Grandmother's gray head is bending low The steps of her pathway are few to go; Brightens the evening that else were dim; Children in the Household. LD age is a garden of faded flowers, Peopled by cares and failing powers; Where Pain with his crutch and lonely Grief Slow steps over ruined stalk and leaf. But the love of children is like some rare That makes long Indian summer there; A youth in age, when the skies yet glow, And hearts keep glad under locks of snow. In the best-wrought life there is still a reft, Forever unfinished, a broken weft. CHILDREN IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 119 But merciful Nature makes amends, When she sends Youth, that takes up our raveled ends, Our hopes, our loves, that they be not quite But leave behind us a fringe of light. Blessed be children! Year by year They appear, Filling the humblest home with cheer. Now a daughter and now a son, One by one They are cradled, they creep, they walk, they run. Sons and daughters, until, behold! Young and old, A Jacob's-ladder with steps of gold! 'A ladder of little heads! each fair Head a stair For the angels that visit the parent pair! Blessed be childhood! even its chains Welcome and blessed with all the pains, Losses, and upward vanishings Of light wings,— With all the sorrow and toil it brings, All burdens that ever those small feet bore To our door,— Blessed and welcome forevermore! How Soon We Lose Them. OLD diligent converse with thy children! have them Morning and evening round thee, love thou them, And win their love in these rare, beauteous years; For only while the short-lived dream of childhood Lasts are they thine, no longer! When youth comes And much allures their hearts, — which thou hast not. They gain a knowledge of an older world Which fills their souls; and floats before them now The Future. And the Present thus is lost. He comes back home, he loves, - he wins a maid, He lives! They live, and others spring to life. From him, and now thou hast in him, A human being, but no more a child! Thy daughter, wedded, takes a frequent joy 120 The Mother's Day-Dream. MOTHER sat at her sewing, So I fancied all her dreaming; I watched her serious eye As the 'broidery dropped from her fingers, And she heaved a heartfelt sigh. She drew the little one nearer. And looked on the sunny face, Swept the bright curls from the open brow, And kissed it with loving grace. And she thought, "I, too, am an artist, My life-work here I see; This sweet, dear face my hand must trace, I must paint for eternity. Hence each dark passion shadow! Pain's deeply graven lines! "But how shall I blend the colors? How mingle the light and shade And days all drear that be, "Alas, that I am but a learner! Or obtain the rare old colors The Master's precious dyes? I must haste to the fount of beauty, Must pleadingly kneel at His feet, And crave, 'mid his wiser scholars, The humblest pupil's seat. "Then, hand and heart together, Some grace shall add each day; And grant me the vision to see In the light of His love, without blemish or stain, In the coming eternity!" Then the mother awoke from her day-dream, Her face grew bright again, And I knew her faith was strengthened By more than angel's ken; |