THE MOTHER'S HAND.

117

101. THE MOTHER'S HAND.

A WAND❜RING Orphan child was I,—
But meanly at the best attired;
For, oh, my mother scarce could buy
The common food each week required!
But when the anxious day had fled,
It seemed to be her dearest joy,

To

press her pale hand on my head,
And pray that God would guide her boy.

But more each winter, more and more
Stern suffering brought her to decay;
And then an angel pass'd her door,
And bore her ling'ring soul away!
And I-They know not what is grief
Who ne'er knelt by a dying bed;
All other woe on earth is brief,

Save that which weeps a mother dead.

A seaman's life was soon my lot,

'Mid reckless deeds, and desperate men; But still I never quite forgot

The prayer I ne'er should hear again; And oft, when half induced to tread Such paths as unto sin decoy,

I've felt her fond hand press my head,

And that soft touch hath saved her boy!

Though hard their mockery to receive,

Who ne'er themselves 'gainst sin had striven, Her, who on earth I dared not grieve,

I could not-would not-grieve in Heaven:

118

THE MOTHER'S HAND.

And thus from many an action dread,
Too dark for human eyes to scan,
The same fond hand upon my head

That bless'd the boy-hath sav'd the man!

SWAIN.

102. "GOOD-BYE" AND "FAREWELL.”

WELL, for the sake of "Auld lang syne,"
O happy days, long, long ago!
I'll write-no, not an idle rhyme,
But just a farewell line or so.

The poet's art I cannot feign,

Nor flatter in smooth polish'd verse, Nor bow to wealth, nor beauty vain, Nor glory's false romance rehearse.

True worth I reverence more than fame,
Though moving oft in lowly sphere;
Such worth the muse delights to name,
Such worth is held by God most dear.

So, ere we part, I take the pen

To write "Good-bye," and "Fare you well,"

No idle words-and so, again,

May God be with you-Fare you well.

SHORTER.

*Written on being requested to write "something” in a lady's album.

ST. ANTHONY'S SERMON TO THE FISHES. 119

103. ST. ANTHONY'S SERMON TO THE FISHES.

ST. ANTHONY at church
Was left in the lurch,
So he goes to the river
A discourse to deliver.
The fishes all listen,
Their tails flap and glisten.

The carps, with their spawn,
Are all thither drawn,
They open their jaws

Wide, to swallow each clause.
No sermon beside

Had the carps so edified.

The pikes, sharp-nosed smiters,
Who love to be fighters,
Now swam up harmonious

To hear St. Antonius.

No sermon beside

Had the pikes so edified.

And that very odd fish

Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish,-
The stock-fish, I mean,-

At the sermon was seen.
No sermon beside

Had the cods so edified.

Eels and sturgeons, best livers
Of all in the rivers,

Went out of their way

To hear preaching that day.
No sermon beside

Had the eels so edified.

C

120 ST. ANTHONY'S SERMON TO THE FISHES.

Crabs and mud-turtle also,
Who generally crawl so,
Made haste from the bottom,
As if the devil had got 'em.
No sermon beside

Had the crabs so edified.

Fish great and fish small,
Lords, lackeys, and all,
Each looked at the preacher
Like a reasonable creature.
At God's word

They Anthony heard.

The sermon now ended,
To his business each wended;
The pikes to their thieving,
The eels to good living.

Much delighted were they,
But went on the old way.

The crabs are back-sliders,
The stock-fish thick-siders,
The carps are sharp-set,
All the sermon forget,

Much delighted were they,
But preferred the old way.

(From the German of Ulrich Megerle.)

104. DEW IN FLOWERS.

ANON.

AND that same dew, which sometimes on the buds
Was wont to swell, like round and orient pearls;
Stood now within the pretty flow'ret's eyes,
Like tears, that did their own disgrace bewail.

SHAKESPERE.

THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.

121

105. THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.

A MIST was driving down the British Channel,
The day was just begun,

And through the window-panes, on floor and panel,
Streamed the red autumn sun.

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon,
And the white sails of ships;

And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon
Hailed it with feverish lips.

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover,
Were all alert that day,

To see the French war-steamers speeding over,
When the fog cleared away.

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions,
Their cannon, through the night,

Holding their breath, had watched in grim defiance,
The sea-coast opposite.

And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations,
On every citadel;

Each answering each with morning salutations,
That all was well.

And down the coast, all taking up the burden,
Replied the distant forts,

As if to summon from his sleep the Warden
And Lord of the Cinque Ports.

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure,
No drum-beat from the wall,

No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure,
Awaken with its call'

M