Select Poetry.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 245, 20 May 1876, Page 3

Select Poetry.

SONG. Little Ada, fair and chubby, Is a darling to her mother : Cheeks like roses, lips of ruby : Who had ever such another ? Hair that shines with auburn brightness. Eyes that sparkle with delight ; Smiles that cheer us with their lightness— Saw ye ever one so bright ? Little Ada is a treasure, Strug’ling, chirping in her play ; Almost bursting with young pleasure, Frowns and tears she drives away. See, the innocent, now dressing— Mother ! clasp her to thy breast ! Though she cries thy warm caressing. Soon will lull her sighs to rest. Love her with a parent’s loving ; Tend her with a mother’s care ; Train her for a life improving ; For her lasting good prepare. Be her guard, O God of Heaven ; Keep her, bless her, make her Thine : Let this treasui’e Thou has given Live, and for Thy glory shine. Tura. THE WAITING ROBIN. The dead ferns o’er the thin, crisp snow Are rustling in the winter breeze. And one mute bird flits to and fro Between these clumps of alder trees. A robin ! What ? has summer’s proudest And sweetest singer come to this ? His carol was of June’s the loudest— A rapturous lay of love and bliss ! But, desolate and voiceless now, He lingers in the wood alone, Haunts the swamp-ash tree’s faded bough. And pecks the sumac’s faded cone, And in the bitter night hides where Thick hemlocks shield him from the air. Long since his mates of summer fled, When first the summer leaves were shed ; Now in the sun the fields gleam white ; Around his nest the rough winds blow ; Yet with weak heart he shrinks from flight, And stays, although he longs to go. To cheerless and too cold to sing, He tarries still and waits for spring ! Mute haunter of the woodland dreary, My summer songs, like thine are o’er ; My care-worn spirit is too weary To plume her wings and try to soar ; Too dull from what I dread to fly ; Too sore at heart to sing am I ; And, with a thought half envious, now I watch thee on the alder bough ; For brief must now be winter’s stay. And glad thine April song will be ; While I but question Hope, and say. Will ever spring-time come to me ?