TO MY MOTHER.

4.

Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye,
Each trembling footstep, or each sport of fear?
Who would have marked my bosom bounding high,
And clasped me to her heart with love's bright tear?

5.

Who would have hung around my sleepless couch,
And fanned with anxious hand my burning brow?
Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip
In all the agony of love and woe?

6.

None but a mother-none but one like thee,
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch,
Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery,
Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch.

7.

Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom;
Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief,
That woe hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom.

8.

O then, to thee, this rude and simple song,

Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee,
To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong,

Whose life is spent in toil and care for me.

99

A THANKSGIVING FOR HIS HOUSE.

LORD, thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof
Is weather proof;

Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry.

Where Thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor,
Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.
Like as my parlour, so my hall,
And kitchen small;

A little buttery, and therein,

A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread

Unchipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier

Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,

And glow like it.

Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits that be

There placed by Thee.

THE YOUNG MOURNER.

The worts, the purslain, and the mess
Of water-cress,

Which of thy kindness thou hast sent:
And my content

Makes those, and my beloved beet,
To be more sweet.

'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
With guiltless mirth;
And giv'st me wassail-bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand

That sows my land:

All this, and better, dost thou send
Me, for this end:

That I should render for my part,
A thankful heart,

Which fired with incense, I resign
As wholly thine :

But the acceptance-that must be,
O Lord, by thee.

THE YOUNG MOURNER.

1.

LEAVING her sports, in pensive tone
'Twas thus a fair young mourner said,
'How sad we are now we're alone-

I wish my mother were not dead!

101

2.

I can remember she was fair;

And how she kindly looked and smiled, When she would fondly stroke my hair, And call me her beloved child.

3.

Before my mother went away,

You never sighed as now you do ;
You used to join us at our play,
And be our merriest playmate too.

4.

Father, I can remember when

I first observed her sunken eye,
And her pale, hollow cheek; and then
I told my brother she would die !

5.

And the next morn they did not speak,
But led us to her silent bed;

They bade us kiss her icy cheek,
And told us she indeed was dead!

6.

Oh then I thought how she was kind,
My own beloved and gentle mother!
And calling all I knew to mind,

I thought there ne'er was such another.

7.

Poor little Charles and I!—that day
We sat within our silent room;
But we could neither read nor play-
The very walls seemed full of gloom.

I wish

THE VILLAGE PREACHER.

8.

my mother had not died,

We never have been glad since then ;
They say, and is it true,' she cried,
'That she can never come again?'

9.

The father checked his tears, and thus
He spake, My child, they do not err,
Who
say she cannot come to us;
But you and I may go to her.

10.

'Remember your dear mother still,

And the pure precepts she has given ;
Like her, be humble, free from ill,
And you shall see her face in Heaven!'

103

THE VILLAGE PREACHER.

NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village Preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.