3ER, by her smile, how soon the infant knows!
How soon by his, the glad discovery
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy,
What answering looks of sympathy and joy!
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word,
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard.
And ever ever to her lap he flies,
When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise,
Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung,
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue),
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings;
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart;
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!
But soon a nobler task demands her care;
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer,
Telling of Him who sees in secret there!
And now the volume on her knee has caught
His wandering eye-now many a written thought,
Never to die, with many a lisping sweet,
His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat.
Released, he chases the bright butterfly;
Oh, he would follow-follow through the sky!
Climbs the gaunt mastiff slumbering in his chain,
And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane;
Then runs, and, kneeling by the fountain side,
Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide,
A dangerous voyage; or, if now he can,
If now he wears the habit of a man,
Flings off the coat, so long his pride and pleasure, And, like a miser digging for his treasure,
His tiny spade in his own garden plies,
And in green letters sees his name arise!
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight,
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight.
N a child's voice is there not melody?
In a child's eye, is there not rapture seen?
And rapture not of passion's revelry;
Calm, though impassioned; durable, though keen!
It is all fresh, like the young spring's first green!
Children seem spirits from above descended,
To whom still cleaves heaven's atmosphere serene;
Their very wildnesses with truth are blended;
Fresh from their skiey mould, they cannot be amended.
Warm and uncalculating, they're more wise,-
More sense that ecstasy of theirs denotes,—
More of the stuff have they of Paradise
And more the music of the warbling throats
Of choirs whose anthem round the Eternal floats,
Than all that bards e'er feigned, or tuneful skill
Has e'er struck forth from artificial notes:
Theirs is that language, ignorant of ill,
Born from a perfect harmony of power and will.
OT happy only, but the cause of joy,
Which those who never tasted always mourned. What tongue!—no tongue shall tell what bliss o'erflowed
The mother's tender heart, while round her hung
The offspring of her love, and lisped her name;
As living jewels dropt unstained from heaven,
That made her fairer far, and sweeter seem,
Than every ornament of costlier hue.
And who hath not been ravished as she passed,
With all her playful band of little ones,
Like Luna, with her daughters of the sky,
Walking in matron majesty and grace ?—
All who had hearts here pleasure found: and oft
Have I, when tired with heavy task,
(For tasks were heavy in the world below), relaxed
My weary thoughts among their guiltless sports,
And led them by their little hands, a-field;
And watched them run and crop the tender flower,—
Which oft, unasked, they brought me, and bestowed
With smiling face, that waited for a look
Of praise,—and answered curious questions, put
In much simplicity, but ill to solve,
And heard their observations, strange and new.
And settled, whiles, their little quarrels, soon
Ending in peace, and soon forgot in love.
SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY'S STATUE OF
LADY LOUISA RUSSELL.
HOU art a thing on our dreams to rise,
'Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies,
And to fling bright dew from the morning back, Fair form, on each image of Childhood's track!
Thou art a thing to recall the hours
When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers, When a world was our own in some dim, sweet grove, And treasure untold in one captive Dove!
Are they gone? can we think it, while thou art there,
Thou radiant child with the clustering hair?
Is it not spring that indeed breathes free
And fresh o'er each thought, as we gaze on thee?
No! never more may we smile as thou
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow!
Yet something it is in our hearts to shrine
A memory of beauty undimmed as thine!
To have met the joy of thy speaking face,
To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace;
To have lingered before thee, and turned, and borne
One vision away of the cloudless morn!
HE tear down Childhood's cheek that flows,
Is like the dewdrop on the rose;
When next the summer breeze comes by,
And waves the bush,-the flower is dry.
HEN we are sick, where can we turn for succour,
When we are wretched, where can we complain;
And when the world looks cold and surly on us,
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye,
With such sure confidence, as to a Mother?
HEY tell us of an Indian tree,
Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot, and blossom, wide and high,
Far better loves to bend its arms
Downwards again to that dear earth,
From which the life that fills and warms
Its grateful being, first had birth.
'Tis thus, though wooed by flattering friends,
And fed with fame, (if fame it be),
This heart, my own dear Mother, bends,
With love's true instinct, back to thee.
ND canst thou, Mother, for a moment think,
That we, thy children, when old age shall shed
Its blanching honours on thy weary head,
Could from the best of duties ever shrink?
Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink
Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day,
To pine in solitude thy life away,
Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink.
Banish the thought!-where'er our steps may roam,
O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,
Still will fond Memory point our hearts to thee,
And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;
While duty bids us all thy grief assuage,
And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.
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