Lyrics of the heart With other poems. By Alaric A. Watts. With forty-one engravings on steel |
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THE YOUNGLING OF THE FLOCK. |
 | Lyrics of the heart |  |
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THE YOUNGLING OF THE FLOCK.
Welcome, thrice welcome to my heart, sweet harbinger of bliss,
How have I looked, till hope grew sick, for a moment bright as this!
Thou hast flashed upon my aching sight when Fortune's clouds are dark,
The sunny spirit of my dreams—the dove unto mine ark!
How have I looked, till hope grew sick, for a moment bright as this!
Thou hast flashed upon my aching sight when Fortune's clouds are dark,
The sunny spirit of my dreams—the dove unto mine ark!
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Oh no! not even when life was new, and Love and Hope were young,
And o'er the firstling of my flock with raptured gaze I hung,
Did I feel the glow that thrills me now, the yearnings fond and deep,
That stir my bosom's inmost chords, as I watch thy placid sleep!
And o'er the firstling of my flock with raptured gaze I hung,
Did I feel the glow that thrills me now, the yearnings fond and deep,
That stir my bosom's inmost chords, as I watch thy placid sleep!
Though loved and cherished be the flower that springs 'neath summer skies,
The bud that blooms 'mid wintry storms more tenderly we prize;
One does but make our bliss more bright, the other meets our eye,
Like a radiant star, when all beside have vanished from the sky.
The bud that blooms 'mid wintry storms more tenderly we prize;
One does but make our bliss more bright, the other meets our eye,
Like a radiant star, when all beside have vanished from the sky.
Sweet blossom of my stormy hour, star of my troubled heaven,
To thee that passing sweet perfume, that soothing light is given;
And precious art thou to my soul, but dearer far that thou,
A messenger of peace and love, art sent to cheer me now.
To thee that passing sweet perfume, that soothing light is given;
And precious art thou to my soul, but dearer far that thou,
A messenger of peace and love, art sent to cheer me now.
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What though my heart be crowded close with inmates dear if few,
Creep in, my little smiling babe, there's still a niche for you!
And should another claimant rise, and clamour for a place,
Who knows but room may still be found, if it wears as fair a face.
Creep in, my little smiling babe, there's still a niche for you!
And should another claimant rise, and clamour for a place,
Who knows but room may still be found, if it wears as fair a face.
I listen to thy feeble cry, 'till it 'wakens in my breast,
The sleeping energies of love—sweet hopes, too long repressed;
For, weak as that low wail may seem to other ears than mine,
It stirs my heart, like a trumpet's voice, to strive for thee and thine!
The sleeping energies of love—sweet hopes, too long repressed;
For, weak as that low wail may seem to other ears than mine,
It stirs my heart, like a trumpet's voice, to strive for thee and thine!
It peals upon my dreaming soul sweet tidings of the birth
Of a new and blessed link of love, to fetter me to earth,
And, strengthening many a fond resolve, it bids me do and dare
All that a father's heart may brave, to make thy sojourn fair.
Of a new and blessed link of love, to fetter me to earth,
And, strengthening many a fond resolve, it bids me do and dare
All that a father's heart may brave, to make thy sojourn fair.
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I cannot shield thee from the blight a bitter world may fling
O'er all the promise of thy youth, the visions of thy spring;
For, I would not warp thy gentle heart, each kindlier impulse ban,
By teaching thee—what I have learned—how base a thing is man.
O'er all the promise of thy youth, the visions of thy spring;
For, I would not warp thy gentle heart, each kindlier impulse ban,
By teaching thee—what I have learned—how base a thing is man.
I cannot save thee from the griefs to which our flesh is heir,
But I can arm thee with a spell, life's keenest ills to bear;
I may not Fortune's frowns avert, but I can bid thee pray
For wealth this world can never give, nor ever take away.
But I can arm thee with a spell, life's keenest ills to bear;
I may not Fortune's frowns avert, but I can bid thee pray
For wealth this world can never give, nor ever take away.
From altered Friendship's chilling glance, from Hate's envenomed dart,
Misplaced Affection's withering pang, or “true Love's” wonted smart,
I cannot save my sinless child; but I can bid him seek
Such Faith and Love from heaven above as leave earth's malice weak.
Misplaced Affection's withering pang, or “true Love's” wonted smart,
I cannot save my sinless child; but I can bid him seek
Such Faith and Love from heaven above as leave earth's malice weak.
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But wherefore doubt that He who makes the smallest bird His care,
And tempers to the new-shorn lamb the blast it ill could bear,
Will still His guiding arm extend, His gracious plan pursue,
And if He gives thee ills to bear, will grant thee courage too.
And tempers to the new-shorn lamb the blast it ill could bear,
Will still His guiding arm extend, His gracious plan pursue,
And if He gives thee ills to bear, will grant thee courage too.
Dear youngling of my little fold, the loveliest and the last,
'Tis sweet to deem what thou mayst be, when long, long years have past;
To think, when time hath blanched my hair, and others leave my side,
Thou mayst be then my prop and stay, my blessing and my pride.
'Tis sweet to deem what thou mayst be, when long, long years have past;
To think, when time hath blanched my hair, and others leave my side,
Thou mayst be then my prop and stay, my blessing and my pride.
And when the world hath done its worst, when life's fever-fit is o'er,
And the griefs that wring my weary heart can never touch it more,
How sweet to think thou mayst be near to catch my latest sigh,
To watch beside my dying bed, and close my glazing eye.
And the griefs that wring my weary heart can never touch it more,
How sweet to think thou mayst be near to catch my latest sigh,
To watch beside my dying bed, and close my glazing eye.
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Oh! 'tis for offices like these, the last sweet child is given,
The mother's joy, the father's pride, the fairest boon of heaven;
Their fireside plaything first, and then of their failing strength the rock;
The rainbow to their waning years,—the Youngling of their Flock!
The mother's joy, the father's pride, the fairest boon of heaven;
Their fireside plaything first, and then of their failing strength the rock;
The rainbow to their waning years,—the Youngling of their Flock!
| Lyrics of the heart | |