 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
325
THE TRIAD.
My first-born! I have marked in thee
A soul that loves to dare—
Wild winds across a stormy sea
Thy bark of life will bear.
Young eaglet of the household-nest,
Turned sunward is thine eye;
A pulse is in thy little breast
That beats full strong and high!
A soul that loves to dare—
Wild winds across a stormy sea
Thy bark of life will bear.
Young eaglet of the household-nest,
Turned sunward is thine eye;
A pulse is in thy little breast
That beats full strong and high!
I tremble when I hear thee speak
In tones of clear command;
Ambition's flush is on thy cheek,
His iron in thy hand.
Oh! guard thy ruling passion well,
Or wrecked thy bark will be;
Alone can virtue ride the swell
On glory's troubled sea.
In tones of clear command;
Ambition's flush is on thy cheek,
His iron in thy hand.
Oh! guard thy ruling passion well,
Or wrecked thy bark will be;
Alone can virtue ride the swell
On glory's troubled sea.
More bright than gift of fairy land,
My second born, art thou!
The breath of Heaven never fanned
A lovelier cheek and brow.
An angel art thou, child, sent down
To cheer my darker hours,
And gifted with a spell to crown
E'en Grief's bowed head with flowers.
My second born, art thou!
The breath of Heaven never fanned
A lovelier cheek and brow.
An angel art thou, child, sent down
To cheer my darker hours,
And gifted with a spell to crown
E'en Grief's bowed head with flowers.
Daughter!—(Love's most enchanting word)
Thy voice is music's own,
And ever like the note of bird
Announcing winter gone.
June gave thee birth, and in thine eye
Her azure I behold;
On that soft cheek her roseate dye
In those bright locks her gold.
Thy voice is music's own,
And ever like the note of bird
Announcing winter gone.
326
Her azure I behold;
On that soft cheek her roseate dye
In those bright locks her gold.
My last born! if I read aright
The language of thy glance,
Thou hast a soul to drink delight
From streams of old romance.
Each nerve is delicately strung,
And through thy little heart,
When minstrel-lay is played or sung,
Wild thrills of rapture dart.
The language of thy glance,
Thou hast a soul to drink delight
From streams of old romance.
Each nerve is delicately strung,
And through thy little heart,
When minstrel-lay is played or sung,
Wild thrills of rapture dart.
A star, of ray benign and clear,
Presided at thy birth,
And filled, in slumber, is thine ear
With music not of earth.
Thy bolder brother's prayer will be
To sway the fitful throng—
Thine, gentle boy—“Enough for me
The golden lute of song!”
Presided at thy birth,
And filled, in slumber, is thine ear
With music not of earth.
Thy bolder brother's prayer will be
To sway the fitful throng—
Thine, gentle boy—“Enough for me
The golden lute of song!”
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |