POETRY.
FATHERHOOD.
A Kiss, a word of thanks, away They're gone, and you, forsaken, learn The blessedness of giving ; they (So Nature bids) forget, nor turn To where you sit and watch and yearn.
And you (so Nature bids) would go Thro' fire and water for their sake ; Rise early, late take rest, to sow Their wealth, and lie all night awake If but their little finger ache.
That storied prince, with wondrous hair, Which stole men's hearts, and wrought his bale Rebelling,—since he had no heir, Built him a pillar in the dale, " Absalom's," lest his name should fail.
It fails not, tho' the pillar lies In dust; because the outraged one, His father, with strong agonies, Cried it until his life was done, "0 Absalom, my son, my son ! "
So Nature bade; or might it be God? Who in Jewry once, they say, Cried with a great cry, "Come to Me, Children "; who still held on their way, Tho' He spread out His hands all day.
H. C. BE BOEING.
Previous page
