[Poems by Hale in] The ladies' wreath a selection from the female poetic writers of England and America |
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 | [Poems by Hale in] The ladies' wreath |  |
389
THE VICTOR'S CROWN.
A crown for the victor—a crown of light!—
From the land where the flowers ne'er feel a blight
Was gathered the wreath that around it blows,
And he, who o'ercometh his treacherous foes,
That fadeless crown shall gain:
A king went forth on the rebel array,
Entrenched where a lovely hamlet lay;
He frowned, and there's nought save ashes and blood,
And blackened bones where that hamlet stood,
Yet his treacherous foes he hath not slain.
From the land where the flowers ne'er feel a blight
Was gathered the wreath that around it blows,
And he, who o'ercometh his treacherous foes,
That fadeless crown shall gain:
A king went forth on the rebel array,
Entrenched where a lovely hamlet lay;
He frowned, and there's nought save ashes and blood,
And blackened bones where that hamlet stood,
Yet his treacherous foes he hath not slain.
A crown for the victor—a crown of light!
Encircled with jewels so pure and bright,
Night never hath gloomed where its lustre flows;
And he, who can conquer his proudest foes,
That glorious crown shall gain:
A hero came from the gory field,
And low at his feet the pale captives kneel'd;
In his might he hath trodden a nation down,
But he may not challenge the glorious crown,
For his proudest foes he hath not slain.
Encircled with jewels so pure and bright,
Night never hath gloomed where its lustre flows;
And he, who can conquer his proudest foes,
That glorious crown shall gain:
A hero came from the gory field,
And low at his feet the pale captives kneel'd;
In his might he hath trodden a nation down,
But he may not challenge the glorious crown,
For his proudest foes he hath not slain.
A crown for the victor—a crown of light!
Like the morning sun, to the dazzled sight.
From the night of a dungeon raised, it glows,
And he, who can slay his deadliest foes,
That shining crown shall gain:
With searching eye, and stealthy tread,
The man of wrath sought his enemy's bed:
Like festering wounds are the wrongs he hath borne,
And he takes the revenge his soul had sworn,
But his deadliest foe he hath not slain.
Like the morning sun, to the dazzled sight.
From the night of a dungeon raised, it glows,
And he, who can slay his deadliest foes,
That shining crown shall gain:
With searching eye, and stealthy tread,
The man of wrath sought his enemy's bed:
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And he takes the revenge his soul had sworn,
But his deadliest foe he hath not slain.
A crown for the victor—a crown of light!
To be worn with a robe whose spotless white
Makes darkness seem resting on Alpine snows;
And he, who o'ercometh his mightiest foes,
That robe and crown shall gain:
With eye upraised, and forehead bare,
A Pilgrim knelt down in holy prayer,
He hath wrestled with self and with passion striven,
And to him hath the sword of the Spirit been given,
O, crown him, for his foes, his sins are slain!
To be worn with a robe whose spotless white
Makes darkness seem resting on Alpine snows;
And he, who o'ercometh his mightiest foes,
That robe and crown shall gain:
With eye upraised, and forehead bare,
A Pilgrim knelt down in holy prayer,
He hath wrestled with self and with passion striven,
And to him hath the sword of the Spirit been given,
O, crown him, for his foes, his sins are slain!
392
NEW YEAR'S DAY.
Addressed to my Daughters at School.
One day—it is a trifling theme,
And who would heed a day?
An evening's gloom, a morning's gleam,
How soon they pass away!
'Tis but a welcome—an adieu—
The fairest day is gone;
And with to-morrow's hopes in view,
We bid the hours roll on—
To-day like bird in tethering string,
With faded eye, and folded wing,
Its narrow circle creeps;
But like a bird in airy flight,
With wing of power and eye of light,
To-morrow heaven-ward sweeps.
And who would heed a day?
An evening's gloom, a morning's gleam,
How soon they pass away!
