43
SONNET,
ON MY FATHERS BIRTH-DAY.
There is a day we love—whether it rise
O'ercast with clouds, or bright in sunshine drest,
In the wild storm, or softer summer skies,
To us for ever sacred—ever blest.—
With its first beam a prayer is in our breast,
And many a wish is fondly breathed to Heaven,
That all its best and holiest gifts be given
A father's reverenced head—that its own rest,
The calm of peace, the good man's recompense,
May shed its halo round his Life's decline,
And every added year may brighter shine,
As setting suns a richer glow dispense;
While memory's beams, like angel-smiles, shall pour
Hope's brightest radiance o'er Life's closing hour.
O'ercast with clouds, or bright in sunshine drest,
In the wild storm, or softer summer skies,
To us for ever sacred—ever blest.—
With its first beam a prayer is in our breast,
And many a wish is fondly breathed to Heaven,
That all its best and holiest gifts be given
A father's reverenced head—that its own rest,
The calm of peace, the good man's recompense,
May shed its halo round his Life's decline,
And every added year may brighter shine,
As setting suns a richer glow dispense;
While memory's beams, like angel-smiles, shall pour
Hope's brightest radiance o'er Life's closing hour.
