159
SONNET.
HE earliest flower that comes the Spring to cheer,Thy little hand hath fondly brought to me,
My firstborn Child! and precious as to thee,
Hast rightly deemed the offering would appear:
For never Eastern gem could seem so dear
To thy fond Mother's heart, as that pale thing,
Thy simple gift—the firstborn of the year,
And meetest tribute that thy love could bring.
Long may that flower thy fitting emblem be,
My precious child! Oh, may thy folded youth
Behold thee blend its spotless purity,
With gentle lowliness and trusting truth;
And ever fly, as now, to find thy rest
In earth's best refuge still,—a parent's breast!
E.
March 1, 1842.
