Now thy young heart, like a bird, No evil thought, no unkind word, But winter cometh, and decay Wasteth thy verdant home away; Then pray, child, pray. Thy spirit is a house of glee, And gladness harpeth at the door, Her lips with music running o'er; But Time those strings of joy will sever, And Hope will not dance on forever; Then pray, child, pray. Now thy mother's hymn abideth, But that sweet hymn shall pass away, Then pray, child, pray. BUT a child! that bids the world good night All calm, and balm, and quiet, and rest. ON MY FIRST SON. FAREWELL, thou child of my right hand, and joy; My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy: Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay Exacted by thy fate on the just day. O, could I lose all father now! for why Will man lament the state he should envy? To have so soon 'scaped world's and flesh's rage, Rest in soft peace, and asked, say here doth lie CURIOSITY. (EXTRACT.) In the pleased infant see its power expand, O'er the bright pages of his pictured stores! Nor yet alone to toys or tales confined, While all you know, or think you know, you trace; Tell him who spoke creation into birth, Arched the broad heavens, and spread the rolling earth; Who formed a pathway for the obedient sun, And bade the seasons in their circles run; THE tear down childhood's cheek that flows, Is like the dew-drop on the rose; When next the summer breeze comes by, The bush is waved, the flower is dry. WALTER SCOTT. THE MORNING-GLORY. WE wreathed about our darling's head the morning glory bright; Her little face looked out beneath, so full of life and light, |