'Tis but a welcome—an adieu—
The fairest day is gone;
And with to-morrow's hopes in view,
We bid the hours roll on—
To-day like bird in tethering string,
With faded eye, and folded wing,
Its narrow circle creeps;
But like a bird in airy flight,
With wing of power and eye of light,
To-morrow heaven-ward sweeps.
393
Such are the dreams of early youth,
Ere dimm'd by gathering fears;
The halo round the orb of Truth,
Presages clouds and tears—
I trust, my loved ones, still ye see
The brightness clear and pure,
And gloomy thoughts that shadow me
Unmoved I can endure—
The vine, even its prop is lost,
Its tendrils torn and ten pest-tost,
May shield the little flower;
And thus I bide the world's rude strife,
That I may shield your morn of life
From sorrow's blighting power.
Ere dimm'd by gathering fears;
The halo round the orb of Truth,
Presages clouds and tears—
I trust, my loved ones, still ye see
The brightness clear and pure,
And gloomy thoughts that shadow me
Unmoved I can endure—
The vine, even its prop is lost,
Its tendrils torn and ten pest-tost,
May shield the little flower;
And thus I bide the world's rude strife,
That I may shield your morn of life
From sorrow's blighting power.
'Tis sad, as years grow short, to know
Death only brings relief;
But saddest far of earthly wo
Is childhood bowed in grief;—
In sunny skies let fledgings fly;
Be prairies green and fair,
Ere the young fawns come forth to try
Their glancing footsteps there.
Nature and Instinct guard the young—
But only from the human tongue
Love's holy vows are given;
And only human hearts are filled
With springs of Love, that, when distilled,
Rise to their fount in heaven.
Death only brings relief;
But saddest far of earthly wo
Is childhood bowed in grief;—
In sunny skies let fledgings fly;
Be prairies green and fair,
Ere the young fawns come forth to try
Their glancing footsteps there.
Nature and Instinct guard the young—
But only from the human tongue
Love's holy vows are given;
And only human hearts are filled
With springs of Love, that, when distilled,
Rise to their fount in heaven.
And thus doth feeling's signet prove
Man's origin divine;
When eye meets eye in trusting love,
We feel the sacred sign:
Of life, immortal life!—how mild
The glorious promise shines,
When the young mother o'er her child,
First reads the deathless lines,
The spirit on its clay impresses,
And answers with her warm caresses,
As she were fain to bind
Its soul to her's!—And this is Love—
'Tis prayer on earth; 'tis praise above;
'Tis God within the mind.
Man's origin divine;
When eye meets eye in trusting love,
We feel the sacred sign:
Of life, immortal life!—how mild
The glorious promise shines,
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First reads the deathless lines,
The spirit on its clay impresses,
And answers with her warm caresses,
As she were fain to bind
Its soul to her's!—And this is Love—
'Tis prayer on earth; 'tis praise above;
'Tis God within the mind.
And in Love's name I'll drink my cup,
Nor deem it steeped in tears,
While fondly I am garnering up
Rich hopes for future years.
O, I shall hear glad voices say,
“Thy children bless thy care!”
These are my cherished dreams to-day,
And who has dreams more fair?
Dreams will they prove?—I fear it not—
I communed with my secret thought,
Nor selfish wish was there—
One only—and it will endure—
“O, keep my dear ones good and pure!”
And Heaven will hear my prayer!
Nor deem it steeped in tears,
While fondly I am garnering up
Rich hopes for future years.
O, I shall hear glad voices say,
“Thy children bless thy care!”
These are my cherished dreams to-day,
And who has dreams more fair?
Dreams will they prove?—I fear it not—
I communed with my secret thought,
Nor selfish wish was there—
One only—and it will endure—
“O, keep my dear ones good and pure!”
And Heaven will hear my prayer!
395
THE FATHER'S CHOICE.
Now fly, as flies the rushing wind—
Urge, urge thy lagging steed!
The savage yell is fierce behind,
And life is on thy speed.
Urge, urge thy lagging steed!
The savage yell is fierce behind,
And life is on thy speed.
