BUDS AND BABIES. 



BY AN OLD WOMAN. 



THERE'S a voice in ev'ry vernal leaf 



That trembles on the tree 

 It breathes about the flower-bud, 



In its first infancy. 

 There's fondness for it in the air, 



Like unseen silk it flows, 

 And folds the little flowret round, 



And rocks it to repose. 

 And when from out its balmy bed 



Its rosy cheek it rears, 

 How warm it feels the sunbeam's smile, 



How soft the dew's bright tears! 

 While Nature's joyous spirit hails 



The youngling as her own, 

 And shouts unto the vernal world, 



" Another flower is blown !" 



But there's a flower more sweet than this 



Young offspring of the tree 

 A brighter purer prouder far 



Thy flower, Humanity! 

 But in this moral wilderness 



This maze of mud and stone, 

 The young bud withers to a weed, 



Or dies unblest unknown. 

 A chilling blight is on the air 



That breathes upon its birth, 

 And tells the poor unwelcom'd one, 



It has no place on earth. 

 And when it lifts its asking eye 



For succour or for cheer, 

 It meets no soul-illumin'd smile 



No pity-prompted tear. 

 But shiv'ring in the wintry waste, 



It hears the feeble horn 

 Of vampire Want, with groans proclaim, 



" Another child is born!" 



Oh ! were the social world like thine, 



Bright Nature, man might lift 

 The new-born babe aloft, and cry, 



" Behold another gift ! 

 Another being born to make 



More wealth than he can use 

 Another being form'd to feel 



The bliss he can diffuse I" 

 Then like the voiceful leaves that breathe 



Upon the bud-blest tree, 

 The happy parent-heart might hail 



Thy birth, bright Infancy ! 

 As " tidings of great joy" proclaim 



Thy coming to the morn, 

 And shout unto a thankful world, 



" ANOTHER CHILD is BORN !" 



