BIRTH-DAY VERSES. "The heart that we have lain near before our birth, is the only one that cannot forget that it has loved us." -PHILIP SLINGSBY. Y birth-day!-Oh beloved mother! I did not think to count another Before I wept upon thy knees- My own I do not care to check. I weep-albeit here alone— As if I hung upon thy neck, As if thy lips were on my own, As if this full, sad heart of mine, Were beating closely upon thine. Four weary years! How looks she now ? Whose look is borrow'd of the skies That listen to her nightly prayer? How is she changed since he was there Who sleeps upon her heart alway- For whom she wakes to pray at morn— I know not if my mother's eyes Would find me changed in slighter things; I've wander'd beneath many skies, And tasted of some bitter springs; And many leaves, once fair and gay, From youth's full flower have dropp'd away— The lessen'd flower gets near the core, And yearns to those who loved it first- [nursed. The sunshine and the dew by which its bud was Dear mother! dost thou love me yet? Am I remember'd in my home? When those I love for joy are met, Does some one wish that I would come? Thou dost-I am beloved of these! But, as the schoolboy numbers o'er Night after night the Pleiades And finds the stars he found beforeAs turns the maiden oft her token As counts the miser aye his gold— So, till life's silver cord is broken, My beart is full, mine eyes are wet— [vet? Dear mother! dost thou love thy long-lost wanderer Oh! when the hour to meet again Creeps on--and, speeding o'er the sea, Of flowers forgotten when I come- And run to thee, all faint and weak, Oh! if my heart break not with joy, And I shall grow once more a boy: And hear thy blessing every night— Thy "dearest," thy "first-born! And be no more, as now, in a strange land, forlorn! I SATURDAY AFTERNOON. [Written for a Picture.] LOVE to look on a scene like this, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet gray; For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, And makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, I have walk'd the world for fourscore years; And they say that I am old, That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, And my years are well-nigh told. It is very true; it is very true; I'm old, and "I 'bide my time: " But my heart will leap at a scene like this, And I half renew my prime. Play on, play on; I am with you there, I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, I am willing to die when my time shall come, For the world at best is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, |