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diff --git a/old/44444.txt b/old/44444.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9b12f57 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/44444.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6685 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Mother's Dream and Other Poems, by Hannah F. Gould + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license + + +Title: Mother's Dream and Other Poems + +Author: Hannah F. Gould + +Release Date: December 16, 2013 [EBook #44444] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOTHER'S DREAM AND OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by David Edwards, Norbert Mueller and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive) + + + + + + + + + + THE + MOTHER'S DREAM, + AND + OTHER POEMS. + + + BY + HANNAH F. GOULD. + + + BOSTON: + CROSBY, NICHOLS, & CO. + 1853. + + + + + CONTENTS. + + Page + + Blowing Bubbles, 1 + Infant Faith, 4 + Patty Proud, 6 + I caught a Bird, 9 + The Flower of Shells and Silver Wire, 11 + The little Blind Boy, 12 + The Sale of the Water Lily, 13 + The Silver Birdsnest, 18 + The Quaker Flower, 20 + The Humming-Bird's Anger, 22 + The Sabbath, 24 + The departing Spirit, 26 + Sonnet, 27 + Father, hear, 28 + The Pilgrim's Way Song, 29 + The rising Monument, 31 + A Name in the Sand, 34 + A Child of a Year and a Day, 35 + The Believer's Mountains, 38 + The Night and the Morning, 41 + I shall be satisfied, 44 + The Penitential Tear, 46 + The Teachings of God, 48 + The Herald's Cry in the Desert, 50 + Our Father's Well, 52 + The Mother's Dream, 56 + The War Spirit on Bunker's Height, 60 + The inner Self, 64 + Time, 67 + My Head, 71 + The Wheat Field, 74 + The little Traveller, 76 + The entangled Fly, 78 + The Peach Blossoms, 80 + The broken Pipe, 82 + Vivy Vain, 85 + The Mocking-Bird, 89 + The Bird's Home, 92 + The Bird uncaged, 93 + Dame Biddy, 95 + The envious Lobster, 100 + Kit with the Rose, 102 + The Storm in the Forest, 104 + The uprooted Elm, 106 + Through the Clouds, 108 + My Rose Tree, 110 + The Infant Baptist, 113 + Hymn to Solitude, 115 + The Bible in the Fields, 117 + The hoary Head, 120 + My Father, 121 + A Sage hath departed, 124 + The Burial of Schiller, 126 + Funeral Hymn for President Harrison, 129 + Dirge for Felicia Hemans, 131 + She died, as dawned her Natal Day, 133 + Written in an Album, after the Lines of a deceased Friend, 134 + The Sovereign of Babylon, 135 + The Deer Stricken by Torch-light, 137 + The Death of Sapphira, 139 + William at Sea, 142 + My Portrait, 146 + The Widow's only Son, 148 + The Young Mother, 150 + Evening at Andover Seminary Hill, 152 + Hymn of the parting Class, 155 + The speckled 157 + The Moon of a Wintry Night, 161 + Tom Tar, 165 + The Seaman's Hymn, 170 + The Mariner's Song of Departure, 172 + The Sea Eagle's Fall, 174 + The caged Lion, 177 + The Traveller at the Red Sea, 179 + The Hebrew Captives, 181 + Fragments from "Esther," a Poem, 182 + Gone in her Beauty, 185 + The Nun, 187 + Trees for the Pilgrim's Wreath, 193 + The Mushroom's Soliloquy, 194 + The Spirit and the Mountain, 195 + The Fall of the Statue, 197 + The Bird's Maternal Care, 201 + Song, 205 + The White Moth, 207 + Edward and Charles, 209 + Music of the Crickets, 213 + Childhood's Dream, 216 + The Fruit Tree Blossom, 218 + The Plymouth Apple declined, 220 + The half Apple, 222 + The Horticulturist's Table-Hymn, 224 + The Whip-poor-will, 227 + The Autumnal Rose-bud, 230 + To L. A. E. on her Wedding-day, 231 + To Mrs. H. F. L. 233 + Music, 235 + + + + + POEMS. + + + + + BLOWING BUBBLES. + + + Half our sorrows, half our troubles, + Making head and heart to ache, + Are the fruit of blowing bubbles, + Bright to view, but quick to break. + + All have played the child imbecile, + Breathing hard to swell the sides + Of a shining, fluid vessel, + Frailer than the air it rides. + + From the infant's cradle rising, + All the bubble mania show, + Oft our richest wealth comprising + In the bubbles that we blow. + + Brilliant, buoyant, upward going, + Pleased, we mark them in their flight, + Every hue of iris showing, + As they glance along the light. + + Little castles, high and airy, + With their crystal walls so thin, + Each presents the wicked fairy, + _Vanity_, enthroned within! + + But when two have struck together, + What of either do we find? + Not so much as one gay feather + Flying Hope has left behind! + + Still the world are busy, blowing, + Every one, some empty ball; + So the seeds of mischief sowing, + Where, to burst, the bubbles fall. + + Nor for self alone to gather, + Is our evil harvest found; + Oft, with pipe and cup, we rather + Step upon our neighbor's ground. + + Thus, amusing one another, + While the glistening playthings rise, + We may doom a friend or brother + To a life of care and sighs. + + Do you doubt my simple story? + I can point a thousand ways + Where this bubble-making glory + Has in darkness hid its rays! + + Yet we 'll spare a slight confusion + Caused the world by giving names; + Since a right to some delusion + Every one from nature claims! + + + + + INFANT FAITH. + + + Radiant with his spirit's light + Was the little beauteous child, + Sporting round a fountain bright, + Playing through the flowerets wild. + + Where they grow he lightly stepped, + Cautious not a leaf to crush; + Then about the fount he leaped, + Shouting at its merry gush. + + While the sparkling waters welled, + Laughing as they bubbled up, + In his lily hands he held, + Closely clasped, a silver cup. + + Now he put it forth to fill; + Then he bore it to the flowers, + Through his fingers there to spill + What it held, in mimic showers. + + "Open, pretty buds," said he, + "Open to the air and sun; + So, to-morrow I may see + What my rain to-day has done. + + "Yes, you will, you will, I know, + For the drink I give you now, + Burst your little cups, and blow, + When I'm gone, and can't tell how! + + "Oh! I wish I could but see + How God's finger touches you, + When your sides unclasp, and free, + Let your leaves and odors through. + + "I would watch you all the night, + Nor in darkness be afraid, + Only once to see aright + How a beauteous flower is made. + + "Now remember! I shall come + In the morning from my bed, + Here to find among you some + With your brightest colors spread!" + + To his buds he hastened out, + At the dewy morning hour, + Crying, with a joyous shout, + "God has made of each a flower!" + + Precious must the ready faith + Of the little children be, + In the sight of Him, who saith, + "Suffer them to come to me." + + Answered, by the smile of heaven, + Is the infant's offering found, + Though "a cup of water given," + Even to the thirsty ground. + + + + + PATTY PROUD. + + + The figure before you is Miss Patty Proud: + Her feelings are lowery, her frown like a cloud; + Because proud Miss Patty can hardly endure + To come near the lowly abode of the poor. + + She fears the plain floor of the humble will spoil + Her silk shoes and hose, and her skirt-bottom soil; + And so she goes winching; and holds up her dress + So high, it were well if her heels would show less. + + But when she walks through the fine streets of the town, + She puts on fine airs, and displays her rich gown; + Till some, whom she passes, will think of the bird + Renowned for gay feathers, whose name you have heard. + + In thought she is trifling--in manner as vain + As that silly fowl, taking pride in his train; + And none, who have marked her, will need to be told + That she has a heart hard, and haughty, and cold. + + I saw, when she met some poor children one day, + Who asked her for alms, she turned frowning away; + And told them, "Poor people must work, to be fed, + And not trouble ladies, to help them to bread." + + And just as the sad little mendicants said, + Their mother was dying, their father was dead, + She entered a store, with a smooth, smiling face, + To lay out her purse in gay ribbons and lace. + + I saw her curl up her sour lip in disdain, + Because Ellen Pitiful picked up the cane, + A feeble old man had let fall in the sand, + And placed it again in his tremulous hand. + + But little does haughty Miss Patty suppose, + Of all, whom she visits, that any one knows + How stern she can look, when she 's out of their sight, + And fret at the servants, if all is not right. + + At home, she 's unyielding, and sullen, and cross: + Her friends, when she 's absent, esteem it no loss; + And some, where she visits, in secret confess, + That they love her no more, though they dread her much less. + + The truth is, Miss Patty, when young, never tried + To govern her temper, or conquer her pride. + The passions, unchecked in the heart of the child, + Like weeds in a garden neglected, ran wild. + + They grew with her growth, with her strength became strong: + Her head, not then righted, has ever been wrong; + And so she would never submit to be told + Of faults, by long habit made stubborn and bold. + + And now, among all my young friends, is there one,-- + A fair little girl is there under the sun, + Who 'd rise to a woman, and have it allowed + That she is a likeness of Miss PATTY PROUD? + + + + + I CAUGHT A BIRD. + + + I caught a bird: She flitted by, + So near my window lifted high, + She softly ventured in, to spy + What I might be about: + And then, a little wildered thing, + Like many a one without a wing, + She fluttered, struck, and seemed to sing, + "Alas! I can't get out." + + She saw her kindred on the tree + Before her, sporting light and free; + But felt a power, she could not see, + Repel and hold her back. + In vain her beak, and breast, and feet + Against the crystal pane were beat: + She could not break the clear deceit, + Nor find her airy track. + + The pretty wanderer then I took; + And felt her frame with terror shook: + She gave the sad and piteous look + Of helplessness and fear; + Till quick I spread my hand, to show, + I caught her but to let her go; + And I, perhaps, may never know + A dearer moment here. + + She piped a short and sweet adieu, + As, humming on the air, she threw + Her brilliant, buoyant wing, and flew + Away from fear and me: + But, ere the hour of setting sun, + That little constant, grateful one, + Returning, had her hymn begun + In our old rustling tree. + + Now do not take the fatal aim, + My tender bird to kill, or maim; + Nor let the fatal shot proclaim + Her anguish, or her fall! + But, would you know the bird I mean, + She is the first that will be seen-- + The last--and every one between: + She represents them all! + + + + + THE FLOWER OF SHELLS AND SILVER WIRE. + + TO ----. + + + I sought a meet gift, it might please thee to wear + Among the soft locks of thy fine silken hair; + And asked the two deeps for some treasure or gem, + By nature first formed and imbosomed in them. + + The mine gave me threads of its fine silver ore; + The ocean cast up its smooth shells to the shore: + Of these I combined the free offering, that now + I bring, and would set o'er thy fair, peaceful brow. + + The shells, thou wilt see, are unsullied and white; + The silver is modest, and precious, and bright,-- + A type! thy quick fancy will readily see, + Yet thou 'lt not confess what its meaning may be. + + And let the gift sometimes recall to thy mind + The friend, by whose hand its pure parts were combined; + But, oftener, that Friend, in whose hand was the skill + The earth and the seas with their treasures to fill! + + + + + THE LITTLE BLIND BOY. + + + O tell me the form of the soft summer air, + That tosses so gently the curls of my hair! + It breathes on my lip, and it fans my warm cheek, + But gives me no answer, though often I speak: + I feel it play o'er me, refreshing and light, + And yet cannot touch it, because I 've no sight! + + And music--what is it? and where does it dwell? + I sink, and I mount, with its cadence and swell, + While thrilled to my heart, with its deep-going strain, + Till pleasure excessive seems turning to pain. + Now, what the bright colors of music may be, + Will any one tell me? for I cannot see. + + The odors of flowers, that are hovering nigh-- + What are they?--on what kind of wings do they fly? + Are not they sweet angels, who come to delight + A poor little boy, that knows nothing of sight? + The sun, moon and stars never enter my mind. + O tell me what light is, because I am blind! + + + + + THE SALE OF THE WATER-LILY. + + + There stood upon the broad high-road, + That o'er a moorland lay, + A widow's low and lone abode, + And close beside the way. + + Upon its face the dwelling bore + The signs of times within, + That seemed to say but little more + Than, "_Better days have been!_" + + Behind it was the sedgy fen, + With alder, brake, and brush; + And less to serve the wants of men, + Than of the jay and thrush. + + And these would sometimes come, and cheer + The widow with a song, + To let her feel a neighbor near, + And wing an hour along. + + A pond, supplied by hidden springs, + With lilies bordered round, + Was found among the richest things, + That blessed the widow's ground. + + She had, besides, a gentle brook, + That wound the meadow through, + Which from the pond its being took, + And had its treasures too. + + Her eldest orphan was a son; + For, children she had three; + She called him, though a little one, + Her hope for days to be. + + And well he might be reckoned so, + If, from the tender shoot, + We know the way the branch will grow; + Or, by the flower, the fruit. + + His tongue was true, his mind was bright; + His temper smooth and mild: + He was--the parent's chief delight-- + A good and pleasant child. + + He 'd gather chips and sticks of wood, + The winter fire to make; + And help his mother dress their food, + Or tend the baking cake. + + In summer time he 'd kindly lead + His little sisters out, + To pick wild berries on the mead, + And fish the brook for trout. + + He stirred his thoughts for ways to earn + Some little gain; and hence, + Contrived the silver pond to turn, + In part, to silver pence. + + He found the lilies blooming there + So spicy sweet to smell, + And to the eye so pure and fair, + He plucked them up to sell. + + He could not to the market go: + He had too young a head, + The distant city's ways to know; + The route he could not tread. + + But, when the coming coach-wheels rolled, + To pass his humble cot, + His bunch of lilies to be sold + Was ready on the spot. + + He 'd stand beside the way, and hold + His treasures up to show, + That looked like yellow stars of gold + Just set in leaves of snow. + + "O buy my lilies!" he would say; + "You 'll find them new and sweet: + So fresh from out the pond are they, + I have n't dried my feet!" + + And then he showed the dust that clung + Upon his garment's hem, + Where late the water-drops had hung, + When he had gathered them. + + And while the carriage checked its pace, + To take the lilies in, + His artless orphan tongue and face + Some bright return would win. + + For many a noble stranger's hand, + With open purse, was seen, + To cast a coin upon the sand, + Or on the sloping green. + + And many a smiling lady threw + The child a silver piece; + And thus, as fast as lilies grew, + He saw his wealth increase. + + While little more--and little more, + Was gathered by their sale, + His widowed mother's frugal store + Would never wholly fail. + + For He, who made, and feeds the bird, + Her little children fed. + He knew her trust: her cry he heard; + And answered it with bread. + + And thus, protected by the Power, + Who made the lily fair, + Her orphans, like the meadow flower, + Grew up in beauty there. + + Her son, the good and prudent boy, + Who wisely thus began, + Was long the aged widow's joy; + And lived an honored man. + + He had a ship, for which he chose + "The LILY" as a name, + To keep in memory whence he rose, + And how his fortune came. + + He had a lily carved and set, + Her emblem, on her stem; + And she was called, by all she met, + A beauteous ocean gem. + + She bore sweet spices, treasures bright; + And, on the waters wide, + Her sails, as lily-leaves, were white: + Her name was well applied. + + Her feeling owner never spurned + The faces of the poor; + And found that all he gave returned + In blessing rich and sure. + + The God, who, by the lily-pond, + Had drawn his heart above, + In after life preserved the bond + Of grateful, holy love. + + + + + THE SILVER BIRDSNEST. + + We were shown a beautiful specimen of the ingenuity of birds, a + few days since, by Dr. Cook, of this borough. It was a birdsnest + made entirely of silver wires, beautifully woven together. The nest + was found on a sycamore tree, on the Condorus, by Dr. Francis Beard, + of York county. It was the nest of a hanging-bird; and the material + was probably obtained from a soldier's epaulet, which it had found. + + WESTCHESTER VILLAGE RECORD. + + _Spring of 1838._ + + + A stranded soldier's epaulet, + The waters cast ashore, + A little winged rover met, + And eyed it o'er and o'er. + The silver bright so pleased her sight, + On that lone, idle vest, + She knew not why she should deny + Herself a silver nest. + + The shining wire she pecked and twirled; + Then bore it to her bough, + Where, on a flowery twig 't was curled-- + The bird can show you how:-- + But, when enough of that bright stuff + The cunning builder bore + Her house to make, she would not take, + Nor did she covet more. + + And when the little artisan, + While neither pride nor guilt + Had entered in her pretty plan, + Her resting-place had built; + With here and there a plume to spare, + About her own light form, + Of these, inlaid with skill, she made + A lining soft and warm. + + But, do you think the tender brood + She fondled there, and fed, + Were prouder, when they understood + The sheen about their bed? + Do you suppose they ever rose + Of higher powers possessed, + Because they knew they peeped and grew + Within a silver nest? + + + + + THE QUAKER FLOWER. + + A TRIFOLIUM FROM THE GRAVE OF PENN. + + + I have a little Quaker flower, + That hath a kind of spirit power + To hold me captive, hour by hour, + In pleasant musing lost; + 'T was plucked for me in distant land, + And by another's friendly hand, + From turf where I may never stand; + Then yon wild ocean crossed. + + A modest foreigner it came, + Bearing a sweet, but humble name; + Yet worthy of a glorious fame + Among the sons of men; + For O the pretty stranger grew: + It drank the ether and the dew, + And from light received its hue + Upon the grave of PENN! + + It sprang from out that hallowed ground, + Unclosed its eye, and smiled around, + Upon the verdure of the mound, + Where WILLIAM's ashes rest; + Where low the dust in quiet lies + Of him, among the good and wise + On earth, so meek, and in the skies + So high among the blest. + + And had my flower a living root, + Or seed wherefrom a germ might shoot + For one young plant to be the fruit + Of that small vital part, + Fair PENN-SYLVANIA, it should be, + My friendly offering made to thee-- + Set, to thy father's memory, + On thy kind Quaker heart. + + But, ah! my precious flower is dead: + The snow-white sheet beneath its head, + And on its tender bosom spread, + Shows that its life is o'er: + And though each floweret of the gem, + And every leaf, is on the stem, + I cannot spare thee one of them, + Because there 'll grow no more. + + I therefore bid my fancy weave + This simple wreath, which thou 'lt receive + In lieu thereof; and thence believe + My fervent wish to be + That Heaven, to overflowing still, + With purest bliss thy cup may fill, + And guard thee safe from every ill, + Whilst thou rememberest me! + + + + + THE HUMMING-BIRD'S ANGER. + + "Small as the humming-bird is, it has great courage and violent + passions. If it find a flower that has been deprived of its honey, + it will pluck it off, throw it on the ground, and sometimes tear it + to pieces." + + BUFFON. + + + On light little wings, as the humming-birds fly, + With plumes many-hued as the bow of the sky, + Suspended in ether, they shine in the light, + As jewels of nature, high-finished and bright. + + Their delicate forms are so buoyant and small, + They hang o'er the flowers, as too airy to fall, + Upborne on their beautiful pinions, that seem + Like glittering vapor, or parts of a dream. + + The humming-bird feeds upon honey, and so, + Of course, 't is a sweet little creature, you know: + But sweet little creatures have sometimes, they say, + A great deal that 's bitter or sour to betray. + + And often the humming-bird's delicate breast + Is found of a very high temper possessed: + Such essence of anger within it is pent, + 'T would burst, did no safety-valve give it a vent. + + Displeased, it will seem a bright vial of wrath, + Uncorked by its heat the offender to scath; + And taking occasion to let off its ire, + 'T is startling to witness how high it will fire. + + A humming-bird once o'er a trumpet-flower hung, + And darted that sharp little member, the tongue, + At once through the tube to its cell for the sweet + It felt, at the bottom, most certain to meet. + + But, finding that some other child of the air, + To rifle the store, had already been there, + And no drop of honey for her to draw up, + Her vengeance was poured on the destitute cup. + + She flew in a passion that heightened her power, + And, cuffing and shaking the innocent flower, + Its tender corolla in shred after shred + She hastily stripped, then she snapped off its head. + + A delicate ruin on earth as it lay, + That bright little fury went humming away, + With gossamer softness, and fair to the eye, + Like some living brilliant just dropped from the sky. + + And since, when that curious bird I behold + Arrayed in rich colors, and dusted with gold, + I cannot but think of the wrath and the spite, + She has in reserve, though they 're kept out of sight. + + These two-footed, beautiful, passionate things, + If plumeless or plumy, without or with wings, + Should go to the glass, or the painter, and sit + When anger is just at the height of its fit. + + + + + THE SABBATH. + + + Day of days, the dearest, best, + Hallowed by Jehovah's rest! + When his six-days' work was done, + Holy rose the seventh sun. + + When creation's pillars stood, + And the Lord pronounced them good, + Morning stars together sang-- + Heaven with Sabbath praises rang. + + Earth in pristine beauty shone, + Like a gem, before his throne, + While he marked thee, as his claim-- + And he sealed thee with his name. + + Choice of God, thou blessed day! + At thy dawn the grave gave way + To the power of him within, + Who had, sinless, bled for sin. + + Thine the radiance to illume + First, for man, the dismal tomb, + When its bars their weakness owned, + There revealing death dethroned. + + Then the Sun of righteousness + Rose, a darkened world to bless, + Bringing up from mortal night, + Immortality and light. + + Day of glory! day of power! + Sacred be thine ev'ry hour! + Emblem, earnest of the rest + That remaineth for the blest! + + When at last it shall appear + How they loved and kept thee here, + To a temple in the skies, + Fair, eternal, they shall rise. + + Not a sigh of grief or care + Shall mingle with their praises there; + Then their sweet reward shall be + An eternity of thee. + + + + + THE DEPARTING SPIRIT. + + + Hush! let the sigh in escaping be stopped: + Be the dim chamber all silently trod! + Let not the tear, that is rounded, be dropt! + Oh! 