And from those dear ones make thy choice—
The group he wildly eyed,
When “father!” burst from every voice,
And “child!” his heart replied.
The group he wildly eyed,
When “father!” burst from every voice,
And “child!” his heart replied.
There's one that now can share his toil,
And one he meant for fame,
And one that wears her mother's smile,
And one that bears her name.
And one he meant for fame,
And one that wears her mother's smile,
And one that bears her name.
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And one will prattle on his knee,
Or slumber on his breast;
And one whose joys of infancy
Are still by smiles expressed.
Or slumber on his breast;
And one whose joys of infancy
Are still by smiles expressed.
They feel no fear while he is near;
He'll shield them from the foe;
But oh! his heart must break to hear
Their shriekings should he go.
He'll shield them from the foe;
But oh! his heart must break to hear
Their shriekings should he go.
In vain his quivering lips would speak;
No words his thoughts allow;
There's burning tears upon his cheek,
Death's marble on his brow.
No words his thoughts allow;
There's burning tears upon his cheek,
Death's marble on his brow.
And twice he smote his cold clench'd hand—
Then bade his children fly!
And turned, and even that savage band
Cowered at his wrathful eye.
Then bade his children fly!
And turned, and even that savage band
Cowered at his wrathful eye.
Swift as the lightning winged with death,
Flashed forth the quivering flame!
Their fiercest warrior bows beneath
The father's deadly aim.
Flashed forth the quivering flame!
Their fiercest warrior bows beneath
The father's deadly aim.
Not the wild cries, that rend the skies,
His heart or purpose move;
He saves his children, or he dies
The sacrifice of love.
His heart or purpose move;
He saves his children, or he dies
The sacrifice of love.
Ambition goads the conq'rer on,
Hate points the murderer's brand—
But love and duty, these alone
Can nerve the good man's hand.
Hate points the murderer's brand—
But love and duty, these alone
Can nerve the good man's hand.
The hero may resign the field,
The coward murderer flee;
He cannot fear, he will not yield,
That strikes, sweet love, for thee.
The coward murderer flee;
397
That strikes, sweet love, for thee.
They come, they come—he heeds no cry,
Save the soft child-like wail,
“O father, save!” “My children fly!”
Were mingled on the gale.
Save the soft child-like wail,
“O father, save!” “My children fly!”
Were mingled on the gale.
And firmer still he drew his breath,
And sterner flashed his eye,
As fast he hurls the leaden death,
Still shouting, “Children fly!”
And sterner flashed his eye,
As fast he hurls the leaden death,
Still shouting, “Children fly!”
No shadow on his brow appeared,
Nor tremor shook his frame,
Save when at intervals he heard
Some trembler lisp his name.
Nor tremor shook his frame,
Save when at intervals he heard
Some trembler lisp his name.
In vain the foe, those fiends unchained,
Like famished tigers chafe,
The sheltering roof is neared, is gained,
All, all the dear ones safe!
Like famished tigers chafe,
The sheltering roof is neared, is gained,
All, all the dear ones safe!
In the year 1697, a body of Indians attacked the town of Haverhill, Mass., killed and carried into captivity 40 inhabitants. A party of the Indians approached the house of Mr. Thurston, who was abroad at his labor, but who, on their approach, hastened to the house, sent his children out, and ordered them to fly in a course opposite to that in which danger was approaching. He then mounted his horse, and determined to snatch up the child with which he was most unwilling to part, when he should overtake the little flock. When he came up to them, about 200 yards from his house, he was unable to make a choice, or to leave any one of the number. He therefore determined to take his lot with them, and defend them from their murderers, or die by their side. A body of the Indians pursued and came up with him; and when at a short distance, fired on him and his little company. He returned the fire, and retreated alternately; still, however, keeping a resolute face to the enemy, and so effectually sheltered his charge that he finally lodged them all safe in a distant house.
399
TIME'S LAST VISIT.
