Mine and thy mother's, whence arose My own young eyes look up to me. Look on me, child, once more, once more, This is the blessing and the prayer PA THE MOTHER. ALER, and yet a thousand times more fair A softer sun-flush tints thy golden hair, Lips that shall call thee "mother!" at thy breast Look down, and let Life's tender daybreak throw A second radiance on thy ripened hour: Retrace thine own forgotten advent so, And in the bud behold thy perfect flower. Nay, question not: whatever lies beyond I lay my own proud title at thy feet; Thine the first, holiest right to love shalt be: Though in his heart our wedded pulses beat, His sweetest life our darling draws from thee. The father in his child beholds this truth, His perfect manhood has assumed its reign: Thou wear'st anew the roses of thy youth, The mother in her child is born again. THE FAMILY. DE The flying years unfold, EAR Love, whatever fate There's none can dissipate The happiness we hold. The very storms grow mild O'er Husband, Wife, and Child. The errant dreams that failed, On Father, Mother, Child! To meet the days and years, To hide no lonely heart: From Ernest's lips: the tale I wished to know Was wholly mine. "I am content, dear friend," I said: "to me no voice can be obscure Wherein your nature speaks: the chords I hear, Too far and frail to strike a stranger's ear." With that, I bowed to Edith's forehead pure, And kissed her with a brother's blameless kiss : To you the fortune of these days I owe, My other Ernest, like him most in this, Of jealous love, and find your highest bliss plied; For Love's humility is Love's true pride. "These are your sweetest poems, and your best," To him I said. "I know not," answered he, "They are my truest. I have ceased to be The ambitious knight of Song, that shook his crest In public tilts: the sober hermit I, Whose evening songs but few approach to hear,— Who, if those few should cease to lend an ear, Would sing them to the forest and the sky Contented singing for myself alone. No fear that any poet dies unknown, Whose songs are written in the hearts that know Nay, then," said I, "you are already crowned. If your ambition in the loving pride Of us, your friends, is cheaply satisfied, We are those trumpets : do you hear them sound?" And pressed it archly on her husband's hair; Respect, dear friends, the Muse's sanctities, Nor mock, with wreaths upon a living head, The holy laurels of the deathless Dead. Crown Love, crown Truth when first her brow appears, And crown the Hero when his deeds are done : In the slow process of the doubtful years. Who seeks too eagerly, he shall not find: The tall clock, standing sentry in the hall, With tender stars, the flying gleams of sky. From Arthur's crib, sat down in happy calm, And sang to Ernest's heart his own thanksgiving psalm. Thou who sendest sun and rain, In the peace of hearts at rest, |