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POEMS FOR THE 8EA.
By that deep thrill, when first thy lip
Its lisping utterance tried,
Or when the evening prayer it breathed
Thy little bed beside,
By the strong hope that never dies
Within a mother's heart,
I bless thee, wanderer of the deep,
While tears of anguish start.
What though no gems, or hoarded gold
To swell thy stores, I bring,
A Parent's blessing maketh strong,
Like guardian angel's wing.
Yes—thou shalt feel when o'er the wave
Thy bark by storms is driven,
A Parent's blessing maketh glad
Next to the hope of Heaven.
Seek thou that hope to gird thy soul
Amid the tossing brine,
