Thy father soon will bring him home another, fairer wife; Be loving, dutiful to her ;-find favour in her sight; But never, oh, my child! forget thine own poor mother quite. But who will speak to thee of her?-the gravestone at her head Will only tell the name, and age, and lineage of the dead, But not a word of all the love, the mighty love for thee, That crowded years into an hour of brief maternity. They'll put my picture from its place, to fix another there That picture, that was thought so like, and yet so passing fair! Some chamber in thy father's house they'll let thee call thine own! Oh! take it there-to look upon when thou art all alone. To breathe thine early griefs unto-if such assail my child; To turn to from less loving looks, from faces not so mild. Alas! unconscious little one!-thou'lt never know that best, That holiest home of all the earth, a living mother's breast! I do repent me, now too late, of each impatient thought, That would not let me tarry out God's leisure as I ought; I've been too hasty, peevish, proud, I long'd to go away; And now I'd fain live on for thee, God will not let me stay. Oh when I think of what I was, and what I might have been, A bride last year,—and now to die! and I am scarce nineteen, And just, just opening in my heart a fount of love, so new, So deep!-could that have run to waste?-could that have fail'd me too? The bliss it would have been to see my daughter at my side! My prime of life scarce overblown, and hers in all its pride; To deck her with my finest things-with all I've rich and rare; To hear it said how beautiful! and good as she is fair! And then to place the marriage crown upon that bright young brow! Oh no! not that-'tis full of thorns-alas, I'm wandering now! This weak, weak head! this foolish heart! they'll cheat me to the last; I've been a dreamer all my life, and now that life is past. Thou'lt have thy father's eyes, my child-oh! once how kind they were! His long black lashes-his own smile-and just such raven hair: But here's a mark!-poor innocent! he'll love thee for't thee less, Like that upon thy mother's cheek, his lips were wont to press. And yet, perhaps, I do him wrong-perhaps, when all's forgot But our young loves, in memory's mood, he'll kiss this very spot; Oh! then, my dearest! clasp thine arms about his neck full fast, And whisper, that I bless'd him now, and loved him to the last. I've heard that little infants converse by smiles and sigus With the guardian band of Angels that round about them shines, Unseen by grosser senses-beloved one! dost thou Smile so upon thy heavenly friends, and commune with them now? And hast thou not one look for me? those little rest less eyes Are wandering, wandering everywhere the whilst thy mother dies! And yet, perhaps, thou'rt seeking me-expecting me, mine own! Come, Death, and make me to my child, at least in spirit known! TO JESSY. BYRON. THERE is a mystic thread of life At once must sever both or none. There is a form on which these eyes There is a voice whose tones inspire Such thrills of rapture through my breast, I would not hear a seraph choir Unless that voice could join the rest. There is a face whose blushes tell Affection's tale upon the cheek; But pallid at one fond farewell, Proclaims more love than words can speak. There is a lip which mine hath prest, And none hath ever prest before; There is a bosom-all my own Hath pillow'd oft this aching head; A mouth which smiles on me alone; An eye whose tears with mine are shed. There are two hearts whose movements thrill In unison so closely sweet, That, pulse to pulse responsive still, They both must heave-or cease to beat. There are two souls, whose equal flow, SONG. BRYANT. Dost thou idly ask to hear Maidens' hearts are always soft, Would that men's were truer ! Woo the fair one, when around When, o'er all the fragrant ground, Early herbs are springing: |