Dear mother, dry those flowing tears, They grieve me much to see; And calm, oh! calm thine anxious fears-- What dost thou dread for me?

'Tis true that tempests wild oft ride Above the stormy main, But, then, in Him I will confide Who doth their bounds ordain.

I go to win renown and fame Upon the glorious sea; But still my heart will be the same-- I'll ever turn to thee!

See, yonder wait our gallant crew, So, weep not, mother dear; My father was a sailor too-- What hast thou then to fear?

Is it not better I should seek To win the name he bore, Than waste my youth in pastimes weak Upon the tiresome sh.o.r.e?

Then, look not thus so sad and wan, For yet your son you'll see Return with wealth and honors won Upon the glorious sea.

TO A BEAUTIFUL CHILD ON HER BIRTHDAY, WITH A WREATH OF FLOWERS.

Whilst others give thee wond'rous toys, Or jewels rich and rare, I bring but flowers--more meet are they For one so young and fair.

'Tis not because that snowy brow Might with the lily vie, Or violet match the starry glance Of that dark, l.u.s.trous eye;

Nor yet because a brighter blush E'en rose leaf never wore, But 'tis that in their leaves lies hid A rare and mystic lore.

And with its aid I now shall form A wreath of flow'rets wild-- Graceful, and full of meaning sweet, To deck thy brow, fair child!

The primrose, first, the emblem fit Of budding, early youth; The daisy in whose leaves we read Pure innocence and truth.

The rosebud, sign of youthful charms, We well may give to thee, And with it join the sweet frail leaves Of the shrinking sensitive tree.

And, tribute to thy modesty, The violet emblem meet,-- Itself concealing, yet on all Shedding its perfume sweet.

And for thy kind and gentle heart We bring the jessamine, To twine with ivy, ever green-- True friendship's sacred sign.

Thy wreath is formed--of blossoms bright I've twined each link, and, yet, Another flower I still must add, The fragrant mignonnette,

Which says "However great the charms That to thy lot may fall Thy qualities of heart and mind By far surpa.s.s them all."

Aye, be it thus, and ever may This lovely wreath, as now-- Emblem of every precious gift-- Be fit to deck thy brow.

But, last and dearest, 'mid the buds Of that bright varied lot Must ever be, my gentle child, The sweet forget-me-not!

MY THOUGHTS TO-NIGHT.

I sit by the fire musing, With sad and downcast eye, And my laden breast gives utt'rance To many a weary sigh; Hushed is each worldly feeling, Dimmed is each day-dream bright-- O heavy heart, can'st tell me Why I'm so sad to-night?

'Tis not that I mourn the freshness Of youth fore'er gone by-- Its life with pulse high springing, Its cloudless, radiant eye-- Finding bliss in every sunbeam, Delight in every part, Well springs of purest pleasure In its high ardent heart.

Nor yet is it for those dear ones Who've pa.s.sed from earth away That I grieve--in spirit kneeling Above their beds of clay; O, no! while my glance upraising To yon calm shining sky, My pale lips, quivering, murmur, "They are happier than I!"

But, alas! my spirit mourns As, weary, it looks back-- Finding naught of good or holy On life's past barren track-- I mourn for the countless errors That on mem'ry's page crowd on, And sorrow for lost chances Of good I might have done.

But, courage! I must arouse me, The day is not yet o'er, And I still may make atonement Ere leaving life's last sh.o.r.e: One act of meek oblation, A tear of penance bright, Will be counted as rare treasures In heaven's loving sight.

THE BOY'S APPEAL.

O say, dear sister, are you coming Forth to the fields with me?

The very air is gaily ringing With hum of bird and bee, And crowds of swallows now are chirping Up in our ancient thorn, And earth and air are both rejoicing, On this gay summer morn.

Shall we hie unto the streamlet's side To seek our little boat, And, plying our oars with right good will, Over its bright waves float?

Or shall we loll on the gra.s.sy bank For hours dreamy, still, To draw from its depths some silv'ry prize, Reward of angler's skill?

I do not talk of the tempting game The forest covers hide, So dear to the sportsman--plovers shy, Pheasants with eye of pride, For I know your timid nature shrinks From flash of fire-arm bright, And the birds themselves hear not the din With more intense affright.

But we may tread the cool wood's paths, And wander there for hours, Discovering hidden fairy dells, Be-gemmed with lovely flowers; And while you weave them in varied wreaths; In oaks of giant size I'll seek for nests of cunning shape-- I, too, must win some prize.

Then, sister, listen! squander not These hours of precious time With stupid book or useless work-- It is indeed a crime; But haste with me to the wood-lands green, Where forest warblers sing And bees are humming--like them, too, We must be on the wing.

THE CHILD'S DREAM.

Buried in childhood's cloudless dreams, a fair-haired nursling lay, A soft smile hovered round the lips as if still oped to pray; And then a vision came to him, of beauty, strange and mild, Such as may only fill the dreams of a pure sinless child.

Stood by his couch an angel fair, with radiant, glitt'ring wings Of hues as bright as the living gems the fount to Heaven flings; With loving smile he bent above the fair child cradled there, While sounds of sweet seraphic power stole o'er the fragrant air.

"Child, list to me," he softly said, "on mission high I'm here: Sent by that Glorious One to whom Heav'n bows in loving fear; I seek thee now, whilst thou art still on the threshold of earth's strife, To speak of what thou knowest not yet, this new and wond'rous life.

"Dost cling to it? dost find this earth a fair and lovely one?

Dost love its bright-dyed birds and flowers, its radiant golden sun?

I come to bid thee leave it all--to turn from its bright bloom, And, having closed thine eyes in death, descend into the tomb.

"Thou shudderest, child! with restless gaze from me thou turn'st away; 'Mid summer flowers and singing birds wouldst thou remain to play; Thou still wouldst bask in the dear light of thy fond father's smile, And on thy mother's doating heart would linger yet awhile.

"'Tis well, sweet child, I blame thee not, but in spheres far away Are blossoms lovelier far than those which tempt thee here to stay; And if the love of parents fond with joy thy heart doth fill, In those bright distant realms is One who loves thee better still!

"That One for thee in suffering lived--for thy sake, too, he died; Oh! like the ocean is His love, as deep, my child, as wide.

Leave, then, this earth ere hideous sin thy spotless brow shall dim-- One struggling breath, one parting pang, and then thou'lt be with Him!"

A smile lit up the sleeper's face, but soon it softly fled, The rose leaf cheeks and lips grew wan--could it be the child was dead?

Yes, dead--and spared the ills of life, and in bright bliss above The pure soul nestles in the light of G.o.d's unbounded Love.