't is a spirit returning to God! + + Angels are softly untwining the strings, + Loosing its ties to the beautiful clay; + Lo! they have lifted their hovering wings: + Joyous they waft her in triumph away! + + Sorrow not now, o'er the spiritless form, + While on its features death's lilies unfold: + Break not the heart for another so warm, + Stopt in its pulse by a finger so cold. + + Time ne'er shall whiten a lock of that hair, + Silken and full, round the forehead, that shines. + Age shall not come, nor the finger of care, + Marking that brow with their deep-going lines. + + Ne'er will those lips be unsealed by the sigh: + Anguish will never that bosom invade: + Tears roll no more from that calm sleeping eye: + Peace o'er the clay her smooth mantle has laid. + + Plant a young flower, in beauty to spread, + Tender and pure, where the dust shall repose. + Look then from earth, whence the bright spirit fled, + Up, where to gladness and glory it rose. + + + + + SONNET. + + + Spare, ruthless fowler, spare + That harmless robin's breast! + Its downy vesture do not tear; + But leave the life-blood circling there, + Again to warm her nest; + For she is hastening home with food + Provided for her callow brood. + + Her tender offspring see, + Were now thy shot to fly, + Left, as thy helpless babes would be, + 'Reft of their mother and of thee, + To moan, and pine, and die. + Then let her pass unhurt along; + And she will thank thee with a song. + + + + + FATHER, HEAR! + + + Thou, whose power assumes the form, + Now, of this wild wintry storm, + Let it still in mercy be + Shown upon the raging sea! + O! for him, who tosses there, + Father, hear this midnight prayer! + + Solemn darkness shrouds the world; + While, with mighty wings unfurled, + Thus the winds in fury sweep + O'er the land, and o'er the deep, + Thou, whose thought from death can save, + Guard the life that 's on the wave! + + Cold and dreary is the night; + Snow-clouds wrap the beacon-light; + Rocks and ices, like a host + Armed for battle, bar the coast; + For the coming bark appear! + Guide her! save her! Father, hear! + + + + + THE PILGRIM'S WAY SONG. + + + I 'm bound to the house of my Father; + O draw not my feet from the way; + Nor stop me these wild flowers to gather! + They droop at my touch, and decay. + I think of the flowers, that are blooming + In beauty unfading above, + The wings of the angels perfuming, + Who fly down on errands of love. + + Of earth's shallow waters the drinking + Is powerless my thirst to allay; + Their taste is of tears, while we 're sinking + Beside them, where quicksands betray. + I long, from that fount ever-living, + That flows by my Father's own door, + With waters so sweet and life-giving, + To drink, and to thirst never more. + + The gold of his bright, happy dwelling + Makes all lower gold to look dim; + Its treasures, all treasures excelling, + Shine forth to allure me to Him. + The pearls of this world while I 'm treading + In dust, where as pebbles they lie, + I seek the rich pearl, that is shedding + Its lustre so pure from on high. + + For pains my torn spirit is feeling, + No balsam from earth it receives: + I go to the tree, that hath healing + To drop on my wounds from its leaves. + A child that is weary with roaming, + Returning in gladness to see + A home and a parent, I 'm coming-- + My Father, I hasten to thee! + + + + + THE RISING MONUMENT. + + + Rise in thy solemn grandeur, calm and slow, + As well befits thy purpose and thy place: + Great Speaker! rise, not suddenly, to show + The earth forever sacred at thy base. + + Strong as the rocky frame-work of the globe, + Proportioned fair, in altitude sublime, + With freedom's glory round thee as a robe, + Rise gently--then defy the power of time. + + To future ages, from thy lofty site, + Speak in thy mighty eloquence, and tell + That where thou art, on Bunker's hallowed height, + Our WARREN and his valiant brethren fell. + + Say, it was here the vital current flowed, + Purpling the turf, amid the mortal strife + For man's great birthright, from the breasts, that glowed + With love of country, more than love of life. + + Thou hast thy growth of blood, that, gushing warm + From patriot bosoms, set their spirits free: + All, who behold, shall venerate thy form, + And bow before thy genius, LIBERTY. + + Here fell the hero and his brave compeers, + Who fought and died to break a people's chain: + The place is sacred to Columbia's tears. + Poured o'er the victims for a nation slain. + + Yet from her starry brow a glory streams, + Turning to gems those holy drops of grief, + As after evening showers, the morn's clear beams + Show diamonds hung on grass, and flower and leaf. + + Upright and firm, as were the patriot souls, + That from thy native spot arose to God, + Stand thou and hold, long as our planet rolls, + This last high place by Freedom's martyrs trod. + + Let thy majestic shadow walk the ground, + Calm as the sun, and constant as his light; + And by the moon, amid the dews, be found + The sentinel, who guards it through the night. + + And may the air around thee ever be + To heaven-born Liberty as vital breath; + But, like the breeze that sweeps the Upas tree, + To Bondage and Oppression certain death! + + A beauteous prospect spreads for thy survey; + City and dome, and spire look up to thee: + The solemn forest and the mountains gray + Stand distant to salute thy majesty. + + And ocean, in his numbers deep and strong, + While the bright shore beneath thy ken he laves, + Will sing to thee an everlasting song + Of freedom, with his never-conquered waves. + + Rise then, and stand unshaken, till the skies + Above thee are about to pass away; + But, when the dead around thee are to rise, + Melt in the burning splendors of the day! + + For then will He, "whose right it is to reign," + Who hath on earth a kingdom pure to save, + Come with his angels, calling up the slain + To freedom, and annihilate the grave. + + + + + A NAME IN THE SAND. + + + Alone I walked the ocean strand; + A pearly shell was in my hand: + I stooped, and wrote upon the sand + My name--the year--the day. + As onward from the spot I passed, + One lingering look behind I cast: + A wave came rolling high and fast, + And washed my lines away. + + And so, methought, 't will shortly be + With every mark on earth from me; + A wave of dark oblivion's sea + Will sweep across the place, + Where I have trod the sandy shore + Of time, and been to be no more, + Of me--my day--the name I bore, + To leave nor track, nor trace. + + And yet, with Him, who counts the sands, + And holds the waters in his hands, + I know a lasting record stands, + Inscribed against my name, + Of all, this mortal part has wrought; + Of all, this thinking soul has thought; + And from these fleeting moments caught + For glory, or for shame. + + + + + THE CHILD OF A YEAR AND A DAY. + + + To grief the night-hours keeping, + A mournful mother lay + Upon her pillow, weeping-- + Her babe had passed away. + + When she had clasped her treasure + A year and yet a day, + Of time 't was all its measure-- + 'T was gone, like morning's ray! + + The jewel, Heaven had shown her, + Of worth surpassing gold, + Was lent her, by its Owner-- + 'T was never earth's to hold. + + Then, fondly hovering o'er her, + A bright young angel hung; + And warm the love it bore her, + And sweet the song it sung: + + "O mother, why this weeping? + Let all thy sorrow cease: + My infant form is sleeping, + Where nought can break its peace. + + "And he, who once was blessing + Such little children here, + My spirit now possessing, + Will hold me ever dear. + + "I never knew the dreading + Of death's all-conquering blow; + My mortal raiment shedding, + I rose above the foe. + + "Where sickness cannot pain me-- + Where comes nor grief nor night-- + Where sin shall never stain me, + I dwell, a child of light. + + "While many a pilgrim hoary + Treads long earth's weary way, + I have eternal glory + For one short year and day." + + Yet that sweet angel singing + Its mother could not hear, + For grief her heart was wringing-- + She 'd but a mortal ear. + + She could not see the beaming + Of his celestial crown; + For fast her tears were streaming; + Her soul to dust bowed down. + + A voice from heaven then falling + In soothing tones to her, + As of a Father, calling, + Revealed the Comforter. + + And, lifting up her lowly + And sorrow-laden eye, + She saw the King all holy + Upon the throne Most High. + + Where shining hosts were pouring + Their praises forth to Him, + She saw her child adoring, + Amid the Seraphim. + + + + + THE BELIEVER'S MOUNTAINS. + + + Not to the mount, where fire and smoke + Jehovah's face concealed, + When loud to wandering man he spoke, + To make his law revealed-- + Not to the awful splendor there + Can turn my fearful eye: + To hear its thunderings, and to dare + Its lightnings, were to die. + + Not on the mount where Moses stood, + The promised land to see + Across the waves of Jordan's flood, + Is yet the place for me. + My spirit could not bear to take + That fair and glorious view, + Nor dare her wondrous launch to make, + To try the waters through. + + Not to the mount where Christ appeared + At once so heavenly bright; + While they, who heard the Father, feared, + And fell before the light-- + Not there, my Saviour ever nigh, + Do I his footsteps trace: + His closer followers far, than I, + Attain that higher place. + + But, to the mount without a name, + Where Jesus sat and taught, + I daily would assert my claim, + To share the bread he brought. + His words before that multitude + Dropt to his chosen few, + Are manna for my morning food, + My soul's sweet evening dew. + + If to Temptation's mount I go, + That mount _exceeding high_, + My Lord, again rebuke our foe, + And bid the tempter fly. + No kingdom may I seek, but thine; + And let my glory be + A light, reflected pure from thine-- + My portion, life with thee! + + Oft to the mount of midnight shade, + Of solitude and prayer, + Ascend, my soul, be not afraid + Thy Guide to follow there. + The height and stillness of the scene, + When thou that path hast trod, + Forbids this world to rush between + A spirit and her God. + + The mount whereon my Saviour stood, + And o'er the city wept-- + Where fell his wo-wrung drops of blood, + While his disciples slept-- + There may I go, yet not to sleep + Till Jesus be betrayed; + But, as he went, to pray and weep + O'er sufferings sin hath made. + + And to the solemn, shuddering