AN UNFORTUNATE MOTHER TO HER CHILD.

J. W. LAKE.

BLESS thee, my child! thy beauty throws
A lustre round thy mother's grief-
Like morning on the mountain snows,
Or moonlight on the fading leaf !

Bless thee, my child! thy cheeks are fair
As lilies by the storm unbent,

The hue of innocence is there,

And I, like thee, was innocent!

Bless thee, my child! thy crimson blush
Is like the opening smile of May
When roses hang on every bush-
O may it ne'er be swept away!

ODE TO TIME.

CHARLES DAVLIN,

"6 FROM THE CITY MUSE," 1853.

'Twas night, and somewhat dark, the hour was late, A trifle out of tune, as lone I sat

To coax the midnight muse, to carp at fate,

Or twist a thread from something; but from what

I knew not, till reflecting that the date

Was to be changed from twenty-nine to that
Of thirty, when in metaphoric rhyme
I thus accosted silver-bearded Time.

Almighty potentate of earth and sea!

Whose all-creative, all-subversive power,
Thy deep-womb'd mother, wide eternity,
Can limit only; thou whose grasp secure
As fate, spares no distinction or degree,

The lowly cottage and the lofty tower
Must yield alike to thee, whose hand robust
E'en rocks and mountains crumbles into dust.

Long wave thy white locks to the wild winds hoarse, O'er peopled region and o'er trackless void,

O'er states and empires, with resistless force,
Spurning at once humility and pride.

Nor crowns nor coronets shall stay thy course,
Or check thy rebel hand of regicide,
Which foul'd with e'en the slaughter of a worm,
Both clutches and uncrowns the royal form.

Oh thou, whose reign commenced with the beginning,
Ere the first sun had gilded Adam's corn,
Or far-famed Paradise was lost by sinning,
And wicked millions consequently born;
Ere thou beheldest such unequal spinning

In winding up life's clue of motley yarn,
Whence justice, yielding worth its proper place,
Had dash'd the crazy wheel in fortune's face.

Forbearance fails me; when a trifle cool'd
I would be, will be civiller, no doubt;
But say what pupil by disaster school'd,
Has ever like myself been kick'd about?
If by some star my pilgrimage be ruled,
Would that the twinkling planet had gone out,
Ere at my birth an evil-boding blaze
Announced the dark, bleak winter of my days.

It grieves me not that competence is given
To those at whom black want may scowl in vain,
Nor do I murmur that I am driven

From honest toil's hereditary train.

But what dull wretch may passively be driven
To famine's brink, there bootlessly to strain
His latest nerve, life's comfort to procure,
Now pillag'd, now contemn'd, for being poor?

Oh thou, I say, why come such things to pass?
Yet can I blame thee? no-no fault is thine;
Thy business being but to turn thy glass,

And murder millions on the old design.
Though mighty as a conqueror. alas!

Ere thou couldst change this froward fate of mine, My latest sand must sink; when, thanks to thee, Thy last stern mandate bids me cease to be.

Great revolutionist throughout the vast
Immeasurable universe! to thee

I murmur no complainings of the past,
Couldst thou in future somewhat kinder be;
To name no trick of brevity thou hast

In meting out the world's mortality,

Though e'en in this there are who cry thee shame,
My views involve a nobler end and aim.

Teach man to shun the curse of social strife,
Whate'er his boast of colour, creed, or clime;
Show forth what blessings, exquisite as rife,
Flow from benevolence, remote from crime;
Till closing thence his pleasing dream of life,
In hope and rectitude alike sublime,
He scans his last calm citadel, the grave,
Mild as the moonlit deep unruffled by a wave.

Do this, and thou to whom we all must bend
The neck, however hostile to control;
Thou whose dominion duly doth extend
To every clime alike, from pole to pole;

Though livid lightnings flash, though earthquakes rend, Volcanoes burst, and threatening thunders roll,

With progress unimpeded still sweep on,
Through thee, the work of destiny be done.

Child of eternity! another year

Hangs now suspended o'er that gulf, the past— Whence nothing shall return; that sepulchre,

The charnel-house of all beneath the vast Empyrean vault of heaven, where rank or sphere Distinguish'd are no more, as first or last,

To move in mighty or in lowly mien ;
Nay moulder must their page of having been.

And when, at thy all-withering behest,

The grave's grim monarch bids me cease to sing, And lay my rude harp by; while, though undress'd With minstrel bays, be my green covering Refresh'd with summer dews, and while I rest, Be theirs the task, thy bards of bolder string, To humanize the world with song sublime : I humbly seek my straw-good night, old Time!