Folk Songs

THE MOTHER'S FIRST GRIEF.

For she bends above the cradle,
And her baby is not there!

There are words of comfort spoken,
And the leaden clouds of grief
Wear the smiling bow of promise,
And she feels a sad relief;

But her wavering thoughts will wander,
Till they settle on the scene

Of the dark and silent chamber,

And of all that might have been.

For a little vacant garment,

Or a shining tress of hair,

Tells her heart, in tones of anguish,
That her baby is not there!

She sits beside the cradle,

But her tears no longer flow,
For she sees a blessed vision,
And forgets all earthly woe;
Saintly eyes look down upon her,
And the Voice that hushed the sea
Stills her spirit with the whisper,
"Suffer them to come to Me."

And while her soul is lifted

On the soaring wings of prayer, Heaven's crystal gates swing inward, And she sees her baby there!

ROBERT SMYTH CHILTON.

YE MEANER BEAUTIES.

YE meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes,

More by your numbers than your light:
Ye common people of the skies!
What are you when the moon shall rise?

Ye violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the Spring were all your own!
What are you when the rose is blown?

Ye curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents!-what's your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise?

So when my mistress shall be seen

In sweetness of her looks and mind,
By virtue first, then choice, a queen:
Tell me, if she was not designed
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

WIND AND RAIN.

RATTLE the window, Winds!

Rain, drip on the panes !

There are tears and sighs in our hearts and eyes, And a weary weight on our brains.

The gray sea heaves and heaves,
On the dreary flats of sand;

And the blasted limb of the churchyard yew,
It shakes like a ghostly hand!

The dead are engulfed beneath it,

Sunk in the grassy waves;

But we have more dead in our hearts to-day

Than the Earth in all her graves!

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

A HEALTH.

I FILL this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone:

A woman of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air,
'Tis less of Earth than Heaven.

Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds;
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words:
The coinage of her heart are they,
And from her lips each flows
As one may see the burdened bee
Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears

The image of themselves by turns,
The idol of past years.