[_]
[There is a Persian legend representing Time before commencing his “New Year's Flight,” warning those who are to die during the coming season, of their inevitable fate.]
The night was a cold and stormy one,
And the year was running low,
When Time threw his travelling mantle on,
As he were about to go:
And he cast on his glass a rueful look—
“The sands will be out,” he said,
(Seizing his memorandum book,)
“And these visits must be made:
But it does little good the fools to warn—
I almost lose my labors;
They think the last visit I make to them
Is always meant for their neighbors.
And the year was running low,
When Time threw his travelling mantle on,
As he were about to go:
And he cast on his glass a rueful look—
“The sands will be out,” he said,
(Seizing his memorandum book,)
“And these visits must be made:
But it does little good the fools to warn—
I almost lose my labors;
They think the last visit I make to them
Is always meant for their neighbors.
Last year my duty was faithfully done—
I traversed the city through,
Revealing to every devoted one
I had come for a final adieu:
Why, they treated my warning as Nicholas treats
The groans of the dying Poles:
Or thought 'twas to save—(how this avarice cheats!)
Their money not their souls,
That my hint of a speedy departure was given,
Though I bade them farewell like a lover;
And how few there were who prepared for heaven!
I can easily reckon them over.
I traversed the city through,
Revealing to every devoted one
I had come for a final adieu:
Why, they treated my warning as Nicholas treats
The groans of the dying Poles:
Or thought 'twas to save—(how this avarice cheats!)
Their money not their souls,
That my hint of a speedy departure was given,
Though I bade them farewell like a lover;
And how few there were who prepared for heaven!
I can easily reckon them over.
And first to a Banker's house I hied,
Though I knew he was often surly,
But these Rothchilds—one must humor their pride—
So I hasten'd to warn him early.
I found him within at a sumptuous feast,
An Aspician sauce was before him,
And its flavor he praised to each smiling guest—
'Tis Death!—thus my warning came o'er him.
Oh, how his eye glared as he bade me flee!
I was off like a twinkle of light,
And he ate at that dinner enough for three,
And he died of a spasm that night.
Though I knew he was often surly,
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So I hasten'd to warn him early.
I found him within at a sumptuous feast,
An Aspician sauce was before him,
And its flavor he praised to each smiling guest—
'Tis Death!—thus my warning came o'er him.
Oh, how his eye glared as he bade me flee!
I was off like a twinkle of light,
And he ate at that dinner enough for three,
And he died of a spasm that night.
I hurried away to a Doctor, then,
Though I knew I might spare my pains—
Thathe thought of disease as the end of men,
And of death as the doctors' gains—
‘My patient must die,’ he was maundering on,
As he glanced a fee-bill o'er,
‘And his money will go to his graceless son,—
My bill might be somewhat more;
For the youth will ne'er take the trouble to note
That I've charged five visits a day:’
So he figured away, while I laughed in his ear,
Remember my visit's to pay!
Though I knew I might spare my pains—
Thathe thought of disease as the end of men,
And of death as the doctors' gains—
‘My patient must die,’ he was maundering on,
As he glanced a fee-bill o'er,
‘And his money will go to his graceless son,—
My bill might be somewhat more;
For the youth will ne'er take the trouble to note
That I've charged five visits a day:’
So he figured away, while I laughed in his ear,
Remember my visit's to pay!
I told an Old Man it was time he should go,
And he was too deaf to hear:—
I called at the play on a dashing Beau,
And he was too gay to fear:—
I paused in a Merchant's counting-room,
And a dunce was I to stop,
Scarce would he have heeded the crash of doom,
While reckoning his leger up.
There is one demand—I began to say—
He burst with a hurried breath,
‘Show me your bill, I've the cash to pay’—
I left him to settle with death!
And he was too deaf to hear:—
I called at the play on a dashing Beau,
And he was too gay to fear:—
I paused in a Merchant's counting-room,
And a dunce was I to stop,
Scarce would he have heeded the crash of doom,
While reckoning his leger up.
There is one demand—I began to say—
He burst with a hurried breath,
‘Show me your bill, I've the cash to pay’—
I left him to settle with death!
401
I stopped at a Poor Man's humble shed,
And thought 'twould delight him so,
For I knew he had often wished he was dead—
But he flatly refused to go:
And O, the wild agony of his eye,
As he begged me one year to give!
Saying, 'twas too bad for a man to die
Who had struggled so hard to live;
That his wife must beg, and his children starve—
I whispered of charity;
He raised his eye with a look of despair—
‘'Tis a broken reed,’ sighed he.
And thought 'twould delight him so,
For I knew he had often wished he was dead—
But he flatly refused to go:
And O, the wild agony of his eye,
As he begged me one year to give!
Saying, 'twas too bad for a man to die
Who had struggled so hard to live;
That his wife must beg, and his children starve—
I whispered of charity;
He raised his eye with a look of despair—
‘'Tis a broken reed,’ sighed he.
I had fared so ill with the lords of earth,
Of the earth they had proved indeed,
That I turned to the sex of gentler birth,
Hoping more kindly to speed!
On the beautiful Belle I made a call,
A milliner's girl stood by—
She brought a new dress for the New Year's ball—
I breathed a sepulchral sigh,
And the rich red flowers looked ghastly white—
‘How odd!’ cried the beauty in sorrow;
‘These do not become at all to-night,
But bring me some brighter to-morrow’
Of the earth they had proved indeed,
That I turned to the sex of gentler birth,
Hoping more kindly to speed!
On the beautiful Belle I made a call,
A milliner's girl stood by—
She brought a new dress for the New Year's ball—
I breathed a sepulchral sigh,
And the rich red flowers looked ghastly white—
‘How odd!’ cried the beauty in sorrow;
‘These do not become at all to-night,
But bring me some brighter to-morrow’
And then—but why continue the list,
So fraught with chagrin to me:
Who likes to remember the times he has missed,
When recounting his archery?
I called, in fine, on the old and the young,
Fair, ugly and sober and gay,
The chorus the same to the tune they all sung—
They would not be hurried away!
There were many who hated the world, to be sure,
And called Time an old villainous cheat,
But Heaven was so distant, so bright and so pure;
They had no inclination to see't.
So fraught with chagrin to me:
Who likes to remember the times he has missed,
When recounting his archery?
I called, in fine, on the old and the young,
Fair, ugly and sober and gay,
The chorus the same to the tune they all sung—
They would not be hurried away!
There were many who hated the world, to be sure,
And called Time an old villainous cheat,
402
They had no inclination to see't.
Worms of the dust! I murmured in wrath,
As I entered a stately dome,
And, following the clue of my fated path,
Repaired to a nursery room;
The children were sleeping like nestled birds,
And SHE, the sweet mother dove,
With a face too happy to paint by words,
Was choosing her gifts of love
For the New Year's morn—I touched her cheek,
She knew the deadly thrill,
And raising her eyes with a smile so meek,
—‘My Father, 'tis thy will.’
As I entered a stately dome,
And, following the clue of my fated path,
Repaired to a nursery room;
The children were sleeping like nestled birds,
And SHE, the sweet mother dove,
With a face too happy to paint by words,
Was choosing her gifts of love
For the New Year's morn—I touched her cheek,
She knew the deadly thrill,
And raising her eyes with a smile so meek,
—‘My Father, 'tis thy will.’
Yes, Woman should always be ready to go,
She has nothing on earth but Love;
A dowry that bears little value below,
But 'tis priceless transferred above:
O lavish it not on my brightest joys,
'Tis folly, 'tis worse than vain;
I never bestow them except as toys,
I mean to resume again.
Even now I shall gather a thousand fair things
I gave when this year was new,
And the hopes for the NEXT, that I shake from my wings,
Will prove as deceitful too.
She has nothing on earth but Love;
A dowry that bears little value below,
But 'tis priceless transferred above:
O lavish it not on my brightest joys,
'Tis folly, 'tis worse than vain;
I never bestow them except as toys,
I mean to resume again.
