THE evening sun had o'er the heavens rolled His brilliant robe of glory and of gold; The angels round the throne had just begun Their vesper hymn of praise--the sweetest one; The stars were trimming then their lamps of light, Like watchers, ready for the coming night; The earth rejoiced through all her numerous fields, Blest with the crop that generous autumn yields: The meadow streams subduing music stole, Like dreams of rapture, to the fainting soul,-- When thou sprung into being, like the ray Of early morn, the gleam of dawning day. Stranger! so bright, so innocent, so fair, We give thee welcome to our world of care; Come to partake our sorrow--thou hast known The pang already, by that stifled moan-- When rosy pleasure shall her smiles renew, Come with thy kindred heart, and share them too. We bless thee, babe! for we have need to bless A fellow-pilgrim in a world like this, Where mirth is mockery, and joy a dream, And we are never happy--though we seem. Oh! may'st thou never know the ills that we Have known, and shall know, ere we cease to be: Be thou thy mother's comfort! thou wert blest Wert thou, like her, the purest and the best.
_At the Age of Two Years and Two Months._
NOT long beside us did the cherub stay: God's will be done! He gave and took away; It seemed as if blest memories of heaven, From whence she came, were to her visions given, And, tiring soon of earth, whose breath was pain, Longed to return, and be at rest again. Too pure for earth, too innocent for grief, Sweet was her promise, as her sojourn brief.
OH! I do hail thee, Happiness, when thou Dost shine athwart my path with light and love, Dispensing joy, like Heaven's aërial bow, When gathering clouds lour darkly from above. Oh! I do hail thee, Happiness--the aim And promise of my being live in thee; I pine for thee as poets pine for fame, Or slaves and captives for their liberty; But fleeting art thou in this vale of strife, A meteor gleaming o'er a desert heath-- So seldom comes thy smile to cheer our life, We learn to hope 'twill visit us in death; In what bright bower, supremest blessing, may A mortal find thy never-dying ray?
IN sooth 'tis pleasant on a summer morn, When the bright sun ascends the orient sky, And on the mountain zephyr health is borne, While we inhale it as it murmurs by; On some lone hill in musing mood to lie, Then as we watch the day's advancing light, We learn from it that we but live to die. The sun will set though shining e'er so bright, A few short fleeting hours, and all again is night.
