PAINTING. When rolling up its crimson flood Broke the long gathering tide of years; His diadem was rent away And beggars trampled on his clay. None wept-none pitied-they who knelt At morning by the despot's throne, At evening dashed the laurelled bust 185 And spurned the wreaths themselves had strown; The shout of triumph echoed wide, The self-stung reptile writhed and died! PAINTING. BY P. M. WETMORE. "Tis to the pencil's magic skill The lineaments beloved so well; "T is thine, o'er history's storied page, To shed the halo-light of truth; With mailed men to people forth; The images of sacred lore; That told life's agony was o'er— To dry the widowed mother's tear: And wondering rapture fills mankind? THE FIRST DAY OF THE YEAR. 187 THE FIRST DAY OF THE YEAR. ADDRESSED TO MY DAUGHTERS. BY MRS. S. J. HALE. ONE day—it is a trifling theme, "Tis but a welcome-an adieu- And with to-morrow's hopes in view, To-day like bird in tethering string, With faded eye, and folded wing, But like a bird in airy flight, Such are the dreams of early youth, I trust, my loved ones, still ye see The vine, even when its prop is lost, 189 THE FIRST DAY OF THE YEAR. Its tendrils torn and tempest-tost, May shield the little flower; And thus I bide the world's rude strife, "Tis sad, as years grow short, to know Death only brings relief; But saddest of all earthly wo, Is childhood bowed in grief; In sunny skies let fledgings fly; And thus doth feeling's signet prove Man's origin divine, When eye meets eye in trusting love, We feel the sacred sign; Of life, immortal life! how mild The glorious promise shines, When the young mother o'er her child, The spirit on its clay impresses, THE FIRST DAY OF THE YEAR And answers with her warm caresses, As she were fain to bind Its soul to her's!—And this is Love- And in Love's name I'll drink my cup, One only—and it will endure 'O, keep my dear ones good and pure!' And Heaven will hear my prayer! 189 |