumn promise of her ripen'd store;
For then th' enchantress spreads her golden wing,
Hope smiles
upon the closing scene no more.
So thou, lov'd child, may haply please me less
When in the pride of youth and beauty's day,
Than now, that in thine infant loveliness
I view thee sporting-watch the changeful play
Of feeling o'er thy sweet expressive face,
Where sense and fancy mingle; where no trace
As yet is seen of sorrow or of care ;—
Alas! and must they come ?-then lightly fall thy share!
LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 25
Who can believe it that beholds thee now,
Health on thy cheek and pleasure in thy glance?
What fairy's step is lighter in the dance?
What bird sings livelier from a Spring-tide bough?
Yet most I love thee when those accents flow
In purest truth, unmingled yet with art;
Or when thy speaking eye and cheek's soft glow
Tell, ere express'd, the feelings of thy heart.-
Ah! happy age of innocence divine,
And peace, and joy;-may Heaven long guard them thine!
How soft the glow of daylight fades
Beneath these calm domestic shades,
Shedding a mild, uncertain gleam
Like the pale light that gilds a dream.
Dream-like, where'er I turn my eyes,
The happy hours of childhood rise-
The whisp'ring music of the trees,
The balmy scents that fill the breeze,
Where it sweeps o'er the roses' bloom,
Or steals the jessamine's perfume—
And yon sweet blackbird's mournful tone
Recalls those days too quickly flown,
When health and pleasure's cheerful voice
Each morning call'd us to rejoice,
While time went by on silken wing,
And life was one perpetual Spring.
As the sweet picture mem'ry lends,
See where a darker shade descends,
And all the distant garden blends!
While here the moon, serenely bright,
Decks the soft scene with magic light,
O'er the smooth lawn her mantle weaves,
And glances on the trembling leaves.
HOME AT THE HOUR OF EVENING.
Who, at such solemn hour as this,
When most we taste of tranquil bliss,
When most devotion claims her part,
Speaking in whispers to the heart,
Till with the fervent ecstacy
Delightful tears suffuse the eye,
And to the soul almost is given
A foretaste of the joys of heav'n—
Who would such holy calm forego
For pleasure's vain and empty show,
The pride, the pageantry of art,
Which still deceives the youthful heart,
Whose later thoughts lament in vain
Those hours which ne'er return again.
Oft have I thought, in scenes of life
With hurry and with tumult rife,
When haply we are far
Here still shall sorrowing fancy stray,
Still trace the shades, or tend the flow'rs
When this lov'd home no more is ours.
Ah! Memory, spare to trace the scene
When joys are past that once have been,
When life has lost its pleasing glow,
Reft of the friends that bless it now,
And through its flat and dreary way
With solitary steps we stray.
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