The Wilmingtonian, And Delaware Register

From the Emporium.

A MOTHER TO HER INFANT DAUGHTER.

Sleep, dearest one—thy couch of rest
Is a fond mother's faithful breast,
And little recks thy infancy
How true her warm heart beats to thee,
How much she glories to behold
Thy tender mind its germs unfold,
How much of joy's bright witchery
She gleans from thy quick playful eye,
How many cares thy mirthful smiles
Each slowly passing hour beguiles,
How every little wile of thine
Is cherished in her bosom's shrine,
And all thy joys and all thy tears
Awake her hopes or rouse her fears.

Sleep, dearest one—the toil, the pain,
Thou givest thou'lt repay again—
To see thee happy is a treasure,
Each dimpling smile of thine's a pleasure,
More than sufficient to atone
For every pang, for every groan—
To guard, to cherish day by day,
To share thy gladness, join the play.
To bend above thy brow and see
Thy father's image born in thee—
To stop thy rosy mouth with kisses,
To strew thy every path with blisses—
To press thee, helpless as thou art,
In love's pure sunshine to her heart,
And feel that thou art happy there.
And mark thy young affections grow
Brighter each day and month and year,
Oh life has nought so sweet below.

Sleep, dearest one—in after life,
When rolls the tide of worldly strife
Across my pathway, thou shalt be
The solace of each misery—
And life's dull scenes will glide along
Swift to the cadence of thy song—
When sick, or sad, or bowed with care,
Thy hand the nostrum shall prepare—
When other hopes fade one by one,
In every stage of good and ill
Thou'lt be one constant blessing still,
If Heaven but spares the life it gave
To dwell on time's maturer wave.

And oh, if every anxious prayer
Offered has been recorded there—
Fresh in thy opening mind shall bloom
Pure virtue's rich and sweet perfume,
And meek Religion's vestal fires,
Whose flame once lighted ne'er expires,
Shall every path of duty light,
Glow on thy bosom's altar bright,
And make thee all of loveliness
This heart could wish, this tongue express.

Sleep, dearest one—and when I sleep
The last, long, silent, sleep of death,
A vigil o'er my rest thou'lt keep
With the young lilies of the heath—
And oft to deck a mother's grave
Thou'lt cause the wild rose there to wave,
And bid the gay green myrtle spread
Its leaves o'er my unconscious head,
And fondly cherish in thy breast
Her memory who loved thee best,
Copy each good example given
And tread the path that leads to heaven,
Still blessing her whose burning brow
Bends over thee in rapture now.