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SONNET.
TO MY FATHER, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, MARCH 8.
Oh ever, as in years of old, this day,
My Father! dawns upon a grateful band;
'T is not that Spring's soft ah our brow has fanned,
Or breathes the promise of the coming May;
No! sweeter thoughts around our bosoms play,
Of fond affection, which through life has been
A sacred bond, through every changing scene,
Of power to chase our doubts and griefs away.
Oh long, my Father! may thy hand renew
The links which bind us in such dear accord;
Still may this day beloved to us afford
The light and joy o'er earlier life it threw;
While deeper prayer and fonder praise we pour,
To Him whose love is mighty to restore!
My Father! dawns upon a grateful band;
'T is not that Spring's soft ah our brow has fanned,
Or breathes the promise of the coming May;
No! sweeter thoughts around our bosoms play,
Of fond affection, which through life has been
A sacred bond, through every changing scene,
Of power to chase our doubts and griefs away.
Oh long, my Father! may thy hand renew
The links which bind us in such dear accord;
Still may this day beloved to us afford
The light and joy o'er earlier life it threw;
While deeper prayer and fonder praise we pour,
To Him whose love is mighty to restore!
