Ho, sailor of the sea!
How's my boy-my boy?
"What's your name, good wife;
And in what ship sail'd he?"
My boy John-
He that went to sea
What care I for the ship, sailor ?
My boy's my boy to me.
You come back from sea,
And know not my John?
I might as well have ask'd some landsman
Yonder down in the town.
There's not an ass in all the parish
But he knows my John.
How's my boy-my boy?
And unless you let me know
I'll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no,
Brass buttons or no,
Anchor and crown or no.
Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton
Speak low, woman, speak low."
And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy John?
If I was loud as I am proud,
I'd sing him over the town.
Why should I speak low, sailor ?
"That good ship went down."
How's my boy-my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor ?
I never was aboard her."
Be she afloat, or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound
Her owners can afford her.
I say, how's my John?
Every man on board went down,
Every man aboard her."
How's my boy-my boy?
What care I for the men, sailor ?
I'm not their mother-
How's my boy-my boy?
Tell me of him and no other
How's my boy-my boy?
MY OWN FIRESIDE.
My own fireside! Those simple words
Can bid the sweetest dreams arise;
Awaken feeling's tenderest chords,
And fill with tears of joy mine eyes.
What is there my wild heart can prize,
That doth not in thy sphere abide;
Haunt of my home-bred sympathies,
My own-My own fireside'!
What care I for the sullen war
Of winds without that ravage earth?
It doth but bid me prize the more
The shelter of thy hallow'd hearth.
Thine is the smile that never cloys,
The smile whose truth hath oft been tried,
What then are fashion's tinsel toys
To thee-My own fireside!
Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet,
That bid my thoughts be all of thee,
Thus ever guide my wandering feet
To thy heart-soothing sanctuary!
Whate'er my future years may be,
Let joy or grief my fate betide,
Be still an Eden bright to me,
My own-My own fireside!
DARK and dismal as the tomb
To the wretch condemn'd to die,
So yon cloud with sickly gloom
Överspreads the cheerful sky.
While the shadows which it traces
Thus obscure this lower scene,
On the side that heavenward faces,
All is sunny and serene.
So in troubles, small or great,
Let us take the comfort given
Even to the darkest fate,
There's a side that looks to Heaven!
THE OPEN WINDOW.
THE old house by the lindens
Stood silent in the shade,
And in the gravell'd pathway
The light and shadow play'd.
I saw the nursery windows;
Wide open to the air;
But the faces of the children
They were no longer there.
The large Newfoundland house-dog
Was standing by the door;
He look'd for his little playmates,
Who would return no more.
They walk'd not under the lindens,
They play'd not in the hall;
But shadow, and silence, and sadness
Were hanging over all.
The birds sang in the branches,
With sweet familiar tone;
But the voices of the children
Will be heard in dreams alone.
And the boy that walk'd beside me,
He could not understand
Why closer in mine,-O, closer,-
I press'd his warm soft hand.
THE secret that doth make a flower a flower
So frames it that to bloom is to be sweet,
And to receive to give.
No soil so sterile, and no living lot
So poor, but it hath somewhat still to spare
In bounteous odours. Charitable they
Who, be their having more or less, so have
That less is more than need, and more is less
Than the great heart's goodwill.
THE CHILD AND THE LILY. INNOCENT Child and snow-white flower! Well are ye pair'd in your opening hour, Thus should the pure and the lovely meet, Stainless with stainless, and sweet with sweet. White, as those leaves just blown apart, Are the pliant folds of thy own young heart; Guilty passion and cankering care Ne'er yet have left their traces there.
Artless one! though thou gazest now
O'er the white blossoms with earnest brow,
Soon will it tire thy childish eye,-
Fair as it is, thou wilt throw it by
Throw it aside in thy weary hour,
Throw to the ground the fair-white flower;
Yet, as thy tender years depart,
Keep thou that white and innocent heart.
INNOCENT PLEASURES.
FEW rightly estimate the worth
Of joys that spring and fade on earth;
They are not weeds we should despise,
They are not fruits of Paradise,
But wild flowers in the pilgrim's way,
That cheer, but not protract his stay;
Which he dares not too fondly clasp,
Lest they should perish in his grasp:
And yet may view and wisely love
As proofs and types of joys above.
As slow and solemn yonder deepening knell
Tolls through the sullen evening's shadowy gloom,
Alone and pensive in my silent room,
On man and on mortality I dwell.
And as the harbinger of death I hear,
Frequent and full, much do I love to muse
On life's distempered scenes of hope and fear,
And passion varying her chameleon hues,
And man pursuing pleasure's empty shade
Till death dissolves the vision. So the child
In youth's gay morn with wondering pleasure guiled,
As with the shining ice well pleased he play'd;
Nor as he grasps the crystal in his play,
Heeds how the faithless bauble melts away.
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