Elfin Moor, Va. January 14, 1835.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MY CHILD.

BY PERTINAX PLACID.

Why gazest thou, my eldest born, my best beloved boy,
Upon thy father's clouded brow, as if it marr'd thy joy—
As If it chill'd thy little heart, such sadden'd looks to see,
And gave a mournful presage of thy own dark destiny?—
Why dost thou stop thy frolic play, and with inquiring eye,
Looking up into my thoughtful face, breathe something like a sigh?
Thy little hand upon my knee, thy neck thrown gently back,
And thine offer'd kiss, to tempt my tho'ts from their dark and dreary track.
Yes, that childish kiss can win me back to momentary peace,
And thy soft embrace can bid awhile my bosom's sadness cease—
For in my spirit's wanderings, when the past with pain I tread,
Or pry into the future with mingled hope and dread,
Still thou, my child, in all my tho'ts, sad tho' they be, hast part,
And of thy after-life I muse, with a father's anxious heart.
Even now thou smilest winningly, to bid me smile again,
And thy looks of joy and innocence revive the heart, as rain
Revives the drooping, wither'd flower, in Autumn's chilly day,
When winds and storms its summer leaves, one by one have rent away.
Oh many a sad and heavy hour my heart has felt for thee,
And many a prayer my lips have breath'd that heaven thy guide may be,
Throughout the giddy maze of life, and from sorrow keep thee free.
Not from those griefs that all must feel, who tread this path of care,
And that weigh on every bosom doom'd the fate of man to bear—
But from the deep regret I feel for many a wasted hour,
And from the gnawing of remorse, unbridled passion's dower:
That thou may'st early learn to check thy fancy's treacherous glow,
Nor paint too fair the face of things, the dark reverse to know—
Nor, fed by Hope, too long believed, when she has taken wing,
Look round thee on the human face as on a hated thing.
Oh never may'st thou deem the world what it has seem'd to me,
The field of strife where Virtue falls 'neath fraud and treachery:
And may'st thou by no sad reverse, man's darker passions know,
Nor prove, when fortunes change, that friends can deal the heaviest blow,
That he who shared thy inmost soul, may prove thy deadliest foe.
Even now, upon thy gentle face, too plainly I behold
The impress of thy future life—thy destiny foretold.
That noble brow, so fearless, that eye so bold and free,
Bespeak a soul undim'd by aught of wrong or perfidy—
The dreaming pauses 'midst thy play, as if of sudden thought,
The speaking glances of thine eye, when with hope and gladness fraught—
These tell a tale of after times, when I no more shall guide
The wand'rings of thy youthful feet, or lead thee by my side—
When the fondness of a father's love thou never more canst know,
And I shall in an early grave sleep tranquilly and low.
That eager glance, that buoyant step, that shout so full of glee,
Tell me that thou in manhood's throngs wilt bear thee manfully—
That thou wilt trust to those who swear, in love or friendship, truth,
And mourn, like me, the illusion o'er, the errors of thy youth.
Then be it so—speed on thy race, thro' sunshine and thro' shade:
Fair be thy young imaginings—for ah, they all must fade—
And may'st thou, when the visions pass, that o'er thy slumbers bend,
When life grows dark, and hearts grow cold, find thou hast still a friend,
Whose faith the terrors cannot shake of life's most stormy hour,
True to the last, be fortune thine, or when misfortune lower.
But still, should keen adversity, rend every human tie,
Bear thy proud soul above the wreck, the tempest's rage defy.
Look on my face again, fair boy, the clouds have passed away—
I trust thee to that better guide, who checks us when we stray.
And if the thorn must wound us still, whene'er we pluck the rose,
His wisdom, which inflicts, can teach to bear life's many woes.
Come then, and kiss thy father, boy,—his brow no more is dark;
Smile once again, pursue thy play, and carol like the lark.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.