TO MY FIRST BORN.

Fair tiny rosebud! what a tide

Of hidden joy, o'erpow' ring, deep,

Of grateful love, of woman's pride,

Thrills through my heart till I must weep

With bliss to look on thee, my son,

My first born child — my darling one!

What joy for me to sit and gaze

Upon thy gentle, baby face,

And, dreaming of far distant days,

With mother's weakness strive to trace

Tokens of future greatness high,

On thy smooth brow and lustrous eye.

What do I wish thee, darling, say?

Is it that lordly mental power

That o'er thy kind will give thee sway,

Unchanging, full, a glorious dower

For those whose minds may grasp its worth,

True rulers and true kings of earth?

Or would I ask for thee that fire

Of wond'rous genius, great divine,

The spell that charms the poet's lyre,

Till like a halo it will shine

Around a name praised, honored, sung,

In distant climes by many a tongue?

Ah, no! my child, with such vain themes

I will not mar thy quiet rest

Nor wish ambition's restless dreams

Infused into thy tranquil breast;

Too soon will manhood's weight of care

O'ercloud that waxen brow so fair.

For thee, my Babe, I only pray

Thou'lt live to bless thy parents’ love,

To be their hope, their earthly stay,

And gaining grace from heaven above,

Tread in the path the good have trod,

True to thy country and thy God!