Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/233

1830-40.] AMELIA B. WELBY. 217 The time is long past, yet how clearly de- fined That bay-church, and village, float up on my mind ; I see amid azure the moon in her pride, With the sweet little trembler, that sat by her side ; I hear the blue waves, as she wanders along, Leap up in their gladness and sing her a song. And I tread in the pathway half-worn o'er the sod. By the feet that went up to the worship of God. The time is long past, yet what visions I see! ' The past, the dim past, is the present to me ; I am standing once more mid that heart- stricken throng, A vision floats up — 'tis the theme of my song — All glorious and bright as a spirit of air, The light like a halo encircling his hair — As I catch the same accents of sweetness and love. He whispers of Jesus — and points us above. How sweet to my heart is the picture I've traced ! Its chain of bright fancies seemed almost effaced. Till memory, the fond one, that sits in the soul, Took up the frail links, and connected the whole : As the dew to the blossom, the bud to the bee. As the scent to the rose, are these memories to me ; Round the chords of my heart they have tremblingly clung. And the echo it gives is the song I have suna;. THE LITTLE STEP-SON. I HAVE a little step-son, the loveKest thing alive ; A noble sturdy boy is he, and yet he's only five ; His smooth cheek hath a blooming glow his eyes are black as jet, And his lips are like two rose-buds, all tremulous and wet ; His days pass off in sunshine, in laughter, and in song, As careless as a summer rill, that sings itself along ; For like a pretty fairy tale, that's all too quickly told. Is the young life of a little one, that's only five years old. He's dreaming on his happy couch, before the day grows dark. He's up with morning's rosy ray, a-singing with the lark ; Where'er the flowers are freshest, where'er the gi-ass is green. With light locks waving on the wind, his fairy form is seen. Amid the whistling March winds, amid the April showers ; He warbles with the singing-birds, and blossoms with the flowers. He cares not for the summer heat, he cares not for the cold, My sturdy little step-son, that's only five years old. How touching 'tis to see him clasp his dimpled hands in prayer. And raise his little rosy face with rever- ential air ! How simple in his eloquence ! how soft his accents fall. When pleading with the King of kings, to love and bless us all ; And when from prayer he bounds away in innocence and joy.