A FEW more years, my cherished one,
And these will soon be fled;
And where will then my little son
Repose his weary head?
Not on thy mother's faithful breast,
As thou hast done to-day;
The time of childhood's happy rest
Will then be passed away.
Thy childish pastimes will be o'er,
The hoop and ball thrown by,
And "mother" will be called no more
To teach the kite to fly :
A higher flight the world will speak,
To charm thy youthful heart;
And home's soft ties will lightly break,
And thou, too, wilt depart.
I know that this must be-I know
A man must join the throng;
As palms in sunshine loftier grow,
And oaks in storms more strong,-
So man's bold virtues best unfold
Beneath the world's broad sky;
And yet the mother's home how cold,
When all her birds can fly!
O, many a time, when pressed with care, Or sick with pain and grief,
And none my soul's deep thoughts to share, I've found a sweet relief
From gazing on thy face, my boy,
In life's pure morning bright;
'Twas as the smiling beam of joy
To sorrow's lonely night.
And many a time the midnight hour
Has found my task delayed;
My spirit felt a withering power-
The cypress' gloomy shade:
In vain to frame the song I sought,
Its burning visions gone,
'Till from thy peaceful rest I caught
The hope to bear me on.
And tell me not to crush that hope,
How false such fancies prove,
That bitterest minglings of our cup
Are poured by those we love.
There's One can prosper all my care,
And He my toils will bless-
The tender watch that sparrows share,
Will guard my fatherless.
And he can bless the amulet
A mother's love would frame,
Make wisdom's gems these words I set
Tried in the heart's pure flame.
Then, dear one, bear this song of home
Graved on thy memory,
And when the world's temptations come,
Thou wilt remember me.
"BRING forth the sceptres of command!"
That awful voice I heard —
"And let the subject nations stand!"
The waiting world appeared.
Then drew the sceptre-bearers nigh,
Old Asia, first, crept cowering by ;
Next Europe, with her troubled eye;
Then young America:
Each placed her sceptre, passed; and then,
Unveiled before the sons of men,
A Sword, a Crosier, and a Pen
Upon the altar lay.
Again the voice uprose, and loud
Like battle-cry it came,
And wildly, from that heaving crowd,
Echoed the shout- "For Fame!
Brother 'gainst brother fiercely stood,
The earth was graves, the rivers blood-
Kingdoms were crushed, as wasting flood
Had swept o'er crumbling clay, -
Till, 'mid the din, a dove appeared!
The heavenly tone of "Peace!" was heard —
I looked, and, with that gentle word,
The Sword had passed away!
Then like a storm of ashes hurled
From the volcano's height,
A thick, dark cloud rolled o'er the world,
Blotting Mind's blessed light
And men sunk down, in utter dread;
Mailed warriors, weak as infants tread,
And monarchs, with uncovered head,
Stooped low the cowl before;
And Superstition's iron reign
Has seared the heart, and shrunk the brain
Ha!-Thought's strong grasp has rent the chain;-
The Crosier's sway is o'er.
Pure as the light on altar glows,
Lit up by prophet's prayer,
A small, soft, steady light arose
On earth, on sea, and air;
It shines as shed from seraphs' wings,
Withering all vile, old, useless things-
Like scorched flax from the grasp of kings
The reins of empire sever;
It burns from Craft his mask of night,
Intemperance blasts with perfect light,
And shows the Ethiop's soul is white, -
"The Pen-the Pen forever!"
Thus rang the voice-its trumpet tone
Burst like a swelling river;
From land to land went sounding on,
"The Pen the Pen forever!"
I saw earth's joyous millions move,
Justice their shield, their banner love, –
While Freedom's eagle, high above,
Soared with unslumbering eye;
Cool springs gushed forth mid arid sands,
Bright flowers sprung up in desert lands,
And bands of peace, from angel hands,
Were linking earth and sky.
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