"Oh then rejoice, fond mother,
That thou hast given birth
To this immortal being,
To this fair child of earth!"
How hallowed! how unearthly thy repose!
The rounded arm revealed above the vest-
Its rival thrown across the couch of rest-
The hand half open, coveting to close
The delicate white fingers dipped i' the rose—
Are they not beautiful? and seems not blest
With happy dreams that gently heaving breast,
Nor dreading foreign nor domestic foes?
Dream on, dear infant; for away will fly
The calm that broodeth o'er that candid brow;
Soft tears will deluge that dark fringed- eye!
And anguish tear the heart all tranquil now!
Be't so!-if thou before the Power on high
But learn, like patient Job, to meekly bow!
THE rosebud, blushing through the morning's tears,
The primrose, rising from the brumal waste,
The snowdrop, or the violet, that appears
Like nun within the myrtle's shadow placed,
Wear not a smile like thine, nor look so chaste,
Fair innocent! that from thy mother's knee,
As yet by Earth's despoilment undefaced,
Smil'st, and unheeding what the fates decree,
Dream'st not of hapless days, that yet will frown on
Say, o'er thy little frame when slumbers steal
And watch above thy cradle seraphs keep,
Do they, in love, futurity reveal, so
That thus thou sweetly smilest in thy sleep?
Thy pure blue eyes were sure ne'er formed to weep
Those little lips to breathe the sighs of woe ;
For passion is a tyrant fierce and w
Leading the thoughts from virtues
And spirits, in their nature calm na mi,
Are duped by flattery, or subdues
Love, that with promise to ille
The path of life, oft lures use
And hopes that, robed in risar
When the heart swells in ‘15
Dreaming sweet dreams e
In frailty like their sire have ever been :
How happy mightst thou be, were Eden's bowers still green!
Ah! may I guess,
Ι
when years have o'er thy head
Their passage winged, maturity thy own,
How may, on earth, thy pilgrimage be led?
Shall public cares, or privacy alone
Thy life engage? or shall thy lot be thrown
Where timbrel, horn, and martial drum inspire?
Or, soothed to softness and a holier tone,
Draw down aërial spirits to thy lyre,
Or call upon the muse to arm thy words with fire?
Thy flaxen ringlets, and thy deep blue eyes,
Bring to my mind the little god of love;
The last outvie the azure of the skies,
The first are like the clouds that float above
The spring's descending sun. The boy whom Jove Rapt from the earth-fair Ganymede-to dwell Above the realms where care has wing to rove,
Thy cherub features may betoken well;
Or if the one excelled, perchance thou mightst excel.
Even now begirt with utter helplessness,
'T is hard to think, as on thy form I
(Experience makes one marvel not the less,)
That thou to busy man shalt rise, and raise
Thyself, mayhap, a nation's pride and praise;
'Tis hard to let the truth my mind employ,
That he, who kept the world in wild amaze,
That Cæsar in the cradle lay-a boy,
Soothed by a nurse's kiss, delighted with a toy!
That once the mighty Newton was like thee,
The awful Milton, who on heaven did look,
Listening the councils of Eternity;
And matchless Shakspeare, who, undaunted, took From Nature's shrinking hand her secret book, And page by page the wondrous tome explored; The fearless Sidney; the adventurous Cook; Howard, who mercy for mankind implored;
And France's despot chief, whose heart lay in his sword!
How doth the wretch, when life is dull and
Pray that he were, pure innocent, like thee!
Or that again the guileless days were back,
When childhood leant against a parent's knee!
"T is meet that sin should suffer-it must be !
To such as at the shrine of virtue mock,
Remorse is what the righteous fates decree;
On conquest bent, Sennacherib awoke,-
But heaven had o'er his camp breathed death in the
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