The First Born.

I.

"He has eyes like the Christ,"
    The mother said, and smiled;
"He will be wise and good,
    My wondering little child.
God grant him strength to do
    Whate'er his tasks may be,
But spare him, if Thou wilt,
    O, spare him Calvary!"


II.

Grim where the black bars cast
    Their shadows o'er his bed,
He waits to pay the cost
    Of blood his hands have shed.
The mother kneels and sobs:
    "God, he shall always be,
In spite of Cain's red brand,
    A stainless child to me."

Charles Hamilton Musgrove

No biography available

Charles Hamilton Musgrove

The Song Of The Dynamo.

Charles Hamilton Musgrove, Simple Poetry

Kenotaphion.

Charles Hamilton Musgrove, Simple Poetry

The North Wind.

Charles Hamilton Musgrove, Simple Poetry

English

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The Firstborn.

    The harvest sun lay hot and strong
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    That mother spoke in tones that thrilled:
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The Shunamite.[A]

It was a sultry day of summer time.
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Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills
Stood still, and the divided flock were all
Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots,
And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd
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'Haste thee, my child!' the Syrian mother said,
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In The Night.

The Child.

I hear you weeping, mother, dear,--
    I hear you wake and weep;
What brings the tears into your eyes
    When you should be asleep?
I hear my name upon your lips;
    What is it that you say
Of one who broke a trusting heart,
    But now is far away?


The Mother.

I weep for you, my pretty lass,
    Frail flower of love unblessed,
Because I can not always hold
    You close unto my breast;
I weep that you some day must go
    Alone your way to find,
For, oh, you have your mother's eyes,
    And men are seldom kind!

Charles Hamilton Musgrove

To A Young Mother On The Birth Of Her First-Born Child.

Young mother! proudly throbs thine heart, and well may it rejoice,
Well may'st thou raise to Heaven above in grateful prayer thy voice:
A gift hath been bestowed on thee, a gift of priceless worth,
Far dearer to thy woman's heart than all the wealth of earth.

What store of deep and holy joy is opened to thy thought -
Glad, sunny dreams of future days, with bliss and rapture fraught;
Of hopes as varied, yet as bright, as beams of April sun,
And plans and wishes centred all within thy darling one!

While others seek in changing scenes earth's happiness to gain,
In fashion's halls to win a joy as dazzling as 'tis vain -
A bliss more holy far is thine, far sweeter and more deep,
To watch beside thine infant's couch and bend above his sleep.

What joy for thee to ling'...

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To My First Born.

Fair tiny rosebud! what a tide
    Of hidden joy, o'erpow'ring, deep,
Of grateful love, of woman's pride,
    Thrills through my heart till I must weep
With bliss to look on thee, my son,
My first born child - my darling one!

What joy for me to sit and gaze
    Upon thy gentle, baby face,
And, dreaming of far distant days,
    With mother's weakness strive to trace
Tokens of future greatness high,
    On thy smooth brow and lustrous eye.

What do I wish thee, darling, say?
    Is it that lordly mental power
That o'er thy kind will give thee sway,
    Unchanging, full, a glorious dower
For those whose minds may grasp its worth,
True rulers and true kings of earth?

Or would I ask for thee that fire
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White Brother

Midway between the flaming lines he lay,
A tumbled heap of blood, and sweat, and clay;
    --God's son!

And none could succour him.    First this one tried,
Then that ...    and then another ...    and they died;
    --God's sons!

Those others saw his plight, and laughed and jeered,
And, at each helper's fall, laughed more, and cheered;
    --God's sons?

So, through the torture of an endless day,
In agonies that none could ease, he lay;
    --God's son!

Then, as he wrestled for each hard-won breath,
Bleeding his life out, craving only death;--
    --God's son!

--Came One in white, athwart the fiery hail,
And in His hand, a shining cup--The Grail;
    --God's Son!

He knelt beside him on the reeking ground,
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