mount, + Where Christ received the cup + Of death, to offer us a fount + Of life, must I go up. + And I must look upon his wo, + On that empurpled tree, + To learn how vast a debt I owe, + By what he paid for me. + + Thence to the mount of Galilee + May I the way pursue, + With joy my risen Lord to see, + Ere he ascends from view. + For lo! the heavens their gates unfold + To take their coming King: + His angels harp on strings of gold, + And "Hallelujah!" sing. + + Now on Mount Zion may I seek + My shield--my strong, high tower; + And thence, though here so dark and weak, + Be clothed with light and power. + Then at that holy mountain's top, + My soul, no more to roam, + Unfurl thy wings--thine ashes drop; + And gain thy glorious home. + + + + + THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING. + + + A solemn night is o'er Jerusalem; + Nature astonished, shrouds herself in gloom; + For he, who was the babe of Bethlehem, + Is now a victim slain, and in the tomb! + + The blood, which started with the agony + That in the garden forced his swelling veins, + In crimson streams has poured on Calvary; + A rocky cavern holds his pale remains. + + He walked with men, serene in holiness, + The meek, the merciful, through taunts and strife; + The front of pride he met with lowliness, + And bowed to death to lift his foes to life. + + Fast as their sins grew bold and multiplied, + His bitter cup was filling to the brim. + Here doth he lie, the pale, the crucified, + With damps and shadows gathered over him. + + The dismal night moves on but heavily, + While they, who came the sepulchre to keep + With bristling spears, the Roman soldiery, + Would fain resign their glittering arms for sleep. + + Yet they must wake or die; the sentinel + Must keep his constant vigils round the spot + Where he shall find the watch of Israel: + The life, the spirit moves, and heeds him not. + + Within the grave, that power victorious + O'er death and darkness, far from mortal sight, + Hath wrought the body bright and glorious + For resurrection by the morning light. + + And lo! the shades of night are vanishing; + The guard behold, as comes the dawning day, + Her dubious gloom and dimness banishing, + The stone that barred the tomb is rolled away. + + But, where 's the form that in the drapery, + Which wraps the dead, lay, spiritless and cold, + Within the vault so still and shadowy, + That, as a prison-guard, they came to hold? + + That form is gone; its cast-off covering, + The sad habiliments of death, are here, + With burial odors round them hovering, + And white-robed angels calmly sitting near. + + But, see the garden, fair and flowering, + Where new-born lilies worship from their stalks; + And boughs with blossoms bend, embowering + The dewy pathway! there the Saviour walks. + + The guilty city still is slumbering, + While he is risen from the broken tomb; + As one his vines and fruit trees numbering, + He breathes the incense of their opening bloom. + + The moon, now fading in the occident, + Is not so mild, so heavenly fair as he. + The sun, just rising in the orient, + Hath less of glory than in him we see. + + Nature, that, for his death and burial, + Hath put on darkness, as a mourning weed, + Arrayed in light as for a festival, + Proclaims afar, "The Lord is risen indeed!" + + + + + I SHALL BE SATISFIED. + + "I shall be satisfied when I awake in thy likeness." + + + May I in thy likeness, my Saviour, awake, + And rise, a fair image of thee; + Then I shall be satisfied, when I can break + This prison of clay, and be free. + + Can I but come forth to eternity's light, + With thy perfect features to shine, + In raiment unsullied from time's dreary night, + What honor and joy will be mine! + + Yes, I shall be satisfied then to have cast + The shadows of nature all by-- + When, darkness and dust from the dull eyelid past, + My soul sees with full-opened eye. + + How fain would I know the great morn drawing near, + When earth's dreamy visions shall fade, + If I in thy semblance indeed may appear, + And stand in thy beauty arrayed! + + To see thee in glory, O Lord, as thou art, + From this mortal, perishing clay + My spirit immortal, in peace would depart, + And, joyous, mount up her bright way. + + When on thine own image in me thou hast smiled, + In thy holy mansion, and when + Thy fatherly arms have encircled thy child, + O I shall be satisfied then! + + + + + THE PENITENTIAL TEAR. + + + Thou trembling, pure, and holy thing! + What skill from ocean's depths can bring, + Or toil from out the mine-- + What monarch in his diadem, + Or glittering garb, produce a gem, + Whose brightness equals thine? + + Thy source is deeper than the caves + Of riven rock, or opening waves, + Invisible as air: + And, though the angel throng above + Behold thee with delight and love, + They ne'er can have thee there. + + Nor change, nor age thy sheen can dim; + Thou 'rt now unstained as when with him, + Who dared, in olden time, + Thrice his dear, suffering Lord deny; + Then, melted at the Saviour's eye, + And paid thee for his crime. + + Called from the treasures of the soul + By power divine, when thou dost roll + Forth from the mourner's eye, + Thy wearer thou dost then proclaim + The heir of life, who has his name + Writ in the Book on high. + + Thou art a pearl, that all may own, + And when thy matchless worth is known + To those, who wear thee here, + They will be changed, and shall behold + The shining gates of heaven unfold, + Bright Penitential Tear! + + + + + TEACHINGS OF GOD. + + + He reigns on high, a glorious King, + In ocean, earth, and air; + He moves and governs every thing, + For God is every where. + + The waters at his bidding flow, + The mountain and its flower + Their majesty and beauty show, + As traces of his power. + + The lilies by the meadow rills + Are leaning on his hand; + And so the cedar of the hills, + The palm and olive stand. + + He formed the birds, that sport along + On light and brilliant wing; + And tuned them with the voice of song + And joy his praise to sing. + + This earth is ours, so rich and fair + From him, who made it thus-- + Who sends his angels down with care + To minister to us. + + The rainbow, with its beauteous dies, + A pledge to man, is lent + By him, who spreads the shining skies + Around him, "as a tent." + + The heavens, my child, are full of him! + Yon radiant sun above + Is but an image, cold and dim, + Of his great power and love. + + He placed that glorious orb on high, + In splendor there to roll, + To warm the world, to light the eye; + He lights and warms the soul. + + And lest the night with sable shade + That azure vault should mar, + He moved his finger there, and made, + At every touch, a star. + + With these the moon, his beaming gift, + Here lets her lustre fall, + Our thoughts to win, our hearts to lift + To him, who gave them all. + + And he is ours--that Holy One, + Our Father, Guide, and Friend; + In ways untravelled by the sun, + In love that ne'er shall end. + + 'T is sweet to worship him below, + With his approving eye + To mark the way, our spirits go + To seek his face on high. + + + + + THE HERALD'S CRY IN THE DESERT. + + "He was not that Light; but was sent to bear witness of that + Light." + + ST. JOHN i. 8. + + + Awake, O ye nations, and, shaking + The slumber of death from your eyes, + Behold the fair morn in its breaking, + The SUN of all glory arise. + + He comes, mist and dimness dispelling; + The shadows and clouds flee away: + Ho! all, that in darkness are dwelling, + Spring up, and rejoice in the day! + + Ye dying, life's waters revealing, + He 'll show you to fountain and streams: + Ye wounded, for you he brings healing; + Come out and repose in his beams. + + Come, all ye disconsolate, hailing + Your King in his beauty and might; + His raiment mount Ebal is veiling; + Mount Gerizim shines with his light. + + O praise him, ye weary, in wonder + To feel your hard burdens unbound! + Ye captives, your bars fall asunder; + With shoutings leap forth at the sound. + + Your names on his breastplate he 's wearing; + They 're set as the seal of his ring; + Ye nations, your highways preparing, + Receive, and be glad in your King! + + + + + OUR FATHER'S WELL. + + + Come, let 's go back, my brother, + And, by our father's well, + Sit down beside each other, + Life's little dreams to tell. + + For there we played together, + In childhood's sunny hours; + Before life's stormy weather + Had killed its morning flowers. + + And since no draught we 've tasted, + Its weary journey through, + As we so far have hasted, + Like that our father drew; + + I feel, as at a mountain, + I cannot pass nor climb, + Till from that distant fountain + I drink, as in my prime. + + My spirit's longing, thirsting, + No waters else can quell; + My heart seems near to bursting + To reach that good old well. + + Though all be changed around it, + And though so changed are we, + Just where our father found it, + That pure well spring will be. + + In earth, when deeply going, + He reached and smote the rock; + He set its fount to flowing-- + It opened at his knock. + + The way, he smoothed and stoned it, + A close, round, shadowy cell; + Whoever since has owned it, + It is our father's well! + + His prattling son and daughter, + With each an infant's cup, + We waited for the water, + His steady hand drew up. + + When we had paused and listened, + Till down the bucket dashed, + O how it, rising, glistened, + And to the sunlight flashed! + + And since that moment, never + Has that cool deep been dry; + Its fount is living ever, + While man and seasons die. + + Around its mouth is growing + The moss of many a year; + But from its heart is flowing + The water sweet and clear. + + Fond memory near it lingers, + And, like a happy child, + She plucks, with busy fingers, + And wreathes the roses wild. + + Yet many a lip, whose burning + Its limpid drops allayed, + Has since, to ashes turning, + Been veiled in silent shade. + + Still we are here, and telling + About our infant play; + Where that free spring is welling, + So true, and far away. + + But O! the change, my brother! + Our father's head is hoar; + The tender name of mother + Is ours to call no more. + + And now, around thee gather + Such little ones as we + Were then, beside our father, + And look to theirs in thee. + + While fast our years are wasting, + Their numbers none can tell; + So let us hence be hasting + To find our Father's well. + + Come, we will speed us thither, + And from its mossy brink, + To flowers that ne'er shall wither + Look up to heaven and drink. + + They spring beside the waters, + Our Father there will give + To all his sons and daughters, + Where they shall drink and live. + + + + + THE MOTHER'S DREAM. + + "And I will give him the morning star." + + REV. ii. 28. + + + Methought, once more to my wishful eye + My beautiful boy had come: + My sorrow was gone, my cheek was dry, + And gladness around my home. + + I saw the form of my dear, lost child! + All kindled with life he came; + And he spake in his own sweet voice, and smiled, + As soon as I called his name. + + The garb he wore looked heavenly white, + As the feathery snow comes down, + And warm, as it shone in the softened light + That fell from his dazzling crown. + + His eye was bright with a joy serene, + His