The hedge-brier puts on its loveliest dress, And hawthorn its sweetest perfume; I marvel indeed, when dull worldlings confess, They observe not Spring and its bloom. I could point to the wing-soaring lark in the sky, As she warbles mellifluous song; Or the insect, that flutters rejoicingly by, A lesson might teach to the throng. Ah! why not adore the Creator Divine, While mountains and streams are made glad: And say, should not man with all Nature combine, When earth blooms an Eden o’erclad? Oh! sweet Spring is coming, with bud and with flow’r, Mild Zephyr breathes soft on the hill; Come, welcome then April’s bright plentiful show’r, And May shall be welcomer still. ON MY NEW-BORN SON. When first I heard thine infant voice, How did my beating heart rejoice To think the hour of peril past, Thou and thy mother safe at last; And anxious fear thus giv’n place To beaming joy, at thy sweet face, To view a mother smile on thee, And list thy cry with ecstacy, While thousand joys unknown before Swell at her breast, and beat the more. My boy! those words come like a spell; Who does not love that sound full well? What father hears but feels its sway, Or turns to th’ innocent to play, And pat its dimpled cheek the while, And cast a fond endearing smile. My boy! what can I hope for thee, Shouldst thou be spared, ah! spared to me? A parent’s wish might hope each stage Of rugged life’s dark pilgrimage O’erstrewn with flowers, to cheer the way, In place of wilds that lead astray. Thy little bark’s advent’rous sail, Oh! may it meet no adverse gale-- No treach’rous calm around it play, But Providence direct its sway! But should thy path with thorns o’erspread, Or tempests gather o’er thy head, Then, oh! my child, may grace be giv’n To seek the fostering care of Heav’n; To “Jacob’s God” for succour flee, Who shall, my child, deliver thee! FIRESIDE MUSINGS. The hollow winds blow loud and shrill, In heavy gusts like distant thunder, Lorn spirits of the howling hill, I list safe housed in speechless wonder; The winter blasts of gustful days, They make, my love, my hearth’s bright blaze. My fancy flits like rover wild, Recalls both days and years fast fleeting, The spring-time, when I was a child, All vanished with their bright-morn greeting; Pale wasting Time his glass doth raise, Advancing, as I watch the blaze. His stealthy step and gaunt-like form, His bony hand so grisly shapen, With mouldering touch, like canker-worm, I seem to start, half sleep, half waken; With fixed wild glare, the spoiler gaze, Then ruminate my red-coals blaze.