Months after, my baby boy came unto me, And I gave him the name she had breathed in her sigh, He was fair and sweet as the bloom on the tree, Yet he never felt mine, though I could not tell why.

But that musical note floated round in the air,-- "Claude!--Claude!" sang the zephyrs that softly sped by, And his eyes had a far-a way look, as if there, Far beyond, he could see what I failed to descry.

One eve, in the gloaming, I hushed him to rest, And the trees whispered "Claude" as they waved overhead, He smiled as he nestled more close to my breast,-- And I wept,--for I knew that my darling was dead.

All on a Christmas Morning.

The wind it blew cold, and the ice was thick, Deeper and deeper the snowdrifts grew; A young mother lay in her cottage, sick,-- Her needs were many, her comforts few.

Clasped to her breast was a newborn child, Unknowing, unmindful of weal or woe; And away, far away, in the tempest wild, Was a husband and father, kneedeep in the snow.

All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

The lamp burned low, and the fire was dead, And the snow sifted in through each crevice and crack: As she tossed and turned in her lowly bed, And murmured, "Good Lord, bring my husband back."

The clocks in the city had told the hour With a single stroke, for young was the day But no swelling note from the loftiest tower, Could reach that lone cot where a mother lay.

All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

High on the moorland that crowned the hill, Bewildered, benumbed, midst the snow, so deep, Fighting for life with a desperate will, Lost,--wearied and worn, and oppressed with sleep, Was the husband and father, with grief almost wild, Bearing cordials and medicine safely bestowed, That he'd been to obtain for his wife and child;-- Then exhausted he sank.--And it snowed,--and it snowed.

All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

The sun arose on a world so white, That glistened and sparkled beneath his ray: And the children's faces looked just as bright, As they cried, "What a glorious Christmas day!"

In a lowly cot lay a stiff white form,-- And all was still, save a pitiful wail;-- No more should that mother fear sickness or storm;-- Together, two spirits sped through the dark vale.

All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

Friends who were coming to bring good cheer, Found a young babe sucking a cold white breast.

Noiselessly, reverently, gathering near, The orphan to full hearts was lovingly pressed.

The parents were laid side by side in the grave, And the babe grew in beauty of face and of form; And they still call her Snowdrop, the name that they gave,-- Sweet Snowdrop,--the frail little flower of the storm.

All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

Once Upon a Time.

When dull November's misty shroud, All Nature's charms depress, Flinging a damp, dark, deadening cloud, O'er each heart's joyousness.

Our fancies quit their lighter vein, And out from Memory's shrine, We marshal thoughts of grief and pain, Known,--once upon a time.

'Tis then that faces, long forgot, In shadows reappear;-- Voices, that once we heeded not, Come whispering in the ear; And ghosts of friends whom once we met, When life was in its prime, Recall acts we would fain forget, Done,--once upon time.

Regretfull sighs for thoughtless deeds, That worked another wrong; Vows that we broke, like rotten reeds Like spectres glide along; Tears naught avail to heal the smart, We caused--nor deemed it crime, Whilst selfishly we wrung a heart, Loved,--once upon a time.

Oh, could we but, as on we go, Care more for other's weal, Nor deem all joys earth can bestow, Are but for us to feel; Then howe'er humble, howe'er poor, Our lives would be sublime, Nor should we dread to ponder o'er, Days,--once upon a time.

Nearing Home.

We are near the last bend of the river, Soon will the prospect be bright; Already the waves seem to quiver, As touched with celestial light.

Since first we were launched on its bosom, Strange hap'nings and perils we've pa.s.sed, But we've braved and endured them together And we're nearing the haven at last.

We are near the last bend of lifes river, Around, all is tranquil and calm; The tempests that pa.s.sed us can never, Again strike our souls with alarm.

We are drifting,--unconsciously gliding, Down Time's river--my darling and me.

And soon in love's sweet trust abiding, We shall sail on Eternities sea.

Oh, how the soul strains with its yearning To see what is hid beyond this, This life, with its pain and heartburning-- The beyond, where is nothing but bliss.

Our life's Sun has touched the horizon, It will speedily dip out of sight, And then what? Will a new morn be rising?

Or will it for ever be night?

Those Tiny Fingers.

She has gone for ever from earth away, Yet those tiny fingers haunt me still; In the silent night, when the moons pale ray, Silvers the leaves on the window sill.

Just between sleeping and waking I lie, Makebelieve feeling their velvet touch, Darling! My darling! Oh, why should you die!

Leaving me lonely, who loved so much?

Those tiny fingers that used to stray Over my face which is wrinkled now; Those little white hands--how they used to play, With the wanton curls round my once fair brow.

Thy soft blue eyes and thy dimpled cheeks, I seem to see now as I saw them then; And a whispering voice to my sad heart speaks,-- 'Thou shalt meet her again,'--but when? oh, when?

Deep in the grave was the coffin laid, And buried with it was my purest love; Oh, how I'd hoped, and watched, and prayed, That Death would pa.s.s by and spare my dove, Was it in mercy G.o.d took thee hence?

Was it because I had worshipped thee so?

Was my devotion to thee an offence?

I was thy mother,--and G.o.d must know.

If it were sinful, my tears have atoned; At last I can murmur, "Thy will be done,"

Sweet little cherub, to me but loaned, Now safe at home, far beyond the sun.

Soon the dark river I too shall cross, And hopefully climb up that golden stair, And all this world's riches will be but dross, If those tiny fingers beckon me there.

Lilly-White Hand.

Place thy lilly-white hand in mine, Maid with the wealth of golden hair;-- Tresses, that gleaming like gold, entwine, Round about a sweet face so fair.

Sweetheart, oh! whisper once more the words, That came from those coral lips of thine, And bound thee to me by those silken cords,-- And place thy lilly-white hand in mine,

Place thy lilly-white hand in mine, That its gentle pressure may tell my heart That the idol round which I had reared a shrine, Is mine,--mine,--never from me to part.

Sweetest and fairest of woman kind!

Gentlest, kindest, lovingest, best,-- Virtues with beauties are so combined, That manhood pays homage at love's behest.

Place thy lilly-white hand in mine, Let its velvet touch on my h.o.r.n.y palm, Comfort, encourage, embolden, refine,-- This grosser clay, by its subtle charm.

Long as life lasts let me clasp thy hand, As a pledge of our oneness, existing now; And when I depart for the better land, Let it rest for a while on my death-cold brow.