The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard With a Memoir by Blanchard Jerrold |
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THE MOTHER'S HOPE.
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 | The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard |  |
194
THE MOTHER'S HOPE.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy.—Wordsworth.
Is there, where the winds are singing
In the happy summer-time,
Where the raptured air is ringing
With Earth's music heavenward springing,
Forest-chirp and village-chime;
Is there, of the sounds that float
Minglingly, a single note
Half so sweet, and clear, and wild,
As the laughter of a child?
In the happy summer-time,
Where the raptured air is ringing
With Earth's music heavenward springing,
Forest-chirp and village-chime;
Is there, of the sounds that float
Minglingly, a single note
Half so sweet, and clear, and wild,
As the laughter of a child?
Listen; and be now delighted.
Morn hath touched her golden strings,
Earth and sky their vows have plighted,
Life and light are reunited,
Amid countless carollings;
Yet, delicious as they are,
There's a sound that's sweeter far—
One that makes the heart rejoice
More than all-the human voice!
Morn hath touched her golden strings,
Earth and sky their vows have plighted,
Life and light are reunited,
Amid countless carollings;
Yet, delicious as they are,
There's a sound that's sweeter far—
One that makes the heart rejoice
More than all-the human voice!
195
Organ, finer, deeper, clearer,
Though it be a stranger's tone;
Than the winds or waters dearer,
More enchanting to the hearer,
For it answereth his own.
But of all its witching words,
Sweeter than the songs of birds,
Those are sweetest, bubbling wild
Through the laughter of a child.
Though it be a stranger's tone;
Than the winds or waters dearer,
More enchanting to the hearer,
For it answereth his own.
But of all its witching words,
Sweeter than the songs of birds,
Those are sweetest, bubbling wild
Through the laughter of a child.
Harmonies from time-touched towers,
Haunted strains from rivulets,
Hum of bees among the flowers,
Rustling leaves, and silver showers—
These, ere long, the ear forgets;
But in mine there is a sound
Ringing on the whole year round;
Heart-deep laughter that I heard,
Ere my child could speak a word.
Haunted strains from rivulets,
Hum of bees among the flowers,
Rustling leaves, and silver showers—
These, ere long, the ear forgets;
But in mine there is a sound
Ringing on the whole year round;
Heart-deep laughter that I heard,
Ere my child could speak a word.
Ah.! 'twas heard by ear far purer,
Fondlier formed to catch the strain—
Ear of one whose love is surer;
Hers, the mother, the endurer
Of the deepest share of pain;
Hers the deepest bliss, to treasure
Memories of that cry of pleasure;
Hers to hoard, a lifetime after,
Echoes of that infant laughter.
Fondlier formed to catch the strain—
Ear of one whose love is surer;
Hers, the mother, the endurer
Of the deepest share of pain;
Hers the deepest bliss, to treasure
Memories of that cry of pleasure;
Hers to hoard, a lifetime after,
Echoes of that infant laughter.
196
Yes, a mother's large affection
Hears with a mysterious sense;
Breathings that evade detection,
Whisper faint, and fine inflexion,
Thrill in her with power intense.
Childhood's honied tones untaught
Heareth she, in loving thought!
Tones that never thence depart,
For she listens—with her heart!
Hears with a mysterious sense;
Breathings that evade detection,
Whisper faint, and fine inflexion,
Thrill in her with power intense.
Childhood's honied tones untaught
Heareth she, in loving thought!
Tones that never thence depart,
For she listens—with her heart!
1835.
| The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard | |