head.
With shuddering tears
They press'd her to their hearts.
"Come back! Come back!
To your first home, and Heaven's compassions heal
Your wounded spirit."
Lovingly they cast
Their mantle o'er her, striving to uplift
Her thoughts to heavenly sources, and allure
To deeds of charity, that draw the sting
From selfishness of sorrow."
But she shrank
From social intercourse, nor took her seat
Even in the House of God, lest prying eyes
Should gloat upon her downfall. Books, nor work
Enticed her, and the lov'd piano's tone
Waking sad echoes of the days that were,
She seem'd to shun. Her joy was in her child.
The chief delight and solace of her life
To adorn his dress, and trim his shining curls,
Dote on his beauty, and conceal his faults,
With weak indulgence.
"Oh, Miranda, love!
Teach your fair boy, obedience. 'Tis the first
Lesson of life. To him, you fill the place
Of that Great Teacher who doth will us all
To learn submission."
But Miranda will'd
In her own private mind, not to adopt
Such old-world theories, deeming the creed
Of the grey-headed Mother, obsolete.
--Her boy was fair; but in those manners fail'd
That render beauty pleasing. Great regard
Had he for self, and play, and dainty food,
Unlike those Jewish children, who refused
The fare luxurious of Chaldea's king,
And on their simple diet grow more fair
And healthful than their mates, and wiser too,
Than the wise men of Babylon.
I've seen
Ill-fortune follow those, whose early tastes
Were pampered and inured to luxury.
Their palates seem'd to overtop the brain,
And the rank Dives-pleasure, to subvert
Childhood's simplicity of sweet content.
--Precocious appetites, when overruled,
Or disappointed, lend imperious strength
To evil tempers, and a fierce disdain.
Methought, our Mother-Land, in this respect
Had wiser usages. Her little ones
At their own regular, plain table learn'd
No culinary criticism, nor claim'd
Admission to the richly furnish'd board
Nor deem'd the viands of their older friends
Pertain'd to them.
A pleasant sight it was
At close of day, their simple supper o'er,
To find them in the quiet nursery laid,
Like rose-buds folded in a fragrant sheath
To peaceful slumber. Hence their nerves attain'd
Firm texture, and the key-stone of the frame,
This wondrous frame, so often sin