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Mine and thy mother's, whence arose
The copy of my face in thee;
And as thine eyelids first unclose,

My own young eyes look up to me.

Look on me, child, once more, once more,
Even with those weak, unconscious eyes;
Stretch the small hands that help implore;
Salute me with thy wailing cries!

This is the blessing and the prayer
A father's sacred place demands:
Ordain me, darling, for thy care,
And lead me with thy helpless hands!

PA

THE MOTHER.

ALER, and yet a thousand times more fair
Than in thy girlhood's freshest bloom, art
thou:

A softer sun-flush tints thy golden hair,
A sweeter grace adorns thy gentle brow.

Lips that shall call thee "mother!" at thy breast
Feed the young life, wherein thy nature feels
Its dear fulfilment little hands are pressed
On the white fountain Love alone unseals.

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
God will dispose. Sit thus, Madonna mine,
For thou art haloed with a love as fond
As Jewish Mary gave the Child Divine.

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.
Whatever cloud may rise,

The very storms grow mild
Where bend the blissful skies

O'er Husband, Wife, and Child.

The errant dreams that failed,
The promises that fled,
The roseate hopes that paled,
The loves that now are dead,
The treason of the Past, -
All, all are reconciled:
Life's glory shines at last

On Father, Mother, Child!

To meet the days and years,
With hands that never part;
To shed no secret tears,

To hide no lonely heart:
To know our longing stilled,
To feel that God has smiled:
These are the dreams fulfilled
In Husband, Wife, and Child, –
In Father, Mother, Child!

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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,

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My other Ernest, like him most in this,
That you can hear the cries of ancient woe
With holy pity, free from any blame

Of jealous love, and find your highest bliss
To know, through you his life's fulfilment came."
"And through him, mine," the woman's heart re

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
And love him, though their partial verdict show
The tenderness that moves the critic's blame.
Those few have power to lift his name above
Forgetfulness, to grant that noblest fame
Which sets its trumpet to the lips of Love!"

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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 Edith smilingly together wound
Light stems of ivy to a garland fair,

And pressed it archly on her husband's hair;
But he, with earnest voice, though in his eyes
A happy laughter shone, protesting, said:

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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 :
The Poet's leaves are gathered one by one,

In the slow process of the doubtful years.

Who seeks too eagerly, he shall not find:
Who, seeking not, pursues with single mind
Art's lofty aim, to him will she accord,
At her appointed time, the sure reward."

The tall clock, standing sentry in the hall,
Struck midnight: on the panes no longer beat
The weary storm : the wind began to fall,
And through the breaking darkness glimmered,

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With tender stars, the flying gleams of sky.
"Come, Edith, lend your voice to crown the night,
And give the new day sunny break," said I:
She listening first in self-deceiving plight
Of young maternal trouble, for a cry

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,
Thou who spendest bliss and pain,
Good with bounteous hand bestowing,
Evil for Thy will allowing, -
Though Thy ways we cannot see,
All is just that comes from Thee.

In the peace of hearts at rest,
In the child at mother's breast,
In the lives that now surround us,
In the deaths that sorely wound us,
Though we may not understand,
Father, we behold Thy hand!

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