Even now I shall gather a thousand fair things
I gave when this year was new,
And the hopes for the NEXT, that I shake from my wings,
Will prove as deceitful too.
But why should I preach? who'll the wiser be?
The young are engaged with pleasure;
The aged have cut all acquaintance with me,
And nobody else is at leisure:
They may learn if they will, tho' their date is brief,
Some monitor ever is nigh;
There's the fading flower, the falling leaf,
And the year about to die;—
These speak to the hearts of the humble and just,—
For the earthly and obstinate:
Why, my visit to such would be labor lost,
So I leave them, for aye, to their fate.
The young are engaged with pleasure;
The aged have cut all acquaintance with me,
And nobody else is at leisure:
They may learn if they will, tho' their date is brief,
Some monitor ever is nigh;
There's the fading flower, the falling leaf,
And the year about to die;—
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For the earthly and obstinate:
Why, my visit to such would be labor lost,
So I leave them, for aye, to their fate.
TO A PALM LEAF.
Gathered from a tree, that shades the grave of Paul and Virginia, in the Isle of France.
I've looked on thee, wan leaf,
Till thou dost seem the messenger of fear,
And my heart thrills, as grief,
Deep, certain, terrible, were hovering near.
Till thou dost seem the messenger of fear,
And my heart thrills, as grief,
Deep, certain, terrible, were hovering near.
I see the gathering storm,
Darkness and whirlwind, and the roaring main!—
And now a fair young form
Beseeching Heaven for aid—it is in vain!
Darkness and whirlwind, and the roaring main!—
And now a fair young form
Beseeching Heaven for aid—it is in vain!
She rests, that lovely maid,
Wan leaf, she rests beneath thy parent tree;
And in that hallowed shade,
Her heart-struck lover slumbers peacefully.
Wan leaf, she rests beneath thy parent tree;
And in that hallowed shade,
Her heart-struck lover slumbers peacefully.
They need not glory's wreath
To keep their memory from the blight of years;
A leaf can speak their death,
And from the full soul wring a gush of tears.
To keep their memory from the blight of years;
A leaf can speak their death,
And from the full soul wring a gush of tears.
But autumn winds will rise,
And scatter far our forests' waving glory;
Yet not a leaf that flies,
Will whisper to the heart this moving story.
And scatter far our forests' waving glory;
Yet not a leaf that flies,
Will whisper to the heart this moving story.
For nature hath no tongue
Till Genius breathes upon the slumbering mass;
Till Genius' light is flung,
We heed no shadows, beckoning as they pass.
Till Genius breathes upon the slumbering mass;
404
We heed no shadows, beckoning as they pass.
But all is still and dark,
And men may die unheeded as the rain
Falls round the gliding bark,
Urging her rapid course athwart the main.
And men may die unheeded as the rain
Falls round the gliding bark,
Urging her rapid course athwart the main.
Yes, more—the cherished worth,
Of all men strive for in their earthly race,
Fades with their names from earth,
If Genius smile not on their dwelling-place.
Of all men strive for in their earthly race,
Fades with their names from earth,
If Genius smile not on their dwelling-place.
Then Genius, with the free
Come dwell—our broad land with thy presence fill,
Till mountain, stream, and tree,
Shall have a spell to move, a voice to thrill.
Come dwell—our broad land with thy presence fill,
Till mountain, stream, and tree,
Shall have a spell to move, a voice to thrill.
MAN'S FIRST OFFERING.
When nature in infancy smiled,
All innocence, beauty, and love,
Ere sorrow had blighted, or sin had beguiled,
Or the serpent had banished the dove,—
Then man, as Jehovah's own child,
Still worshipped his Father above—
The blue vault of heaven his temple sublime,—
His altar, creation—his offering, time.
All innocence, beauty, and love,
Ere sorrow had blighted, or sin had beguiled,
Or the serpent had banished the dove,—
Then man, as Jehovah's own child,
Still worshipped his Father above—
The blue vault of heaven his temple sublime,—
His altar, creation—his offering, time.
