That simple duty such grace did lend her,
My Doris tender, my Doris true,
That I her warder did always bless her,
And often press her to take her due.
And now in beauty she fills my dwelling
With love excelling, and undefiled;
And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent,
No more a servant, nor yet a child.
Come to me, darling, I'm lonely without thee;
Day-time and night-time I'm dreaming about thee;
Night-time and day-time in dreams I behold thee,
Unwelcome the waking that ceases to fold thee.
Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten;
Come in thy beauty, to bless and to brighten;
Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly;
Come in thy loveliness, queenly and holy.
Swallows shall flit round the desolate ruin,
Telling of Spring and its joyous renewing;
As thoughts of thy love and its manifest treasure
Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure.
O Spring of my heart! O May of my bosom!
Shine out on my soul till it bourgeon and blossom.
The waste of my life has a rose-root within it,
And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it.
Figure which moves like a song through the even,
Features lit up with a reflex of heaven,
Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother,
Where sunshine and shadow are chasing each other;
Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple;
And opening their eyes from the heart of a dimple;
O, thanks to the Saviour that even the seeming
Is left to the exile, to brighten his dreaming.
You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened;
Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened?
Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love,
As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love;
I cannot smile but your cheeks will be glowing;
You cannot weep but my tears will be flowing;
You will not linger when I shall have died, love;
I could not live without you at my side, love.
Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow;
Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow;
Come swift and strong as the words which I speak, love,
With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love;
Come, for my heart in your absence is dreary ;
Haste, for my spirit is sickened and weary;
Come to the arms which alone shall caress thee;
Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee.
BACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forhead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;-
Rock me to sleep, mother-rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,—
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,—
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,—
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap ;-
Rock me to sleep, mother, -rock me to sleep!
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between;
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again;
Come from the silence so long and so deep;-
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!
Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours;
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain:
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep ;-
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song;
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream;
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep;-
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!
ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
ONLY a baby small,
Dropt from the skies,
Only a laughing face,
Two sunny eyes;
Only two cherry lips,
One chubby nose;
Only two little hands,
Ten little toes.
Only a golden head,
Curly and soft;
Only a tongue that wags
Loudly and oft;
Only a little brain,
Empty of thought;
Only a little heart,
Troubled with nought.
Only a tender flower
Sent us to rear;
Only a life to love
While we are here;
Only a baby small,
Never at rest;
Small, but how dear to us,
God knoweth best.
"T WAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago,
Tall and slender, and sallow, and dry; His form was bent, and his gait was slow, His long, thin hair was as white as snow;
But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye,
And he sang every night as he went to bed, "Let us be happy down here below;
The living should live, though the dead be dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
He taught his scholars the rule of three,
Writing, and reading, and history too,
Taking the little ones on his knee,
For a kind old heart in his breast had he,
And the wants of the smallest child he knew:
"Learn while you 're young," he often said,
"There is much to enjoy down here below;
Life for the living, and rest for the dead,"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
With stupidest boys, he was kind and cool,
Speaking only in gentlest tones;
The rod was scarcely known in his school;
Whipping to him was a barbarous rule,
And too hard work for his poor old bones; "Besides, it was painful," he sometimes said, "We should make life pleasant here below, The living need charity more than the dead,” Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane,
With roses and woodbine over the door;
His rooms were quiet and neat and plain,
But a spirit of comfort there held reign,
And made him forget he was old and poor.
"I need so little," he often said,
"And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead,"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
But the most pleasant times that he had, of all, Were the sociable hours he used to pass,
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