The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, The blood its crimson hue, from mine: This life which I have dared invoke, Henceforth is parallel with thine. I tremble with delicious fear; The future, with its light and gloom, Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise; Room for my bird in Paradise, And give her angel plumage there! THE LITTLE FOOT. My boy, as gently on my breast, In playful dreams, thy little foot; The thrilling touch sets every string For ah! I think, what chart can show The ways through which this foot may go? Its print will be, in childhood's hours, Roam o'er the vales, and venture out But what, when manhood tints thy cheek, Is low and cold beneath the willow? Or, is it for the battle-plain, Beside the slayer and the slain? Wilt there its final step be taken? There, sleep thine eye no more to waken ? To sully or to gild thy name? Is it to happiness or woe This little foot is made to go? But wheresoe'er its lines may fall, Which would a mother value most, the most elegant pair of Parisian slippers, or a little worn-out shoe, once filled with a precious infant foot, now walking with the angels? MRS. CHILD. THE MOTHER'S HEART. WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, And meekly cheerful,—such thou wert, my child! Not willing to be left; still by my side, Haunting my walks, while summer day was dying, Nor leaving in thy turn; but pleased to glide Through the dark room where I was sadly lying: Or by the couch of pain a sitter meek, Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. O boy! of such as thee are oftenest made Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower, No strength in all thy freshness, prone to fade, And bending weakly to the thunder-shower, — Still round the loved thy heart found force to bind, And clung like woodbine shaken in the wind! But thou, my merry love, bold in thy glee, Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth! Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of joy! And thine was many an art to win and bless, |