Edward Henry Bickersteth Poems

A MOTHER TO HER SON ON HIS BIRTHDAY.
Thy natal day returns again,
Full fourteen suns have sped
Since first you woke to sin and pain,
...

I have gazed o'er the hills in the day's soft decline,
And my thoughts they have wandered to that fairer clime,
...

Pompeii! city of the dead,—entombed
Two thousand years in clouds of ashes,—still
Remains to tell of long forgotten times,
...

Bid me sigh it in thine ear,
I may scarce its utterance tell;
Bid me hide it in a tear,
'Tis the word—farewell! farewell!
...

Sarnia farewell! farewell thy rocky shore;
Far o'er the main I ne'er may see thee more;
Yet will I not regret thee—save thy flowers—
...

Flower of the Snow!—we hail thy birth,
Though cold and pale may be thy shrine,
A promise from all bounteous earth
To glad our northern clime.
...

Life is at best a thorny path,
Then let us pluck the flowers,
And cease to weep
For those who sleep,
...

The almond tree,—the almond tree—how lovely is its bloom,
It flourishes and fades away before the summer noon;
...

Avaunt thee, horrid War: whose miasms, bred
Of nether darkness and Tartarean swamps,
Float o'er this fallen world and blight the flowers,
...

Here rest my friend,—thy wanderings stay,
And take a seat, while yet ye may,
Within this hallowed spot;
Here taste the sweets of rural joys,
...