cheek with a deathless bloom, + That only the eye of my soul hath seen, + When looking beyond the tomb. + + The odors of flowers, from the thornless land + Where we deem that our blest ones are, + Seemed borne in his skirts; and his soft right hand + Was holding a radiant star. + + His feet, unshod, looked tender and fair, + As the lily's opening bell, + Half veiled in a cloud of glory, as there + Around him, in folds, it fell. + + I asked him how he was clothed anew-- + Who circled his head with light-- + And whence he returned to meet my view + So calm and heavenly bright. + + I asked him where he had been so long + Away from his mother's care-- + Again to sing me his infant song, + And to kneel by my side in prayer. + + He said, "Sweet mother, the song I sing + Is not for an earthly ear: + I touch the harp with a golden string, + For the hosts of heaven to hear. + + "It was but a gently fleeting breath, + That severed thy child from thee! + The fearful shadow, in time, called Death, + Hath ministered life to me. + + "My voice in an angel choir I lift; + And high are the notes we raise: + I hold the sign of a priceless gift, + And the Giver, who hath our praise. + + "'The bright and the morning star' is he, + Who bringeth eternal day! + And, mother, he giveth himself to thee, + To lighten thine earthly way. + + "The race is short to a peaceful goal, + And He is never afar, + Who saith of the wise, untiring soul, + 'I will give him the morning star!' + + "Thy measure of care for me was filled, + And pure to its crystal top; + For Faith, with a steady eye, distilled + And numbered every drop. + + "While thou wast teaching my lips to move, + And my heart to rise in prayer, + I learned the way to a world above; + The home of thy child is there! + + "The secret prayers, thou didst make for me, + That only thy God hath known, + Arose, like sweet incense, holy and free, + And gathered around his throne. + + "My robe was filled with the perfume sweet + To shed upon this world's air, + As I joyful knelt, at my Saviour's feet, + For the glorious crown I wear. + + "In that bright, blissful world of ours, + The waters of life I drink: + Behold my feet, as they 've pressed the flowers, + That grow by the fountain's brink! + + "No thorn is hidden to wound me there; + There 's nothing of chill, or blight, + Or sighing to blend with the balmy air-- + No sorrow--no pain--no night!" + + "No _parting_?" I asked, with a burst of joy; + And the lovely illusion broke! + My rapture had banished my beauteous boy-- + To a shadowy void I spoke. + + But, O! that STAR of the morn still beams + With light to direct my feet + Where, when I have done with my earthly dreams, + The mother and child may meet. + + + + + THE WAR-SPIRIT ON BUNKER'S HEIGHT. + + + The sun walked the skies in the splendor of June, + O'er earth full of promise, and air full of tune; + The broad azure streams calmly rolled to the deep, + Whose waves on its breast stirred like babes in their sleep. + + The turf heaved its green to the white vestured flock, + That fed, or reposed in the shade of the rock; + The birds sang their songs by their nests in the bowers; + And the bee hummed with sweets from the fresh opened flowers. + + The humming-bird glittered, and whirred o'er the cell, + Where her nectar was stored, from the hill to the dell; + 'Mid the bloom and the perfume, that passed on the breeze, + From the rose, and the vine, and the fruit-bearing trees. + + It seemed like a gala, when Nature, arrayed + In festival robes, with her treasures displayed, + Reflected the smile of her Maker above, + And offered up hymns of her thanksgiving love. + + And yet, in the bosom of man there were fires + Fierce, quenchless and fearful--consuming desires + For right unpossessed, and for lawless domain, + That burned to the soul, and that flamed to the brain. + + In the streets there was clanging and gleaming of arms; + In the dwellings, resolve, preparation, alarms; + In the eye of the wife, mother, sister, a tear; + In the face of their soldier, no semblance of fear. + + The patriot chieftain had marked out his ground, + To hold, or to fall, if his foe passed the bound: + And now was the hero to close in the strife, + For death as a bondman, or freedom with life. + + The war-spirit hovered, and frowned on the height, + His eye flashing lightning--his wings shedding night! + From his wide fiery nostrils rolled volumes of smoke, + And the rocks roared afar, as in thunder he spoke. + + At his dread shock of nature, the lamb from its play, + The bee and the bird, in affright fled away; + The branch, flower, and grass, felt the crush and the scath, + And the winds passing by, snuffed the heat of his wrath. + + With blood, that, in torrents, he poured down like rain, + He drenched the green turf, that he strewed with the slain, + Till the eminence groaned with the carnage it bore, + And its heart heaved and shuddered at drinking the gore. + + While the breath of the war-spirit scented the air, + The rivers looked wild in reflecting his glare; + And ocean's cold bosom was torn, as he gave + The flap of his pinion to trouble its wave. + + The village besieged, wrapped in flames from his breath, + Looked up to the hill, where he revelled with death, + And swelled with the essence of life he had shed, + To sweeten their cup, and the banquet to spread. + + O War-spirit! War-spirit, when didst thou bring + Such trophies of beauty before the pale king, + Since walking on Gilboa's height, in thy power, + Of Israel's valiant to mow down the flower? + + Mourn, wail, O ye people! and spread wide the pall, + Whose deep sable fringe down the hill-sides shall fall! + Your brethren's warm blood cries aloud from the ground, + That hosts, like Philistia's, in triumph surround. + + The lovely, the pleasant have perished! Alas! + Where they fell may there hence be no dew on the grass! + Let a monument there, towards the heavens rear its head, + From a base, that shall cover the spot where they bled! + + Ah, War-spirit! War-spirit, deep was the gloom, + Though heaven was unclouded, and earth all in bloom, + When thou, at the onset, that young summer's day, + Didst strike so much valor to darkness away! + + And yet, by that thunder, the land is awake: + 'T was the crack of her yoke when beginning to break! + And out of that gloom is her glory to spread; + Her living be franchised, immortal her dead. + + For up from that summit an eagle shall rise, + To breast the thick clouds, till he sails the blue skies; + And drop, while he bathes at the fountain of light, + A plume from his pinion their story to write. + + It shall fall where they fell, on the still purple sward, + Full and warm with the sunbeams their deeds to record; + And move o'er the scroll in the hand of the free, + While the wing where it grew spans the earth and the sea. + + + + + THE INNER SELF. + + + While others lie composed in sleep, + Close wrapped in shade and silence deep, + And starry hosts and angels keep + Their vigils o'er the night, + I have a curious work to do, + A secret door to venture through, + A wondrous being then to view; + If I can stand the sight. + + I now take up the sacred key, + Unlock my breast, and pass to see + The inmost, true, essential ME: + And lo! I here have found, + Enclosed within its shrine, the heart, + Myself, my thinking, reasoning part: + But say, my spirit, what thou art, + And whence, and whither bound! + + 'T is but with wonder, reverence, fear + And shrinking, that I thus draw near + The majesty, that meets me here, + My soul, unveiled, in thee! + I cannot give thy form, or hue, + Or measure, or proportions true; + But feel myself myself subdue, + Thou deepening mystery. + + Not all the earth, nor air, nor sea + Could furnish food to nourish thee; + Nor welling founts, nor rivers free, + The spirit's thirst allay: + Nor silver web, nor cloth of gold, + Nor stuffs, that time can e'er unfold, + Nor pearls, nor gems this world may hold, + Compose thee an array. + + Yet all the fibres of my frame + Own that from thee their feeling came; + And, at the slightest touch, will claim + Thy closest sympathy. + Thou art their life, their light, their spring, + Informing them in every thing, + But how they are allied, and cling, + My nobler self, to thee. + + And do I thus the power survey, + Whom all my meaner powers obey? + Hand, foot and tongue and eye--are they + The servants of thy will? + And when they pause, repose to take, + Dost thou, untiring and awake, + Thy pinions spread, and swiftly make + Thy wide excursions still? + + What art thou, never slumbering soul, + To stretch thy wings from pole to pole-- + To span the globe--to mark its roll-- + Its elements to see, + Conspiring thus, to prophesy + Its end to come before thine eye, + Whilst thou canst fire and flood defy, + Nor ever cease to be? + + And, swifter than an eagle flies, + Or arrows dart, dost thou arise + Through air and space, and scale the skies, + 'Mid shining spheres to roam: + And with thy conscious rank elate, + Dost stand and watch at heaven's bright gate, + For glimpses of that rich estate + Where thou may'st claim thy home. + + Thence, near the pit dost thou go down, + To spy the difference 'twixt the crown + Of life, and that dread withering frown, + Which blights a spirit there. + Then, on eternity's dark brink, + Between them dost thou pause, and think, + And ask, if thou shalt soar or sink-- + To joy or wo the heir. + + Too blind to trace thy being's plan, + Too small my nobler part to span, + I end my quest where it began, + And from myself retire. + I hence must own within my breast + A power of unknown powers possessed-- + A flame, not long to be repressed, + Of clear immortal fire. + + + + + TIME. + + + Time, with thy kind and never-wearying powers, + Giving whate'er we fondly count as ours; + Life, love, hope, faith, the sun, the stars and flowers; + All that to man is dear to thee we owe! + Yet does he call thee, slayer, robber, thief, + And stern, as of his foes thou wert the chief, + Filling his path with ruins, pain and grief, + Without one tender blessing to bestow! + + Nature we laud, when thou, paternal Time, + Hast given maturity, as well as prime, + To all her works, in every age and clime, + Since the first floweret on her bosom grew. + Light from the darkness doth thy hand unfold: + Beauty from dust we in thy deeds behold: + The frail, the dimmed, the withered, worn and old + Thy breath dissolves, that they may shine anew. + + The city flames, and melts the tottering wall; + Again she rises fairer for the fall. + Thou beckonest back the flood! and at thy call, + From crust-capped mounts, volcanic splendors pour. + The absent sun his way to morning bends; + The waning star to thy command attends, + Fills out and burns; and man to dust descends, + In hope to live, when thou shalt be no more. + + The leaves are scattered, yet the waiting tree + Shall have them brought, in verdure, back by thee; + The flower has vanished, but the trusting bee + Will find her cell again with sweetness stored. + The seed may perish, yet the germ will rise; + The grain is ripened while its sheathing dies. + The fruits of earth, the glories of the skies + Forth by thy bounteous hand to man are poured. + + We owe thee still for gifts far more divine-- + The key to joys it never can be thine + To give or take; and heavenly light to shine + When we must enter that dark, shadowy vale, + Where nought of earth the pathway can illume, + Or lend one ray to shoot across the gloom, + That gathers round the threshold of the tomb, + When thou must there, first and forever, fail. + + Then, why does man so oft forget that he + Owes all he is, and all he hopes to be, + When thou and he are severed, but to thee? + Why does he slay thee piecemeal, day by day? + Shut out in exile from thine empire, there, + In that unknown, dread, boundless country, where + Is no retreat, no inn, how will he bear + To have thy spectre haunt the endless way? + + Man's wisest study is to know thy worth + And his relations to thee from his birth; + To bring his course o'er this uneven earth, + In a clear sunset, to a quiet close. + Then, as a weary traveller is undressed, + While gently thou the spirit may'st divest + Of her worn garment, there remains a rest, + And she goes franchised to that blest repose. + + And now, O Time, as one more hasty year + Of thine is gone, thou hast another here! + Grateful we hail it, though the bitter tear + May have put out the light of joy that shone + On many a face; though tender, sundered ties + Have changed to chords that vibrate but with sighs, + In many a stricken breast where sorrow lies, + Draining the life-stream, while that year has flown. + + Countless the blessings showered in its flight; + And seeming evils, turned and viewed aright, + May prove but passing clouds, and lined with light. + Our trust, deceived in earthly things, may teach + The restless, eager spirit to forego + Her crushing grasp on hollow hopes, that grow + Like fragile reeds, to mock her hold below; + And after higher, holier joys to reach. + + TIME, then our nobler aspirations raise! + Since few, and short, and fleeting are our days; + And since, so peaceful are her pleasant ways, + Teach us to wisdom to apply the heart: + So that, when thou hast safely led us through + Thy kingdom, with a brighter land in view, + Calm at thy bourn, and with a kind adieu, + We may, as friends, shake hands with thee and part. + + + + + MY HEAD. + + "The day is come I never thought to see! + Strange revolutions of my farm and me." + + DRYDEN'S VIRGIL. + + + My head! my head! the day is come + I never, never thought to see; + When all, with fingers and a thumb, + May to thy chambers have a key! + + That is, if thou wouldst but submit + To come beneath the learned touch, + And let the judge in judgment sit + Upon thy bumps, that prove so much. + + I used to think our heads might let + Their own contents, at will, be shown; + I never thought mankind could get + An outward way to make them known. + + But now the sapient hand has cut + The matter short, and all may tell + Thy value, as they 'd prize a nut, + And know the kernel by the shell. + + If half the light, that has been thrown + _On_ heads, were only poured _within_, + Thou wouldst not thus be left to own + The darkness that is now thy sin. + + But, while the world is in a blaze + Of purely phrenologic light, + Thou, wildered thing, art in a maze, + And destitute of faith and sight. + + They use a thousand meaning words + Thou couldst not utter or define, + Of which, to tell the truth, three thirds + Were gravel, in a mouth like thine. + + They hold me out an empty skull, + To show the powers of living brains: + 'T is just like feeling of the hull, + To tell what goods the ship contains. + + And, whether nature or mishap + Have raised the bump, 't is all the same; + The sage's crown, or dunce's cap + Must be awarded as its claim. + + This hobby, that so many sit, + And manage with such ease and grace, + I dare not try with rein or bit, + It seems so of the donkey race. + + And yet, my head, no doubt, 't is all + A fault of thine, a want of sight, + That so much said by Combe and Gall + And Spurzheim cannot turn thee right. + + I know not what thy case may be,-- + If thou art hollow, or opaque; + I only know thou canst not see, + And faith declines one step to take. + + This burst of light has turned thee numb, + Depriving thee of every sense; + So now, if tried, thou must be dumb, + Nor say one word in self-defence! + + + + + THE WHEAT FIELD. + + + Field of wheat, so full and fair, + Shining, with thy sunny hair + Lightly waving either way, + Graceful as the breezes play-- + Looking like a summer sea; + How I love to gaze at thee! + Pleasant art thou to the sight; + And to thought a rich delight. + Then, thy voice is music sweet, + Softly sighing field of wheat. + + Pointing upward to the sky, + Rising straight, and aiming high, + Every stalk is seen to shoot + As an arrow, from the root. + Like a well-trained company, + All in uniform agree, + From the footing to the ear; + All in order strict appear. + Marshalled by a skilful hand, + All together bow, or stand + Still, within the proper bound: + None o'ersteps the given ground, + With its tribute held to pay, + At his nod whom they obey, + Each the gems, that stud its crown, + Will ere long, for man, lay down. + Thou with promise art replete + Of the precious sheaves of wheat. + + How thy strength in weakness lies! + Not a robber bird, that flies, + Finds support whereby to put + On a stalk her lawless foot. + Not a predatory beak + Plunges down, thy stores to seek, + Where the guard of silver spears + Keeps the fruit, and decks the ears. + No vain insect, that could do + Harm to thee, dares venture through + Such an armory, or eat + Off the sheath to take the wheat. + + What a study do we find + Opened here for eye and mind! + In it who can offer less, + Than to wonder, and confess, + That on this high-favored ground, + Faith is blest, and hope is crowned. + Charity her arms may spread + Wide from it, with gifts of bread. + Wisdom, power, and goodness meet + In the bounteous field of wheat. + + + + + THE LITTLE TRAVELLER. + + + I am the tiniest child of earth, + But still, I would like to be known to fame, + Though next to nothing I had my birth, + And lowest of all is my lowly name. + + Yet, if so humble my native place, + I this can say, in family pride, + That I 'm of the world's most numerous race, + And made by the Maker of all beside. + + Although I 'm so poor, I have nought to lose; + Still I 'm so little I can't be lost: + I journey about wherever I choose, + And those, who carry me, bear the cost. + + The most forgiving of earthly things, + I often cling to my deadly foe; + And, spite of the cruelest flirts and flings, + Arise by the force that has cast me low. + + When beauty has trodden me under foot, + I 've quietly risen her face to seek, + Embraced her forehead, or calmly put + Myself to rest in her dimpled cheek. + + I 've ridden to war on the soldier's plume; + But startled, and sprung at the wild affray, + The sights of horror, of fire and fume, + And fled on the wing of the winds away. + + I 've visited courts, and been ushered in + By the proudest guest of the stately scene; + I 've touched his majesty's bosom-pin, + And the nuptial ring of his lofty queen. + + At the royal board, in the grand parade, + I 've oft been one familiar and free: + The fairest lady has smiled, and laid + Her delicate, gloveless hand on me. + + Philosopher, poet, the learned, the sage, + Never declines a call from me; + And all, of every rank and age, + Admit me into their _coterie_. + + I visit the lions of every where, + If human, or brute, and can testify + To what they do, to what they wear, + To wonders none ever beheld but I! + + And now, reviewing the things I 've done, + Forgetting my name, my rank and birth, + I begin to think I am number one + Of the great and manifold things of earth. + + I 've still much more, that I yet might tell, + Which modesty bids me here withhold; + For fear with my travels I seem to swell, + grow, for an ATOM OF DUST, too bold! + + + + + THE ENTANGLED FLY. + + + Ah, thou unfortunate! + Poor, silly fly, + Caught in the spider's web, + Hung there to die! + What could have tempted thee? + What led thee there, + For thy foe, thus to throw + Around thee the snare? + + Struggling and crying so + Ne'er can unweave + From thee the silken threads, + Laid to deceive. + Sorrow for wandering + Comes now in vain; + And, with one thus undone, + Grief adds to pain. + + Yet, I will rescue thee, + Unwary thing! + Thou may'st again be off, + High on the wing, + If thou wilt promise me, + Hence to be found + Never more, as before, + On evil ground. + + Trust not the flatterer + Skilled to ensnare: + He is a wily one; + Think, and beware. + Down to his dusky ways + No more descend! + Little fly, thou and I + Both want a friend. + + Man hath an enemy, + Whose snare is laid + Softly and silently, + Deep in the shade. + Light, by the tempter shunned, + Only can show + Where, secure, free, and pure, + Our feet may go. + + + + + THE PEACH BLOSSOMS. + + + Come here! come here! cousin Mary, and see + What fair, ripe peaches there are on the tree-- + On the very same bough that was given to me + By father, one day last spring. + When it looked so beautiful, all in the blow, + And I wanted to pluck it, he told me, you know, + I might, but that waiting a few months would show + The fruit, that patience might bring. + + And as I perceived, by the sound of his voice, + And the look of his eye, it was clearly his choice + That it should not be touched, I have now to rejoice + That I told him we 'd let it remain; + For, had it been gathered when full in the flower, + Its blossoms had withered, perhaps, in an hour, + And nothing on earth could have given the power + That would make them flourish again. + + But now, of a fruit so delicious and sweet + I 've enough for myself and my playmates a treat; + And they tell me, besides, that the kernels secrete + What, if planted, will make other trees: + For the shell will come open to let down the root; + A sprout will spring up, whence the branches will shoot; + There 'll be buds, leaves, and blossoms; and then comes the fruit-- + Such beautiful peaches as these! + + And Nature, they say, like a mighty machine, + Has a wheel in a wheel, which, if aught comes between, + It ruins her work, as it might have been seen, + Had it not given patience this trial. + From this, I 'll be careful to keep it in mind, + When the blossoms I love, that there lingers behind + A better reward, that the trusting shall find + For a trifling self-denial. + + + + + THE BROKEN PIPE. + + + Come here, little Willie: + Why, what is the trouble? + "I 've broke my new pipe, ma'-- + I can't make a bubble!" + + Well, do n't weep for that, child, + But brighten your face, + And tell how the grievous + Disaster took place. + + "Why, Puss came along; + And, said I, 'Now she 'll think + That white, frothy water + Is milk she may drink.' + + "So I set it before her, + And plunged her mouth in, + When up came both paws, + And clung fast to my chin. + + "Then I gave her a blow + With my pipe; and it flew + At once into pieces! + O what shall I do? + + "I can't make a bubble! + I wish naughty Kit + Had been a mile off: + See! there 's blood on me yet!" + + I 'm sorry, my boy; yet + Your loss is but just; + You first deceived Pussy, + And trifled with trust. + + In this, when you failed, + You compelled her; and thence + The wound on your face, + From poor Kit's self-defence. + + Then, when