POETRY.
IN MEMORIAM.
OH, to recall the days when, on the road That led me, cheerful or depressed, towards home, My little timid son was wont to come Within my ken, not far from my abode!
On seeing me his eager joy he curbed, Uncertain of my mood. He peeled his stick With anxious mien, while casting glances quick To learn my humour ; if I seemed disturbed As I drew near, he loitered by my side— A thought behind—and looked intent on work ; But if I smiled—then, with a sudden jerk, His stick flew far, and such a whelming tide Of love burst forth, in smiles and misty tears, And pressure of his loving little hand, and eager con- fidence of hopes and fears.
Oh, that we did not fail so oft to find God's angels in our children ! How our eyes Are holden, while we deem that we are wise; Whereas we are but very dull and blind!
For what are trifling faults—a noisy tone, A broken platter, or a missing hat?
Can we not foster love so passionate, Yet gently chide ? Alas ! why be so prone To silence lips so loving, or to make The little heart e'en for a moment ache Because our nerves are jarred P How soon we lose Perception of the treasure of its love !
Shock our fastidious sense, and we refuse The love that fills the little heart with joy—the solace that could half our griefs remove.
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