THRICE happy state again to be
The trustful infant on the knee!
Who lets his waxen fingers play
About his mother's neck, and knows
Nothing beyond his mother's eyes;
They comfort him by night and day,
They light his little life alway.
He hath no thought of coming woes,
He hath no care of life or death,
Scarce outward signs of joy arise,
Because the spirit of happiness
And perfect rest so inward is;
And loveth so his innocent heart,
Her temple and her place of birth,
Where she would ever wish to dwell,
Life of the fountain there, beneath
Its salient springs, and far apart,
Hating to wander out on earth,
Or breathe into the hollow air
Whose chillness would make visible
Her subtile, warm and golden breath,
Which mixing with the infant's blood,
Full fills him with beatitude.
Oh, sure it is a special care
Of God, to fortify from doubt,
To arm in proof and guard about
With triple-mailed trust, and clear
Delight, the infant's dawning year.
mind it is most sweet to muse
Upon the days gone by; to act in thought
Past reasons o'er, and be again a child ;
To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope,
Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay flowers,
Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand
(Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled,)
Would throw away, and straight take up again,
Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn
Bound with so playful and so light a foot,
That the pressed daisy scarce declined her head.
TO MY DAUGHTER ON HER BIRTHDAY.
My child, this is thy natal day,
And might a father's prayer
For thee inspire his votive lay,
What blessing shouldst thou share?
Shall wit, or wealth, or beauty move
Thy sire to bend his knee?
I hold thee far too dear, my love,
To crave these things for thee.
If wish of mine might prove of worth,
Be this thy portion given-
Thy mother's blameless life on earth,
Thy mother's lot in heaven.
ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT
NEPHEW.
WHILST there was hope I wept and prayed;
For weeping, praying, still I said,
Who knows if He above may spare
The child of bitter tears and prayer?
The child is dead. How short an hour
Hath dimmed the radiance of that flower!
In vain I wept, in vain I prayed ;-
The child, the dearly loved, is dead.
In vain thy weeping, praying?-no;
It is thy Father; say not so:
That prayer, that silent agony,
If not for him was heard for thee.
Is there not virtue in this hour?
Affliction hath a holy power:
'Tis then that faith best shows its worth, As the bruised leaf breathes fragrance forth.
Once more the child of so much love,
Hath joined thy family above;
And rising, vanishing from view,
Calls thy affection upward too.
THE sun, sweet girl, hath run his year-long race
Through the vast nothing of the eternal sky-
Since the glad hearing of the first faint cry
Announced a stranger from the unknown place
Of unborn souls. How blank was then the face,
How uninformed the weak light-shunning eye,
That wept and saw not! Poor mortality
Begins to mourn before it knows its case,
Prophetic in its ignorance. But soon
The hospitalities of earth engage
The banished spirit in its new exile-
Pass some few changes of the fickle moon,
The
merry babe has learned its mother's smile,
Its father's frown, its nurse's mimic rage.
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