Poems and Essays

by Joseph Howe

 

THE BIRTH-DAY.

 
My Birth-day is it? Take a kiss,
    Thou junior of my line;
The thirteenth! yes, by George it is;
    And I am fifty-nine. [Page 132]

Come hither, Boy, and let us dream
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    Of birth-days long gone by;
Cloudless and merry many seem,
    And some that make me sigh.

My first was stormy, wind North-west
    The gathering snow-drifts piled;
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But cosy was the Mother’s breast,
    Where lay the new-born child.

And ever kind and ever true
    That Mother was to me,
As yours has ever been to you,
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    And will for ever be.

And thirteen times the day came round,
    Within that happy home;
The “North West Arm’s” enchanted ground,
    Ere I began to roam.
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’Midst Trees, and Birds, and Summer Flowers,
    Those fleeting years went by;
With sports and books the joyous hours,
    Like lightning seemed to fly.

The Rod, the Gun, the Spear, the Oar,
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    I plied by Lake and Sea—
Happy to swim from shore to shore,
    Or rove the Woodlands free.

To skim the Pond in Winter time,
    To pluck the flowers of Spring,
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’Twas then I first began to rhyme,
    And verses crude to string. [Page 133]

You see the Picture o’er the fire,
    That smiles upon us now,
The pleasant face we still admire—
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    The broad and noble brow

Stamp’d by the Maker’s hand with lines,
    That he who runs may read,
The Christian Patriarch, there he shines,
    In thought, in word, in deed.
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He was my playmate in those years,
    My Father, friend, and guide,
I shared his smiles, and dried his tears,
    Was ever at his side.

And oh! my boy, when Death shall come
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    And close my eyelids dim,
May you, where’er your footsteps roam,
    Love me as I loved him.

My next ten Birth-days Labor claimed,
    And hard I work’d, my son;
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But still at something higher aimed
    Whene’er my toil was done.

I work’d the Press from morn till night,
    And learn’d the types to set,
And earn’d my bread with young delight,
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    As you will earn it yet.

In the dull metal that I moved
    For many a weary hour,
I found the Knowledge that I loved,
    The Life, the Light, the Power. [Page 134]
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But something more turned those young days
    Of steady toil to joy—
Something we both may kindly praise,
    Your Mother’s smile, my Boy.

And now that I am growing old,
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    My Lyre but loosely strung,
For God’s best gift my thanks be told,
    I loved while I was young.

For five-and-thirty years that love
    My varied life has cheer’d,
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Through all its mazes deftly wove,
    The light by which I steer’d.

Each birth-day brought its glad increase,
    Whatever fortune came;
In storm or sunshine—war or peace,
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    That smile was still the same.

Birth-days there were when both were sad,
    When loved ones went to Heaven;
On this, thank God, our hearts are glad,
    To Joy let this be given.
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And, youngster, when in after years,
    Your son sits on your knee,
Half smiling through the starting tears,
    Then think of ’63.
 

Dec. 13, 1863. [Page 135]