 | Beads from a Rosary |  |
26
CONGRATULATORY STANZAS.
Addressed to ------
Father! o'er thy loved ones bending,
Mother! those fair infants tending,
Hear the echo of a whisper, floating faintly from afar;—
Soft that whisper—it must borrow
Not a single tone from sorrow;
It must take the sunniest greeting where the sunniest faces are.
Mother! those fair infants tending,
Hear the echo of a whisper, floating faintly from afar;—
Soft that whisper—it must borrow
Not a single tone from sorrow;
It must take the sunniest greeting where the sunniest faces are.
Sunniest faces!—yea, though gleaming
Through fast-falling tears—the streaming
Of an April rain imparteth to the flowers a fresher smile,
And an April sky's rich beaming
Showeth yet a brighter seeming,
Shining through the drifting shadows that have curtained it awhile.
Through fast-falling tears—the streaming
Of an April rain imparteth to the flowers a fresher smile,
And an April sky's rich beaming
Showeth yet a brighter seeming,
Shining through the drifting shadows that have curtained it awhile.
27
Happy mother! in thy dwelling,
Hath a light been lit, dispelling
All its gloom—it brightens rounds thee with a radiance still the same;
What if now thy frame doth languish,
Joy is thine beyond the anguish;
Thou hast found earth's purest treasure; thine is now its holiest name.
Hath a light been lit, dispelling
All its gloom—it brightens rounds thee with a radiance still the same;
What if now thy frame doth languish,
Joy is thine beyond the anguish;
Thou hast found earth's purest treasure; thine is now its holiest name.
Ay, its holiest—thought may wander
O'er the heart's domain, and ponder
On each fervent love and passion, cherished at its inmost shrine:
But the end of its endeavour
Must be this, I ween, that never
Can it find a love to equal that sweet mother-love of thine.
O'er the heart's domain, and ponder
On each fervent love and passion, cherished at its inmost shrine:
But the end of its endeavour
Must be this, I ween, that never
Can it find a love to equal that sweet mother-love of thine.
Though afar mine eyes behold thee—
I can see that love enfold thee
In its close embrace, and ever be its clasp as close as now;
I can see it wake from slumber,
Hopes and feelings without number,
And each wakening hope and feeling sets its seal upon thy brow.
I can see that love enfold thee
In its close embrace, and ever be its clasp as close as now;
28
Hopes and feelings without number,
And each wakening hope and feeling sets its seal upon thy brow.
Loving hearts of sire and mother,
Beat ye henceforth for each other,
With a nearer love—thrice happy be the destiny of all—
No dark change come o'er your gladness,
Never shade of mortal sadness,
Like a blight 'mongst opening blossoms, on those fair babe-faces fall!
Beat ye henceforth for each other,
With a nearer love—thrice happy be the destiny of all—
No dark change come o'er your gladness,
Never shade of mortal sadness,
Like a blight 'mongst opening blossoms, on those fair babe-faces fall!
Worthiest of your fond caressing
May they ever grow—a blessing
That shall fill your home with music—that shall cheer your hearts with mirth!
Simple words—but truest feeling
Seeketh not for quaint revealing,
Choosing aye to cull its fancies from the lowliest flowers of earth.
May they ever grow—a blessing
That shall fill your home with music—that shall cheer your hearts with mirth!
Simple words—but truest feeling
Seeketh not for quaint revealing,
Choosing aye to cull its fancies from the lowliest flowers of earth.
29
In a gracious time hath Heaven
Those twin buds of promise given;
They have 'scaped the storms of winter—be their fate for ever so!
Or if storms must rage around them
May His watchful care surround them,
And amidst the desolation bid fresh founts of gladness flow.
Those twin buds of promise given;
They have 'scaped the storms of winter—be their fate for ever so!
Or if storms must rage around them
May His watchful care surround them,
And amidst the desolation bid fresh founts of gladness flow.
Fare ye well! the whisper groweth
Faint and fainter yet—it floweth
From half-closed lips—lo! silence o'er my lyre hath spread her wing!
Ah, forgive so poor a greeting—
Such a feeble lay, and fleeting,—
Think but of the kindly feeling that hath tempted me to sing.
Faint and fainter yet—it floweth
From half-closed lips—lo! silence o'er my lyre hath spread her wing!
Ah, forgive so poor a greeting—
Such a feeble lay, and fleeting,—
Think but of the kindly feeling that hath tempted me to sing.
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