POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2621, 31 August 1882, Page 4

POETRY.

TBE WIFE’S APPEAL.

Oomo near me, let me lay my hand Ones more upon thy brow, And let me whisper in thine ear Love’s last and fondest vow. The lips that breathe these trembling word*. Will soon be cold in death. And thy dear cheek can feel no moee Their warm and loving breath. I go from thee-; Hod only knows Ho v I have longed to stay How I have shuddered thus to tread Tho lone and shadowy way. Faith tells mo that I soon may know The joys the blessed find, And yet I falter while I cast A lingering look behind.

I see thee bowed before me here, In bitterness and tears, _ But I can leave thee something still To light thy weary years. Young, tender forms will ohng to thee, Perhaps will miss my tone, And though they may not share thy grxsi, Thou wilt not feel alone.

Fold them still closer to thy breast, And soothe their childish woe. And cheer the many lonely hours The motherless must know. The world, with all its hopes and joys, Will sometimes make thee glad. But they must linger round a hearth Ail desolate and sad.

And O, when time shall calm thy grief, Perchance the hour may come When thou wilt win another form To share thy heart and home. When thou wilt welcome to thy board; A younger, fairer face, And bid thy children smile on her Who takes their mother’s place.

But think not, could T speak to thee, That I would frown or blame. Though they should love the stranger ono And call her by my name ; For they will speak to thee of me. My memory is their trust, A word, a smile, a look like mine. Will call mo from the dust. Yet make my grave no.place of tears. But let the dear ones bring, To cheer their mother’s lonely home, The blossoms of the Spring. And even there thou too mayst kneel. And softly, press the earth That covers her whose smile once gave A brightness to thy heart. Then will the forms of early years Steal softly to thy side. And for an hour thou oanet forget Thou hast another bride. She may be all thy heart can ask, So dear, so true to thee. But O 1 tho Spring-time of thy love. Its freshness was for me.

May she bo< blest who comforts thee. And with a gentle band Still guide tho little trembling ones Who make our household band. She cannot know the tenderness That fills their mother’s breast. But she can love them for thy sake, And make thee more than blest. Yet keep one place, one little place, From all the rest apart, One spot which I will call a “ home, ” Within thy faithful heart; And in the holy hours of dreams, When spirits fill the air, With tender eyes and folded wing I’ll softly rest me there. May God forgive this erring love That is to mortals given— It almost woos my spirit back From happiness and heaven. And yet I feel it will not die When this frail life is o’er, And watch till all my loved ones come Where we shall part no more. —Anonymous. SMITING THE BOOK. The stern old Judge, in relentless mood, Glanced at the two who before him stood— She was bowed and haggard and old, He was young and defiant and bold— Mother and son ; and to gaze at the pair, Their different attitudes, look and air, One would believe, ere the truth were won, The mother convicted, and not the son. There was the the boy stood nigh With a shameless look, and his head held high. Age had some over her, sorrow and oare j These mattered but little so he was there; A prop to her years and a light to her eyes, And prized as only a mother can prize ; But what for him could a mother say, Waiting his doom on the sentence day.

Her husband had died in his shame and sin.; And she a widow, her living to win Had foiled and struggled from morn to night, Making with want a wearisome fight; Bant over her work with resolute zeal, Till she felt her old frame totter and reel, Her weak limbs tremble, her eyes grow

dim, But she bad her boy, and she toiled lor him.

And he—ho stood in the criminal dock, With a heart 01 hard as the flinty rock; An impudent glance and reckless air, Braving the scorn of the gazers there; Dipped in erime and encompassed round With proofs of guilt by his captors fouud, Ready to stand, as he phrased it, “game,” Holding not crime, but penitence, sname.

Poured in a flood o’er the mother’s cheek The moistening prayers where the tongue was weak, And she.saw through the mist of those bitter

tears Only the,-child in his innocent years ; She remembered him pure as a child might be, The guilt of the present she could not see ; And for merey her wistful looks made prayer To the stem old judge in his cushioned chair

“ Woman,’’ the.old judge orabbedly said—- “ Your boy is the neighborhood's plague and dread ; Of a gang of reprobates chosen chief ; An idler and rioter, .ruffian and thief. The jury did right, for the facts were plain ; Denial is idle, excuses are vain. The sentence the oourt imposes is one—” “ Your Honor,’’ she ,cried, “ he’s my only son.”

The tipstaves grinned at the words she spoke, And a ripple of fun through Che court-room broke ; But over the faee of the culprit came An angry look and a shadow of shame. “Don’t laugh at my mother!” loud cries ho.; “ Fou’vo got me fast, and can deal with me ; But gho u o too good for your coward jeers, And I’ll —’’ then his utterance choked with tears.

The Judge for a moment bent his head, And looked at him keenly, and then he said, ‘‘We suspend the sentence—the boy can go And tho word* were tremulous, forced, and low. “ But stay !” and ho raised his finger then—- “ Don’t let them bring you hither again. There is something good in you yet, I know ; I'll give you a chance—make tho most of it— Go!"

The twain want forth, and the old Jndge said, “ I meant to havs given him a year Instead.” And perhaps 'tis a difficult thing to tell If clemency hers be ill or well. But a rook was struck in that callous heart, From whioh a fountain of good may start; For one on the oeean of time long tossed, Who loves his mother is not quite lost.