To my Little Son on his Twelfth Birthday

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

'Twas on that holy winter's mornWe 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 givenFor 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 downThat 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 ledUnto 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 wordThat He would keep and bless my darlings now.

Many years since then have fledOn the swift-winged messenger away,And daring deeds, I fear may leadYour pure young thoughts astray.

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