WILLIAM STEWARD
("WILL.")
"They are love's last gifts, bring ye flowers, pale flowers."—Mrs. Hemans.
I stand alone beside the silent mound,
The dull, cold earth beneath me, and the sky
Dark blue o'er head.—The spacious hills around
Nor charms the gaze of my grief wearied eye;
Sad, tired, forlorn, I sink upon the sod,
With rev'rent awe and mournful bareéd head,
I try to raise my thoughts to mother's God,
And with affection contemplate the dead.
I am a boy again—a lisping child,
With sunny face and merry prattling tongue;
I totter forth with joyous fancy wild,
And sing the lullaby we last night sung;
My young heart bounds with radiant happiness
As some new toy my angel-mother gives,
Or stoops to pat my head with sweet caress,
And my glad lips her cherished kiss receives.
Now I am grown to boyhoods first estate;
And thorns of life 'gin prick me one by one,—
Now aspiration's hopes, my thoughts elate,
And now by disappointments am cast down;
The daily avocations of the farm
Bring each in turn their elements of woe,
But mother's heart, its beatings always warm,
Is a sure haven where I ever go.
Th' unruly horse my youthful strength o'erpowers,
Or vicious cattle wear my patience bare,
Each is recounted of in evening hours,
In boyhood's confidence in mother's ear,—
Ah! we six childish ones with each our cares—
Bespeak we each ones place, in mother's heart,
Where we each pour our trouble, hopes and fears,
And mother, tenderly takes each one's part.
And at th' appointed hour the father comes;
His day's work o'er, prompt, day and day the same,
Then happiest ours of all the happy homes
Our lessons coning, or with sportive game,—
Oh would those days of childhood linger still—
The ev'ning game prolong—e'en daily task
Is welcomed linger! youthful years ye will
Be vanished and your stay in vain we ask!
Too soon with quickning steps the eager days
Bring manhood's strength—our childhood all outgrown
And then for life we take our sep'rate ways,
Each son and daughter choose a course their own;
Too soon, alas! the shadowy curtain falls
And sorrows, real, begin to cast their gloam,
Our consciences' tickle with increasing galls
As each new silv'ry hair comes to our home.
Dear cherished ones, thy load we now wish lighter,
Since we are grown, and see thy waning years,
Thy daily walks we would see fair and brighter,
But ev'ry effort still augments thy cares;
Affliction's hand, spares not the burdened mother,
But suff'rings, long, great, are thy constant lot;
Nor stintless hand divides it with another
Who'd die for thee and for thee be forgot.