you grew cruel + And beat her, you know + Your pipe and yourself + Fared the worst for the blow. + + Let this lesson teach you, + Hence never to stoop + To make man, or brute, + That may trust you, a dupe. + + And when you have power, + It should not be abused, + Oppressing the weaker, + Nor strength be misused. + + For, often, unkindness + Returns whence it came; + And ever deceit must + Be followed by shame. + + Remember this, William, + And here end your sorrow; + I 'll buy you a pipe, + To blow bubbles, to-morrow. + + + + + VIVY VAIN. + + + Miss Vain was all given to dress-- + Too fond of gay clothing; and so, + She 'd gad about town + Just to show a new gown, + As a train-band their color to show. + + Her head being empty and light, + Whene'er she obtained a new hat, + With pride in her air, + She 'd go round, here and there, + For all whom she knew to see that. + + Her folly was chiefly in this: + More highly she valued fine looks, + Than virtue, or truth, + Or devoting her youth + To usefulness, friendship, or books. + + Her passion for show was unchecked; + And therefore, it happened one day, + Arrayed in bright hues, + And with new hat and shoes, + Miss Vain walked abroad for display. + + She took the most populous streets, + To cause but aversion in those, + Who saw how she 'd prinked, + And to bystanders winked, + While the boys cried, "Halloo! there she goes!" + + It chanced, that, in passing one way, + She came near a pool, and a green + With fence close and high; + And, as Vivy drew nigh, + A donkey stood near it unseen. + + He put his mouth over its top, + The moment she came by his place; + And gave a loud bray + In her ear, when, away + She sprang, shrieked, and fell on her face. + + She thought she was swallowed alive, + Awhile upon earth lying flat; + And the terrible sound + Seemed to furrow the ground, + She embraced in her fine gown and hat. + + She gathered herself up, and ran, + Yet heeded not whither or whence, + To flee from the roar, + That continued to pour + Behind her, from over the fence. + + In passing a slope near the pool, + She slipped and rolled down to its brim; + The geese gave a shout, + And at length hissed her out + Of the bounds, where they 'd gathered to swim. + + In turning a corner, she met + Abruptly, the horns of a cow + That mooed, while the cur, + At her heels, turned from her, + And aimed at Miss Vain his "bow-wow." + + Then Vivy's bright ribbons and skirt, + As she flew, flirted high on the wind; + The children at play, + Paused to see one so gay, + And all in a flutter behind. + + A group of glad schoolboys came by: + Said they, "So it seems, that to-day, + Miss Vain carries marks + At which the dog barks, + And that make sober Long-Ears to bray." + + And when, all bedraggled and pale, + Poor Vivy approached her own door, + She went, swift and straight + As a dart, through the gate, + Abhorring the gay gear she wore. + + She sat down, and thought of the scene + With humiliation and tears: + The words, and the noise + Of the brutes and the boys + Were echoing still in her ears. + + She reasoned, and came at the cause, + Resolving that cause to remove; + And thence, her desire + Was for modest attire, + And her heart and her mind to improve. + + And soon, all who knew her before + Remarked on the change and the gain + In mind, and in mien, + And in dress, that were seen + In the once flashy Miss Vivy Vain. + + + + + THE MOCKING BIRD. + + + A Mocking Bird was he, + In a bushy, blooming tree, + Imbosomed by the foliage and flower. + And there he sat and sang, + Till all around him rang, + With sounds, from out the merry mimic's bower. + + The little satirist + Piped, chattered, shrieked, and hissed; + He then would moan, and whistle, quack, and caw; + Then, carol, drawl, and croak, + As if he 'd pass a joke + On every other winged one he saw. + + Together he would catch + A gay and plaintive snatch, + And mingle notes of half the feathered throng. + For well the mocker knew, + Of every thing that flew, + To imitate the manner and the song. + + The other birds drew near, + And paused awhile to hear + How well he gave their voices and their airs. + And some became amused; + While some, disturbed, refused + To own the sounds that others said were theirs. + + The sensitive were shocked, + To find their honors mocked + By one so pert and voluble as he; + They knew not if 't was done + In earnest or in fun; + And fluttered off in silence from the tree. + + The silliest grew vain, + To think a song or strain + Of theirs, however weak, or loud, or hoarse, + Was worthy to be heard + Repeated by the bird; + For of his wit they could not feel the force. + + The charitable said, + "Poor fellow! if his head + Is turned, or cracked, or has no talent left; + But feels the want of powers, + And plumes itself from ours, + Why, we shall not be losers by the theft." + + The haughty said, "He thus, + It seems, would mimic us, + And steal our songs, to pass them for his own! + But if he only quotes + In honor of our notes, + We then were quite as honored, let alone." + + The wisest said, "If foe, + Or friend, we still may know + By him, wherein our greatest failing lies. + So, let us not be moved, + Since first to be improved + By every thing, becomes the truly wise." + + + + + THE BIRD'S HOME. + + + O where is thy home, sweet bird, + With the song, and the bright, glossy plume? + "I 'll tell thee where I rest, + If thou wilt not rob my nest;-- + I built among the sweet apple bloom." + + But what 's in thy nest, bright bird? + What 's there, in the snug, downy cell? + "If thou wilt not rob the tree; + Nor go too near, to see + My quiet little home, I will tell." + + O! I will not thy trust betray, + But closely thy secret I will keep. + "I 've three little tender things, + That have never used their wings! + I left them there, at home, fast asleep." + + Then, why art thou here, my bird, + Away from thy young, helpless brood? + "To pay thee with a song, + Just to let me pass along, + Nor harm me, as I look for their food!" + + + + + THE BIRD UNCAGED. + + + She opened the cage, and away there flew + A bright little bird, as a short adieu + It hastily whistled, and passed the door, + And felt that its sorrowful hours were o'er. + + An anthem of freedom it seemed to sing; + To utter its joy for an outspread wing,-- + That now it could sport in the boundless air, + And might go any and every where. + + And Anna rejoiced in her bird's delight; + But her eye was wet, as she marked its flight; + Till, this was the song that she seemed to hear; + And, merrily warbled, it dried the tear: + + "I had a mistress, and she was kind, + In all, but keeping her bird confined; + She ministered food and drink to me, + But, O I was pining for liberty! + + "My fluttering bosom she loved to smooth; + While the heart within it, she could not soothe: + I sickened and longed for the wildwood breeze, + My feathery kindred, and fresh green trees. + + "A prisoner there, with a useless wing, + I looked with sorrow on every thing; + I lost my voice, and forgot my song, + And mourned in silence, the whole day long. + + "But I will go back, with a mellower pipe, + And sing, when the cherries are round and ripe; + On the topmost bough, as I lock my feet, + To help myself, in my leafy seat. + + "My merriest notes shall there be heard, + To draw her eye to her franchised bird; + The burden, then, of my song shall be, + 'Earth for the wingless! but air for me!'" + + + + + DAME BIDDY. + + + Dame Biddy abode in a coop, + Because it so chanced, that dame Biddy + Had round her a family group + Of chicks, young, and helpless and giddy. + + And when she had freedom to roam, + She fancied the life of a ranger; + And led off her brood, far from home, + To fall into mischief or danger. + + She 'd trail through the grass to be mown, + And call all her children to follow; + And scratch up the seeds that were sown, + Then, lie in their places and wallow. + + She 'd go where the corn in the hill, + Its first little blade had been shooting, + And try, by the strength of her bill, + To learn if the kernel was rooting. + + And when she went out on a walk + Of pleasure, through thicket and brambles, + The covetous eye of a hawk + Delighted in marking her rambles. + + "I spy," to himself he would say, + "A prize of which I 'll be the winner!" + So down would he pounce on his prey, + And bear off a chicken for dinner. + + The poor frighted matron, that heard + The cry of her youngling in dying, + Would scream at the merciless bird, + That high with his booty was flying. + + But shrieks could not ease her distress, + Nor grief her lost darling recover. + She now had a chicken the less, + For acting the part of a rover. + + And there lay the feathers, all torn, + And flying one way and another, + That still her dear child might have worn, + Had she been more wise as a mother. + + Her owner then thought he must teach + Dame Biddy a little subjection; + And cooped her up, out of the reach + Of hawking, with time for reflection. + + And, throwing a net o'er a pile + Of brush-wood that near her was lying, + He hoped to its meshes to wile + The fowler, that o'er her was flying. + + For Hawk, not forgetting his fare, + And having a taste to renew it, + Sailed round near the coop, high in air, + With cruel intention, to view it. + + The owner then said, "Master Hawk, + If you love my chickens so dearly, + Come down to my yard for a walk, + That you may address them more nearly." + + But, "No," thought the sharp-taloned foe + Of Biddy, "my circuit is higher! + If I to his premises go, + 'T will be when I see he 's not nigh her." + + The Farmer strewed barley, and toled + The chickens the brush to run under, + And left them, while Hawk growing bold, + Thus tempted, came near for his plunder. + + As closer and closer he drew, + With appetite stronger and stronger, + He found he 'd but one thing to do, + And plunged, to defer it no longer. + + But now had he come to a pause, + At once in the net-work entangled, + While through it his head and his claws + In hopeless vacuity dangled. + + The chicks saw him hang overhead, + Where they for their barley had huddled; + And all in a flutter they fled, + And soon through the coop holes had scuddled. + + The farmer came out to his snare. + He saw the bold captive was in it; + And said, "If this play be unfair, + Remember, I did not begin it!" + + He then put a cork on his beak, + The airy assassin disarming, + Unspurred him, and rendered him weak, + By blunting each talent for harming. + + And into the coop he was thrown: + The chickens hid under their mother, + For he, by his feathers was known + As he, who had murdered their brother. + + Dame Biddy, beholding his plight, + Determined to show him no quarter, + In action gave vent to her spite; + As motherly tenderness taught her. + + She shouted, and blustered; and then + Attacked the poor captive unfriended; + And you, (who have witnessed a hen + In anger,) may guess how it ended. + + She made him a touching address, + If pecking and scratching could do it, + Till, sinking in silent distress, + He perished before she got through it. + + We would not, however, convey + A thought like approving the fury, + That gave, in this summary way, + Punition, without judge or jury. + + Whenever thus given, it tends + To