TO THE SAME, ON HER FIRST BIRTHDAY. 'Tis right the joyous epoch of thy birth All Nature keeps it: now the boisterous North I would, my babe, that prayer of force divine, To be performed, or suffered, as of old Sad saints endured, or errant champion bold Or spare thy little life the pelting pain That soon is past, but comes too soon again. But vain the vow-the very wish is vain. The caverned saint's long life of martyrdom, The knees that leave their dints on convent stone, The breath that is but one perpetual groan, Are useless all one pause of peace to win : No pain of man can expiate a sin. But wherefore dream of what I fain would do, 'Tis Spring with Nature-tender Spring with thee, But the sere Autumn follows hard on me. It may be, pretty babe, ere thou canst know The man that loves thee, and be-rhymes thee so, I may be gone, and never see thee more; But yet I see thee on the farther shore, Pure even as now, baptised from all offence, TO MARGARET, ON HER FIRST BIRTHDAY. ONE year is past, with change and sorrow fraught, That makes her leap her grandsire's face to see, March 3rd, 1843. N.B.-It was the opinion of certain ancient divines that when babies smile in sleep their guardian angels are whispering to them. THE FOURTH BIRTHDAY. FOUR years, long years, and full of strange event To thee, sweet boy, though brief and bare to me, Of thy young days make up the complement, And far out-date thy little memory. How many tears have dropp'd since thou wert born, Some on the cradle, some upon the grave! Yet having thee, thy father, not forlorn, Felt he had something yet of God to crave. For who hath aught to love, and loves aright, A light that speaks—a light whose breath is prayer. Sorrow hath been within thy dwelling, child, Yet sorrow hath not touch'd thy delicate bloom; So, the low floweret in Arabian wild Grows in the sand, nor fades in the simoom. What thou hast lost thou know'st not, canst not know, Too young to wonder when thy elders moan; Thou haply think'st that adult eyes can flow With tears as quick and transient as thine own. The swift adoption of an infant's love Gives to thy heart all infant hearts require; Ne'er be thy birthday as a day unblest, Which thou or thine might wish had never been ; But in thine age, a quiet day of rest, A sabbath, holy, thoughtful, and serene. |