218 AMELIA B. WELBY. [1830-40. The blessing of a smiling God goes with the sinless boy ; A little lambkin of the flock, within the Saviour's fold, Is he my lovely step-son, that's only five years old. I have not told you of our home, that in the summer hours, Stands in its simple modesty, half hid among the flowers ; I have not said a single word about our mines of wealth — Our treasures are this little boy, content- ment, peace and health. For even a lordly hall to us would be a voiceless place, Without the gush of his glad voice, the gleams of his bright face. And many a courtly pair, I ween, would give their gems and gold For a noble, happy boy like ours, some four or five years old. TO A SEA-SHELL. Shell of the bright sea-waves ! What is it, that we hear in thy sad moan ? Is this unceasing music all thine own ? Lute of the ocean-caves ! O does some spirit dwell In the deep windings of thy chambers dim. Breathing forever, in its mournful hymn, Of ocean's anthem swell "i Wert thou a murmurer long In crystal palaces beneath the seas. Ere from the blue sky thou hadst heard the breeze Pour its full tide of song ? Another thing with thee — Are there not gorgeous cities in the deep, Buried with flashing gems that brightly sleep. Hid by the mighty sea ? And say, O lone sea-shell ! Are there not costly things and sweet per- fumes Scattered in waste o'er that sea-gulf of tombs ? Hush thy low moan, and tell. But yet, and more than all — Has not each foaming wave in fury tossed O'er earth's most beautiful, the brave, the lost. Like a dark funeral pall ? 'Tis vain — thou answerest not ! Thou hast no voice to whisper of the dead ; 'Tis ours alone, with sighs like odors shed. To hold them unforgot ! Thine is as sad a strain As if the spirit in thy hidden cell Pined to be with the many things that dwell In the wild, restless main. And yet there is no sound Upon the waters, whispered by the waves, But seemetli like a wail from many graves, Thrilling the air around. The earth, O moaning shell ! The earth hath melodies more sweet than these — The music-gush of rills, the hum of bees Heard in each blossom's bell. Are not these tones of earth. The rustling forest, with its shivei'ing leaves, Sweeter than sounds that e'en in moonlit eves Upon the seas have birth?
