An Invitation Poem by Albert Pike

Come out and sit with me, dear wife, beneath these branching trees,
And let our little children come, and clamber on our knees!
It is a sweet, soft, pleasant morn, the loveliest in May,
And their little hearts are beating fast, longing to be at play.

The shadows here are thick and cool, the south wind stirs the leaves,
The martin sings a merry note upon the ivied eaves;
The crisp grass wears a richer green, from yesterday's soft showers,
And is jewelled over thickly with the rarest of your flowers.

The odors of the jasmine and the roses fill the air,
And the bees, refreshed by Night's sweet rest, again begin to bear
Rich freightage to their palaces under the locust trees,
Rejoicing in the influence of this sweet summer breeze.

The humming-birds are busy through the flower-encumbered vines,
Where the golden honeysuckle, from our own green woods, entwines
With its paler foreign sisters, 'mid whose dark-green, glossy leaves
The flowers profusely clustered there entice the tiny thieves.

Where the coral woodbine flauntingly displays its crimson blooms,
And our native yellow jasmine pours abroad its rich perfumes;
Where the climbing roses cluster, painted rich with every hue,
And stem, and leaf, and bud, and flower, are glittering with dew.

A hundred snowy doves upon the grass have settled down,
Like a drift of stainless snow upon a green hill's sunny crown;
They wait to be, as usual, by our little children fed,
Who, idle ones, are playing here, under the trees, instead.

The mocking-bird, for many a week so busy, now can rest,
For yesterday I saw him give the last touch to his nest;
His eyes shine brightly now with joy, his song rings loud
and shrill; Now here, now there, in mad delight, he's not a moment still.

Behold! just overhead, his mate is sitting on the nest,
You can see above its edges, the gray feathers of her breast,
Ah, happy bird!—but we, dear wife, are happier than she;
For OUR young carol round us now, in childhood's merry glee.

The sun's first rays are shooting up above the eastern woods;
But here, among these circled trees, no prying light intrudes:
Five sturdy oaks are ranged around; five children round us throng.
And after each we'll name a tree, that shall to each belong.

This tallest one for HAMILTON, our little manly boy,
Whose dark and thoughtful eyes are now so radiant with joy;
This, WALTER'S, whose bright, dancing ones with merry mischief shine,
But still, affectionate and kind, are images of thine.

This, for our silent little girl, the quiet ISADORE,
Who sits demurely working at her doll's new pinafore;
This, for our blue-eyed LILIAN, the merriest of all;
This smallest, for the babe, that by his father's name we call.

Life's spring has passed from us, dear wife; its summer glides away,
And melancholy autumn comes, robed in its vesture gray;
We may linger on till winter; we may die before we are old;
But these young oaks will live and thrive when we are dead and cold.

We have been very happy, dear, for more than ten long
years:— How short, as we look backward, that long space of time
appears! And if these dear ones all are spared, around our hearts
to cling, The autumn of our life will be as happy as its spring.

For many a pleasant year, perhaps, to bless us, they may live,
Kind solace and assistance to our feeble age to give;—
May help us totter out beneath these interlocking trees,
Enjoying, as life fades away, the pleasant morning breeze.

We will make them virtuous, honest, true, kind, generous; and when
They are grown to lovely women, and true-hearted, gallant men,
Then, having done our duty, we, without a tear or sigh,
With cheerful resignation may be well content to die.

And after we are dead and gone, and buried many a year,
They, with THEIR children gathered round, may sit as we do here;
New flowers will bloom around them then, though these, like us, will fade;
But the green oaks we planted still will bless them with their shade.

Then will they think of us, dear wife, with love and grief sincere,
And sadly on our memory bestow a silent tear;
Let this our consolation be, while life shall swiftly wane,—
In our sweet children's virtues we shall live and love again.