SONG.—WHEN OTHER FRIENDS ARE ROUND THEE
BY G. P. MORRIS.
When other friends are round thee, And other hearts are thine; When other bays have crowned thee, More fresh and green than mine. Then think how sad and lonely This wretched heart will be; Which, while it beats—beats only, Beloved one! for thee.
Yet do not think I doubt thee; I know thy truth remains, I would not live without thee For all the world contains. Thou art the star that guides me Along life's troubled sea, And whatever fate betides me, This heart still turns to thee.
DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.
BY WILLIS G. CLARK.
Young mother, he is gone, His dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast, No more the music tone Float from his lips to thine all fondly prest; His smile and happy laugh are lost to thee, Earth must his mother and his pillow be.
His was the morning hour, And he hath passed in beauty from the day, A bud not yet a flower; Torn in its sweetness from the parent spray, The death wind swept him to his soft repose, As frost in spring-time blights the early rose.
Never on earth again Will his rich accents charm thy listening ear, Like some Æolian strain, Breathing at even-tide serene and clear; His voice is choked in dust, and on his eyes The unbroken seal of peace and silence lies.