152 THE THREE SONS. He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teaches him to pray, And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will say. Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be: And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three; be, How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee. I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been; But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling, And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing. When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street, Will shout with joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. A playfellow he is to all, and yet, with cheerful tone, Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove THE THREE SONS. 153 As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love. And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must. dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him. I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years or months where he is gone to dwell. To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given, And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to live in Heaven. I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel, Are number'd with the secret things which God will not reveal. But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest, Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast. I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh. I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest kings. I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I), When God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever, But if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be, When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery,— When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain, Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again. Moultrie. THE MOTHER. Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, In form and soul; but ah! more blest than he! And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. "And THE SPLIT PEARLS. 155 Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear, So speaks affection, ere the infant eye Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care, Thomas Campbell. THE SPLIT PEARLS. His courtiers of the Caliph crave,— "For he is ugly as the Night; 156 THE SPLIT PEARLS. The Caliph, then: "No features fair, "When once a camel of my train "I winking to the slaves that I "One only at my side remained- He, moveless as the steed he reined, "What will thy gain, good fellow, be "True servant's title he may wear, For his Lord's gifts, how rich soe'er, So those alone dost walk before For if thou not to Him aspire, Not love, but covetous desire, Has brought thee to His throne. |