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Article MY BIRTHDAY. Page 1 of 1
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
My Birthday.
MY BIRTHDAY .
I-lt 0 . 11 A WANDERER ' S SCRAP - BOOK . DEAR mother , ' tis my natal day ! And though I wander far away From England ' s shores , it yet will be Remember'd , I am sure , by thee .
Life!—' twas a fatal gift ! it brought The impulse wild , the undying thought . The restless hope , the vain desire , Ambition ' s self-destroying fire , The pride of knowledge , that dark sin "Which lost the heaven it sought to win ; And feelings blighted , warm and young , Ere yet my years to manhood sprung .
Dear Mother ! though around my brow Summer hath twined her li ghtest wreath , My heart is cold as winter ' s snow , Congeal'd the genial stream beneath . Cold to the world , but not to thee ; Thy smile of love hath ever been
A ray of sunny light to me , A sweet flower mid life ' s desert scene . My childhood ' s April sun-lit tears Were shed upon thy gentle breast ; Its little cares its fretful fears , Hush'd on that pillow to their rest . Ah ! would that I had never known
Manhood ' s destroying passions wild ; But died ere purity had flown , A happy—blameless—thoughtless child ! Why should we weep when children die ? They ' scape the brand of thought and sin ; Stretch'd in their innocence they lie ,
Fair as the first pluck'd flowers of spring . Oft have I seen some pensive maid , At morning ' s dawn or evening ' s close , Wandering amid the garden ' s shade , Weep o ' er the crush'd bud of the rose :
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
My Birthday.
MY BIRTHDAY .
I-lt 0 . 11 A WANDERER ' S SCRAP - BOOK . DEAR mother , ' tis my natal day ! And though I wander far away From England ' s shores , it yet will be Remember'd , I am sure , by thee .
Life!—' twas a fatal gift ! it brought The impulse wild , the undying thought . The restless hope , the vain desire , Ambition ' s self-destroying fire , The pride of knowledge , that dark sin "Which lost the heaven it sought to win ; And feelings blighted , warm and young , Ere yet my years to manhood sprung .
Dear Mother ! though around my brow Summer hath twined her li ghtest wreath , My heart is cold as winter ' s snow , Congeal'd the genial stream beneath . Cold to the world , but not to thee ; Thy smile of love hath ever been
A ray of sunny light to me , A sweet flower mid life ' s desert scene . My childhood ' s April sun-lit tears Were shed upon thy gentle breast ; Its little cares its fretful fears , Hush'd on that pillow to their rest . Ah ! would that I had never known
Manhood ' s destroying passions wild ; But died ere purity had flown , A happy—blameless—thoughtless child ! Why should we weep when children die ? They ' scape the brand of thought and sin ; Stretch'd in their innocence they lie ,
Fair as the first pluck'd flowers of spring . Oft have I seen some pensive maid , At morning ' s dawn or evening ' s close , Wandering amid the garden ' s shade , Weep o ' er the crush'd bud of the rose :