Poems (Rice)/To my Little Son on his Twelfth Birthday

by Maria Theresa Rice

TO MY LITTLE SON ON HIS TWELFTH BIRTHDAY.

HOW like a dream it is, since I
 First took thee from thy Maker's hands,
A tiny babe so beautiful,
 More precious, too, than golden sands.

'Twas on that holy winter's morn
 We celebrate the Saviour's birth,
That you, with beauteous face and form,
 Sent quiet gladness round our hearth.

I then shed tears of joy, and pain,
 To think a gift so rich was given
For me to love, and then, again,
 To mould it fit for heaven.

I've watched thy budding mind unfold,
 As opes the petal of the flower,—
A gem that in the casket glowed,
 Warmed into life by love's sweet power.

Then when the crushing blow came down
 That withered every ray of hope,
I met alone the cold world's frown,
 Drank to the dregs that bitter cup.

Before the tempest passed away,
 Or hushed the tumult of my bosom wild,
How fervently I tried to pray,
 That God would be a father to my child.

My orphaned ones I trembling led
 Unto the Gate of Heaven,
To dedicate them to my God,
 On a calm, bright Sabbath even.

You side by side before the altar stood,
 The mystic waters sprinkled on your brow;
I rested then upon the promised word
 That He would keep and bless my darlings now.

Many years since then have fled
 On the swift-winged messenger away,
And daring deeds, I fear may lead
 Your pure young thoughts astray.

But if a mother's prayers can keep
 Thee safe from sin and harm,
I'd bend the knee, I'd give my life,
 To shield thee from the cold world's frown.