I’ve marked the progress of thy mind,
  And felt a thrill of joy and pride,
To see thy youthful steps inclined
  To wisdom’s ways and virtue’s side.

And when this fiery restless soul,
  Has chafed the thread of life away
And reached, or high or low, the goal,
  And fought and won or lost the day,—­

Then cherish this bright gift, my dear,
  And on those features kindly gaze,
And bathe them with a filial tear,
  When I’m beyond all blame or praise.

LINES

On the death of A young lady of Wilmington.

Chill frost will nip the fairest flower;
  The sweetest dream is soonest pass’d;
The brightest morning in an hour,
  May be with storm clouds overcast.

So Josephine in early bloom,
  Was blighted by death’s cruel blast,
While weeping round her early tomb,
  We joy to know, she is not lost.

Fond mother, dry that tearful tide,
  Your child will not return, you know: 
She’s waiting on the other side
  And where she is, you too may go.

YOUTHFUL REMINISCENCES.

Their schoolboy days have form’d a theme,
  For nearly all the bards I know,
But mine are like a fading dream
  Which happen’d three score years ago.

My memory is not the best,
  While some things I would fain forget
Come like an uninvited guest,
  And often cause me much regret.

I see the ghosts of murdered hours,
  As they flit past in countless throngs,
They taunt me with their meager powers,
  And ridicule my senseless songs.

’Tis useless now to speculate,
  Or grieve o’er that which might have been,
My failures though they have been great,
  Are not the greatest I have seen.

In school I was a quiet child,
  And gave my teachers little fash,
But as I grew I grew more wild,
  And hasty as the lightning’s flash.

Of study I was never fond,
  My school books gave me no delight,
I patronized the nearest pond,
  To fish or swim by day or night.

And when the frosts of winter came,
  And bound the streams in fetters tight,
It gave me pleasure all the same
  To skate upon their bosom bright.

I was athletic in my way
  And on my muscle went it strong,
And stood to fight or ran to play,
  Regardless of the right or wrong.

In wrestling I did much excel
  And lov’d to douse a boasting fop,
Nor cared I how or where we fell
  Provided I fell on the top.

I loved my friends with all my might,
  My foes I hated just as strong,
My friends were always in the right,
  My foes forever in the wrong.

A sportsman early I became,
  A sort of second Daniel Boone,
And bagg’d my share of ev’ry game
  From cony, up or down, to coon.