To My Son

Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue

Bright as thy mother's in their hue;

Those rosy lips, whose dimples play

And smile to steal the heart away,

Recall a scene of former joy,

And touch thy father's heart, my Boy!

And thou canst lisp a father's name--

Ah, William, were thine own the same,--

No self-reproach--but, let me cease--

My care for thee shall purchase peace;

Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy,

And pardon all the past, my Boy!

Her lowly grave the turf has prest,

And thou hast known a stranger's breast;

Derision sneers upon thy birth,

And yields thee scarce a name on earth;

Yet shall not these one hope destroy,--

A Father's heart is thine, my Boy!

Why, let the world unfeeling frown,

Must I fond Nature's claims disown?

Ah, no--though moralists reprove,

I hail thee, dearest child of Love,

Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy--

A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!

Oh,'twill be sweet in thee to trace,

Ere Age has wrinkled o'er my face,

Ere half my glass of life is run,

At once a brother and a son;

And all my wane of years employ

In justice done to thee, my Boy!

Although so young thy heedless sire,

Youth will not damp parental fire;

And, wert thou still less dear to me,

While Helen's form revives in thee,

The breast, which beat to former joy,

Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy!