Chapter II

I am not deceiving, believe me, my dear,
That all are my first, who to thee are not near;
My next may be anything—choose what you like,
And say what you please—it will suit it alike.
My whole of this trifling charade is the price,
You will not give more, if you take my advice.
SPHINX

THE ENGLISH FLOWER.

Not the proud rose of England’s glorious crown—
Not France’s flower-de-luce of stainless sheen—
Not Scotland’s boastful emblem of renown—
Not Erin’s hallowed shamrock green—

Not, as the laurel prodigal of power,
To deck the blood-stained victor’s triumph high,—
Not as the proud Narcissus, hapless flower,
Of self-enamored vanity to die,—

No cultured plant of rare exotic birth,
With flaunting hues unconscious of perfume,—
Meek offspring of thy parent earth,—
Art thou, sweet bud of native bloom,—

Pure as the lily of some rural glade,
That bursts unnoted from the velvet sod,
Yet sends, from tufted leaves its head that shade,
A tribute of rare odors up to God.

Oh! born to cheer, to comfort, and to bless,
To lend to happiness a deeper charm,
To banish sorrow with thy pure caress,
Holy, and sweet, and innocent, and warm—

May nought of lasting grief thy smiles efface,
Blight thy rich cheek, or dim thy laughing eyes.
Long mayest thou witch the world with that fair face,
Then bloom for ever in the eternal skies.
ZETA.

THE YOUNG MOTHER.

BY GRENVILLE MELLEN.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
WORDSWORTH

I.

A young and gentle mother,
She bows above her boy,
And a tear is in her downcast eye,
But ’tis the tear of joy—
Of one whose few fair summers
On golden wings have sped,
Like childhood’s dreams of Paradise,
Above her sainted head.
Loved, ere her life’s flush morning
Had kindled into day,
And worshipped, as she wooed the flowers
That bloomed around her way,
By one whose warm affections
On her wondrous beauty hung,
And their first taintless tribute gave
To the shrine to which they clung!

II.

A young and gentle mother—
Still beautiful, but pale
With sleepless but unwearied watch,
Alike through joy and wail.
A mother!—yet believing
Life’s duties scarce begun—
Whose childhood seemed of yesterday
In its unclouded sun;
So early had the story
Of idol Love been told—
So early had her virgin heart
Been gathered to its fold!

III.

And he who won her—where is he,
In this her day of pride,
When every hope she claimed before,
By this grew dim and died!
So priceless was the treasure
Her throbbing bosom bore,
So centered was her spirit now
On one she could adore!
Where is he!—Ah! her vision
Is of shadowy ships and seas—
And _for_ him the unuttered prayer
Is poured on bended knees.
Each day in thought she follows
His stormy ocean track,
And every dreamy midnight still
Her pillow brings him back.
For he—for distant regions
Torn early from her side,—
Had parted, with his heart in tears,
From that outsobbing bride.

IV.

Long time afar he lingered,
And oft the message came
Of fadeless love—and of cruel fate
The tale was still the same.
Years fled—and still he wandered—
In one long dream of home,
And prattling voices round its hearth—
An exile, doomed to roam.

V.

At length her leaping spirit
Its promised bliss had found,
And she heard its pulses quick and loud
Beat to the welcome sound.
He on the bounding waters
Had cast himself once more,
To greet that home, and hearth, and bride,
That rose above their roar
Like lights amid a tempest—
Bright beacons of the land,
Where all we love shall hail us soon,
A joy-inspiring band!

VI.

’Twas then I saw that mother,
And babe with silken hair,
And all a mother’s pride and hope,
Just dashed with fear, was there.
Her head upon his temple
Was stooped in pensive rest,
Mingling its light, uncumbered locks
With those that veiled her breast;
Her eye, just dropped in shadow,
Looked melancholy down,
And the tear that glittered from its depths
Was not of grief alone—
But the still look of thankfulness
That o’er her features fell,
Lent even to the tears a beam
That told you all was well!
One arm around her idol
Protectingly was flung,
The other, as of one in dreams,
Beside her aimless hung.—

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VII.

O Innocence and Beauty!—
And Youth, with all its flowers,
When they _together_ round us come
What a heritage is ours!
Who ever dreams a sepulchre
O’er such can darkly close,
Or the heart’s sun e’er set in clouds,
That robed in lustre rose!

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