To My First Born.

Fair tiny rosebud! what a tide         Of hidden joy, o'erpow'ring, deep,     Of grateful love, of woman's pride,         Thrills through my heart till I must weep     With bliss to look on thee, my son,     My first born child - my darling one!     What joy for me to sit and gaze         Upon thy gentle, baby face,     And, dreaming of far distant days,         With mother's weakness strive to trace     Tokens of future greatness high,         On thy smooth brow and lustrous eye.     What do I wish thee, darling, say?         Is it that lordly mental power     That o'er thy kind will give thee sway,         Unchanging, full, a glorious dower     For those whose minds may grasp its worth,     True rulers and true kings of earth?     Or would I ask for thee that fire         Of wond'rous genius, great divine,     The spell that charms the poet's lyre,         Till like a halo it will shine     Around a name praised, honored, sung,     In distant climes by many a tongue?     Ah, no! my child, with such vain themes         I will not mar thy quiet rest     Nor wish ambition's restless dreams         Infused into thy tranquil breast;     Too soon will manhood's weight of care     O'ercloud that waxen brow so fair.     For thee, my Babe, I only pray         Thou'lt live to bless thy parents' love,     To be their hope, their earthly stay,         And gaining grace from heaven above,     Tread in the path the good have trod,     True to thy country and thy God!