THE EVERGREEN.

To my Sufant Son.

Tнy mother bade me weave a lay
A lay of love, for thee;
And I with willing mind obey,
Though tuneless all it be;

Though words but mock the fond excess
Of love, of hope, of tenderness,

Which thou hast wrought in me; And though my harp's degen'rate chords Faint echoes yield to powerless words.

O could my heart, flown to my tongue,
Dissolve itself in sound:

Or did my harp, now all unstrung,
With dulcet notes abound;

Then would I strike a chord should chain
The mind, and draw forth tears like rain,
When I am in the ground;

But thou, should Heaven thy life prolong, May'st value e'en this rugged song.

9

10

TO MY INFANT SON.

But it may be, my boy, thy life

Is in its spring to cease:

It may be, that ere manhood's strife,
Thou'lt find eternal peace:

And ne'er should wish of mine be lent,
Were wishes potent to prevent

Thy happy soul's release:

He metes thy days, my little one,
Who gave thee life,-His will be done.

But ever pure may be thy breast

In grief, in joy, the same;
And never may dishonour rest
Its cloud upon thy name;

But mayst thou early learn to prize
The plaudits of the good and wise

Alone as real fame;

Nor let the race absorb thy soul,
But keep thine eye fixed on the goal!

Thy mother! never may her eye

Be damp with tears for thee,
Save for those little ills which try

Thy tender infancy;

And may'st thou to man's sterner worth

Join her warm heart, her guileless mirth,

Her frankness, constancy,

Her love, which time cannot estrange,

Which knows no ebb, and knows no change.

HYMN.

And when at length into thy breast,

Death's chilling tremors creep,
O may'st thou sink into its rest,
As to a gentle sleep,

Unreach'd by doubt, unchaf'd by pain,
Leaving behind thee not a stain,

O'er which the good may weep;
But with thy spirit plum'd to rise
To that pure world beyond the skies.

And this world many a peril hath,
If thou shouldst tarry here,

Toils, cares, and griefs, lie in thy path;
And manhood's rough career

Will dash the gladness from thy brow,
The freshness from thy cheek, and thou,
Perchance, may'st shed the tear

O'er all thou lov'st, as earth receives
Them one by one, like autumn leaves.

11

ANON.

Bymu.

O BLEST were the accents of early Creation,
When the word of Jehovah came down from

above;

In the clods of the earth to infuse animation,
And wake their cold atoms to life and to love!