The “seventh” of all was the tithe,
The heart the pure censer of fire;
The incense was hallowed with gratitude blithe,
Which bade it to heaven aspire;
(Then change had ne'er troubled, for Time had no scythe,)
And seraphims sounded the choir;
And soft, sweet, harmonious the song flow'd around,
Like the spirit of purity breathing in sound.
The heart the pure censer of fire;
The incense was hallowed with gratitude blithe,
Which bade it to heaven aspire;
(Then change had ne'er troubled, for Time had no scythe,)
And seraphims sounded the choir;
And soft, sweet, harmonious the song flow'd around,
Like the spirit of purity breathing in sound.
405
THE AMULET.
A few more years, my cherished one,
And these will soon be fled;
And where will then my little son
Repose his weary head?
Not on thy mother's faithful breast,
As thou hast done to-day;
The time of childhood's happy rest
Will then be passed away.
And these will soon be fled;
And where will then my little son
Repose his weary head?
Not on thy mother's faithful breast,
As thou hast done to-day;
The time of childhood's happy rest
Will then be passed away.
Thy childish pastimes will be o'er,
The hoop and ball thrown by,
And “mother” will be called no more
To teach the kite to fly:
A higher flight the world will speak,
To charm thy youthful heart;
And home's soft ties will lightly break,
And thou, too, wilt depart.
The hoop and ball thrown by,
And “mother” will be called no more
To teach the kite to fly:
A higher flight the world will speak,
To charm thy youthful heart;
And home's soft ties will lightly break,
And thou, too, wilt depart.
I know that this must be—I know
A man must join the throng;
As palms in sunshine loftier grow,
And oaks in storms more strong,—
So man's bold virtues best unfold
Beneath the world's broad sky;
And yet the mother's home how cold,
When all her birds can fly!
A man must join the throng;
As palms in sunshine loftier grow,
And oaks in storms more strong,—
So man's bold virtues best unfold
Beneath the world's broad sky;
And yet the mother's home how cold,
When all her birds can fly!
O, many a time, when pressed with care,
Or sick with pain and grief,
And none my soul's deep thoughts to share,
I've found a sweet relief
From gazing on thy face, my boy,
In life's pure morning bright;
'Twas as the smiling beam of joy
To sorrow's lonely night.
Or sick with pain and grief,
And none my soul's deep thoughts to share,
I've found a sweet relief
406
In life's pure morning bright;
'Twas as the smiling beam of joy
To sorrow's lonely night.
And many a time the midnight hour
Has found my task delayed;
My spirit felt a withering power—
The cypress' gloomy shade:
In vain to frame the song I sought,
Its burning visions gone,
'Till from thy peaceful rest I caught
The hope to bear me on.
Has found my task delayed;
My spirit felt a withering power—
The cypress' gloomy shade:
In vain to frame the song I sought,
Its burning visions gone,
'Till from thy peaceful rest I caught
The hope to bear me on.
And tell me not to crush that hope,
How false such fancies prove,
That bitterest minglings of our cup
Are poured by those we love.
There's One can prosper all my care,
And He my toils will bless—
The tender watch that sparrows share,
Will guard my fatherless.
How false such fancies prove,
That bitterest minglings of our cup
Are poured by those we love.
There's One can prosper all my care,
And He my toils will bless—
The tender watch that sparrows share,
Will guard my fatherless.
And he can bless the amulet
A mother's love would frame,
Make wisdom's gems these words I set
Tried in the heart's pure flame.
Then, dear one, bear this song of home
Graved on thy memory,
And when the world's temptations come,
Thou wilt remember me.
A mother's love would frame,
Make wisdom's gems these words I set
Tried in the heart's pure flame.
Then, dear one, bear this song of home
Graved on thy memory,
And when the world's temptations come,
Thou wilt remember me.
| [Poems by Hale in] The ladies' wreath | |