I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mold;
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears,
That my child is grave and wise of heart, beyond his childish years.
I can not say how this may be: I know his face is fair,
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air.
I know his heart is kind and fond; I know he loveth me,
But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fervency:
But that which others most admire is the thought which fills his mind;
The food for grave inquiring speech, he everywhere doth find.
Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk;
He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk.
Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball,
But looks on manhood's ways and works and aptly mimics all.
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed
With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next.
He kneels at his dear mother's knee; she teacheth him to pray,
And strange, and sweet, and solemn then, are the words which he will say. Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me,
A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be;
And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow,
I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now.
I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three;
I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be,
How silver sweet those tones of his, when he prattles on my knee;
I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen,
Nor his brow so full of childish thought, as his hath ever been;
But his little heart's a fountain pure, of kind and tender feeling,
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing,
When he walks with me, the country folk who pass us in the street
Will speak their joy, and bless my boy-he looks so mild and sweet.
A playfellow he is to all, and yet, with cheerful tone,
Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone.
His presence is like sunshine, sent to gladden home and hearth,
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth.
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove
As sweet a home for heavenly grace, as now for earthly love;
And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim,
God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.
I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I can not tell,
For they reckon not by years and months, where he is gone to dwell.
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given,
And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven.
I can not tell what form his is, what looks he weareth now,
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow.
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel,
Are number'd with the secret things which God will not reveal.
But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest,
Where other blessed infants are—on their Saviour's loving breast.
I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh,
But his sleep is blest with endless dreams of joy forever fresh.
I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings,
And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest things.
We trust that we shall meet our babe, (his mother dear and I,)
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye.
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease;
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace.
When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be ;
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery;
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain;
Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again.
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain ;
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed;
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please;
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm ;—
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topped the neighboring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blessed the coming day.
When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play;
And all the village train, from labor free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round,
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired:-
The dancing pair, that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love;
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove;
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like thes
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please.
Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose :
There as I passed, with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below :
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung;
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;
The noisy geese, that gabbled o'er the pool;
The playful children, just let loose from school;
The watch-dog's voice, that bayed the whispering wind ;
And the loud laugh, that spoke the vacant mind;-
These, all, in sweet confusion, sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
I'm thinking that to-night, if not before,
There'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton roar?
It's brewing up, down westward; and look there!
One of those sea gulls! ay, there goes a pair!
And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on,
As threats, the waters will be out anon.
That path by the ford is a nasty bit of way:
Best let the young ones bide from school to-day.
The children join in this request; but the mother resolves that they shall set out-the two girls, Lizzie and Jenny, the one five, the other seven. As the dame's will was law, so
"God bless my little maids," the father said,
And cheerily went his way to win their bread.
Prepared for their journey they depart, with the mother's admonition to the elder
"Now, mind and bring
Jenny safe home," the mother said.
To pull a bough or berry by the way;
And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast
Your little sister's hand till you're quite past;
That plank is so crazy, and so slippery,
If not overflowed, the stepping-stones will be:
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