"Plant there some box or pineSomething that lives in winter, and will be
A verdant offering to my memory,
And call it mine!"
"Sister! my young rose-tree,
That all the spring has been my pleasant care,
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,
I give to thee.
"And when its roses bloom,
I shall be gone away-my short life done!
But will you not bestow a single one
Upon my tomb?"
Now, mother! sing the tune
You sang last night.-I'm weary and must sleep!
Who was it call'd my name?-Nay, do not weep,
You'll all come soon!"
Morning spread over earth her rosy wings,
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
Lay on his couch asleep! The gentle air
Came through the open window, freighted with
The savoury odours of the early spring-
He breathed it not !-the laugh of passers-by
Jarr'd like a discord in some mournful tune,
But marred not his slumbers-He was dead!
IF those dear eyes that watch me now,
With looks that teach my heart content;
That smile which o'er that placid brow
Spreads with delight in pure consent;
And that clear voice whose rise and fall
Alternate, in a silver chime;
If these fair tokens false were all
That told the tale of fleeting Time,
I scarce should mark his swift career;
So little change hath o'er thee passed,
So much thy Present doth appear,
Like all my Memory holds most dear,
When she recalls thy perfect Past.
Unchanged thou seem'st in mind and frame,
Thy bright smile brightens still the same;
In thy fair face is nothing strange.
And when from out thy pure lips flow
Thy earnest words with grace, I know
Thy Wisdom hath not suffer'd change.
And so thy Presence, bland and glad,
Wherein no trace of change appears,
Proclaims not that this day will add
A fresh sheaf to thy garner'd years ;
But Time himself proclaims his power,
And will not pass unheeded by;
At every turn his ruins lie ;-
I track his steps at every door.
Or, musing with myself, I find
His signet borne by every thought,
From many a moral blemish wrought
By more of commerce with my kind,
Who am not armed, as thou, in youth,
To bear unhurt the brunt of Life;
To battle with the foes of Truth,
And issue scarless from the strife.
Not pure as thou to pass unscarred,
Where knaves and fools infest the ways;
By their rank censure unimpaired,
And spotless from their ranker praise.
And thus the slow year circling round,
Mars with no change thy soul serene;
While I, though changed, alas! am found
Far other than I should have been;
And only not at heart unsound,
Because thy love still keeps it green.
Oh! therefore from that worst decay,
To save me with Love's holiest dew,
Heaven guard thee, dear, and oft renew
Return of this thy natal day;
And teach me with each rolling year,
That leaves us on a heartless earth,
To love thee, so that Love may bear
Fruits worthier of thy perfect worth.
And so whatever ills betide,
Whatever storms about me lower,
Though broken by the bolts of Pride,
And scorched by Envy's lightning power,
I shall not perish in the blast,
But prosper while thou still art nigh;
By thy pure love preserved, and by
My guardian Spirit saved at last.
I LOVE it, I love it, and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,
I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with sighs; 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell? A mother sat there,
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood's hour I linger'd near
The hallow'd seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.
I sat and watch'd her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey,
And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled
And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child.
Years roll'd on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.
'Tis past! 't is past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow;
"T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died,
And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.
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