Edward Henry Bickersteth

A MOTHER TO HER SON ON HIS BIRTHDAY.
Thy natal day returns again,
Full fourteen suns have sped
Since first you woke to sin and pain,
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I have gazed o'er the hills in the day's soft decline,
And my thoughts they have wandered to that fairer clime,
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Pompeii! city of the dead,—entombed
Two thousand years in clouds of ashes,—still
Remains to tell of long forgotten times,
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Bid me sigh it in thine ear,
I may scarce its utterance tell;
Bid me hide it in a tear,
'Tis the word—farewell! farewell!
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Sarnia farewell! farewell thy rocky shore;
Far o'er the main I ne'er may see thee more;
Yet will I not regret thee—save thy flowers—
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Flower of the Snow!—we hail thy birth,
Though cold and pale may be thy shrine,
A promise from all bounteous earth
To glad our northern clime.
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Life is at best a thorny path,
Then let us pluck the flowers,
And cease to weep
For those who sleep,
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The almond tree,—the almond tree—how lovely is its bloom,
It flourishes and fades away before the summer noon;
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Avaunt thee, horrid War: whose miasms, bred
Of nether darkness and Tartarean swamps,
Float o'er this fallen world and blight the flowers,
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Here rest my friend,—thy wanderings stay,
And take a seat, while yet ye may,
Within this hallowed spot;
Here taste the sweets of rural joys,
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Take this wish, and may it be
Ever in thy heart enshrined,
That thy God may bless e'en thee
With a pure and spotless mind;
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O! bring me flow'rs, and I will wreathe
A chaplet for thy hair,
And as I twine each bud't will breathe
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“I would wake the shell
And lull my senses to forgetfulness
With its sweet melody.”—
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Thy plaintive muse responds to mine,
And bids me speak no more of pain;
Ah! could I sweep some chords of mirth,
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While o'er thine infancy thy mother smiled,
A thousand wishes all her thoughts beguiled:
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Hail! hope, delicious hope!
Return once more with thy seductive smile,
And chase away these fears;
My weary heart thou dost beguile
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Mark the soft lustre of her eye,
As shining through its fringe;
Roses have spread their faintest dye,
Young beauty's cheek to tinge.
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And have I flung my once loved lyre
Thus heedless by,
Unstrung are all its chords and hushed
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Fill, fill me a goblet from those dark and silent waters,
Where the lovēd song of the minstrel for ever is mute;
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Come, lonely, melancholy flow'r,
Who lov'st with me the silent hour,—
Come shed abroad, when stars are high,
...