lessen the angry bestower; + The _fowl_ that inflicts it, descends-- + The _featherless_ biped, still lower. + + + + + THE ENVIOUS LOBSTER. + + + A Lobster from the water came, + And saw another, just the same + In form and size; but gayly clad + In scarlet clothing; while she had + No other raiment to her back + Than her old suit of greenish black. + + "So ho!" she cried, "'t is very fine! + Your dress was yesterday like mine; + And in the mud below the sea, + You lived, a crawling thing, like me. + But now, because you 've come ashore, + You 've grown so proud, that what you wore-- + Your strong old suit of bottle-green, + You think improper to be seen. + To tell the truth, I don 't see why + You should be better dressed than I. + And I should like a suit of red + As bright as yours, from feet to head. + I think I' m quite as good as you, + And might be clothed in scarlet, too." + + "Will you be boiled?" her owner said, + "To be arrayed in glowing red? + Come here, my discontented miss, + And hear the scalding kettle hiss! + Will you go in, and there be boiled, + To have your dress, so old and soiled, + Exchanged for one of scarlet hue?" + "Yes," cried the lobster, "that I 'll do, + And twice as much, if needs must be, + To be as gayly clad as she." + Then, in she made a fatal dive, + And never more was seen alive! + + Now, if you ever chance to know + Of one as fond of dress and show + As that vain lobster, and withal + As envious, you 'll perhaps recall + To mind her folly, and the plight + In which she reappeared to sight. + She had obtained a bright array, + But for it, thrown herself away! + Her life and death were best untold, + But for the moral they unfold! + + + + + KIT WITH THE ROSE. + + + A rose tree stood in the parlor, + When kit came frolicking by; + So up went her feet on the window-seat, + To a rose, that had caught her eye. + + She gave it a cuff, and it trembled + Beneath her ominous paw; + And while it shook, with a threatening look + She coveted what she saw. + + Thought she, "What a beautiful toss-ball, + If I could but give it a snap, + Now all are out, nor thinking about + Their rose, or the least mishap!" + + She twisted the stem, and she twirled it; + And, seizing the flower it bore + With the timely aid of her teeth, she made + A leap to the parlor floor. + + And over the carpet she tossed it, + All fresh in its morning bloom, + Till shattered and rent, its leaves were sent + To every side of the room. + + At length, with her sport grown weary, + She laid herself down to sun, + Inclining to doze, forgetting the rose + And the mischief she had done. + + By and by her young mistress entered, + And uttered a piteous cry, + When she saw the fate of what had so late + Delighted her watchful eye. + + But where was the one, who had spoiled it, + Concealing his guilty face? + She had not a clue whereby to pursue + The rogue to his lurking-place. + + Thought kit, "I 'll keep still till 't is over, + And none will suspect it was I." + For the puss awoke, when her mistress spoke, + And she well understood the cry. + + But, mewing at length for her dinner, + Kit's mouth confessed the whole truth: + It opened so wide, that her mistress spied + A rose-leaf pierced by her tooth. + + Then kit was expelled from the parlor + All covered with shame. And those + Inclined, like her, in secret to err, + Should remember kit with the rose. + + + + + THE STORM IN THE FOREST. + + + The storm in the forest is rending and sweeping; + While tree after tree bows its stately green head; + The flowerets beneath them are bending and weeping; + And leaves, torn and trembling, all round them are spread. + + The bird that had roamed, till she thinks her benighted, + Dismayed, hastens back to her home in the wood; + And flags not a wing, till her bosom, affrighted, + Has laid its warm down o'er her own little brood. + + And they, since that fond one so quickly has found them, + To shelter their heads from the rain and the blast, + Shall fearless repose, while the bolts burst around them; + And lie calm and safe, till the darkness is past. + + Hast thou, too, not felt, when the tempest was drearest, + And rending thy covert, or shaking thy rest, + Thine own blessed angel that moment the nearest-- + Thy screen in his pinion--thy shield in his breast? + + When clouds frowned the darkest, and perils beset thee, + Till each prop of earth seemed to bend, or to break, + Did e'er thy good angel turn off, and forget thee? + The mother her little ones, then, may forsake! + + Ah, no! thou shalt feel thy protector the surer-- + The sun, in returning, more cheering and warm; + And all things around thee, seem fresher and purer, + And touched with new glory, because of the storm! + + + + + THE UPROOTED ELM. + + + Alas! alas! my good old tree, + A fatal change is past on thee! + And now thine aged form I see, + All helpless, lying low: + The rending tempest, in its flight + 'Mid darkness of the wintry night, + Hath struck thee, passing in its might, + And felled thee at a blow. + + And never more the blooming spring + Shall to thy boughs rich verdure bring, + Or her gay birds, to flit and sing + Where their first plumage grew; + For thou, so long, so fondly made + My eye's delight, my summer shade, + Here, as a lifeless king, art laid + In state, for all to view. + + Thy noble trunk and reverend head, + Defined on that cold, snow-white bed, + And those old arms, so widely spread, + Thy hopelessness declare: + Thy roots, in earth concealed so long-- + That struck so deep, with hold so strong, + Upturned with many a broken prong, + Are quivering high in air. + + But yester-eve I saw thee stand, + With lofty front, with aspect grand, + Where thou hadst braved the ruthless hand + Of time, and spread, and towered; + And stood the rain, the hail, the blast, + Till more than hundred years had passed: + To fall so suddenly at last, + Forever overpowered! + + Yet, while I sadly ponder o'er + What now thou art, and wast before, + Were sighs to rise, and tears to pour, + Like summer winds and rain; + Not all the sighs and drops of grief + Could bring to thee one bud or leaf; + Thou liest so like a stricken chief, + By one swift arrow slain. + + But may'st thou prove an emblem true + Of what the spoiler's hand shall do + With one, who pensive here would view + A shadowy type in thee! + Let not the conqueror piecemeal slay, + With power by power in slow decay; + But strike, and all in ashes lay! + Farewell, my good old tree! + + + + + THROUGH THE CLOUDS. + + + Through the clouds that veil the sky, + Come, O sun, and sweetly smile! + Show thy glory to mine eye, + So my heart may beam the while. + + Come, and chase this day of night, + For the world is sadly dim. + To thy blessed face of light + Let my spirit sing her hymn. + + Now, in silence and alone, + I, to pass the heavy hour, + Sit and fancy nature's moan + After thy reviving power. + + Blasts of wildered, wandering air, + Asking where thy face can be, + Chill and cheerless, every where, + Sighing, wailing, seek for thee. + + Mourning o'er the earth is spread; + Bud and flower look pale with grief. + Sick, the plant has hung its head; + Dulness weighs on every leaf. + + Not a bird is heard to sing. + Reft of thine inspiring ray. + As a lyre of every string, + Each from sight is hid away. + + Sable clouds, that veil the blue + Of the skies, their shadows throw + Here, until their sombre hue + Gives a cast to all below. + + Come, O sun, and through the gloom + Let thy beaming vesture fall! + Bringing music, joy and bloom, + Spread thy mantle o'er us all. + + What were there on earth to love-- + What were beauteous, bright, or dear, + Wert thou not so true above, + And thy holy influence here? + + + + + MY ROSE TREE. + + + Rose tree, O! my beauteous rose tree, + Often have I longed to know + How thy tender leaves were moulded-- + How thy buds are burst, and blow. + + I have watered, sunned, and trained thee, + And have watched thee many an hour, + Yet I never could discover + How a bud becomes a flower. + + So, last night I thought about thee + On my pillow, till, at last, + I was gone in quiet slumber; + And a dream before me passed. + + In it, I beheld my rose tree + Stripped of flower, and bud and leaf; + While thy naked stalk and branches + Filled me with surprise and grief. + + Then, methought, I wept to see thee + Spoiled of all that made thee dear, + Till a band of smiling angels + Mildly shining, hovered near. + + Gently as they gathered round thee, + All in silence, one of them + Laid his soft, fair fingers on thee, + Pulling leaves from out the stem. + + One by one thy twigs he furnished + With a dress of foliage green; + While another angel followed, + Bringing buds the leaves between. + + Then came one the buds to open; + He their silken rolls unsheathed, + While the one who tints the roses, + Through their loosened foldings breathed. + + Then the angel of the odors + Filled each golden-bottomed cell, + Till, between the parting petals, + Free on air the fragrance fell. + + Lifting then their shining pinions, + Quick the angels passed from sight; + Leaving, where aloft they vanished, + But a stream of fading light. + + There I heard sweet strains of music, + And their voices far above, + Dying in the azure distance, + Naming thee a gift of love. + + And, my rose tree stood before me, + Finished thus by angel hands; + Perfect in its bloom and fragrance, + Beautiful, as now it stands. + + Hence, whenever I behold thee, + I shall think of angels too; + And the countless works of goodness + They descend on earth to do. + + All unseen and silent, round us + They their careful watches keep; + Whether we may wake, or slumber, + Guardian angels never sleep! + + + + + THE INFANT BAPTIST. + + And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, and was in the + deserts until the day of his showing unto Israel. + + LUKE i. 80. + + + Child, amid the honeyed flowers + Passing life's bright morning hours-- + Playing in the silver rills, + Where they bathe Judea's hills-- + Looking, with an earnest eye, + At the wild bird flitting by-- + Infant of the joyous heart, + Canst thou tell me who thou art? + + Thou, whose little hand in play + Hurls the clustered grapes away; + While thou lov'st to watch the bee, + Or to win a lamb to thee, + And to see the fleecy flock + Resting by the shadowy rock,-- + Know'st thou, tender, beauteous boy, + What 's thine errand--whence thy joy? + + 'T was thy name that Gabriel spoke, + By the altar, while the smoke + From thy father's incense rolled, + When thy being was foretold! + Thou art come, the promised one, + As the dayspring to the sun, + Soon to usher in new light + Through the realms of death and night! + + Heavenly innocence is now + Marked upon thy peaceful brow: + God's own Spirit filleth thee, + Sainted babe; for thou art he, + Who before the Lamb shall go, + Crying, that the world may know + He hath life to give the dead, + In the blood he comes to shed! + + Though, from nature wild and rude, + Come thy raiment, rest, and food, + Nightly o'er thy desert sleep, + Angels shall their vigils keep; + Through the wilderness by day, + They will guard and lead the way; + Till to Israel thou appear, + Showing heaven's mild kingdom near. + + High and glorious, then, the part + For thine eye, and hand, and heart! + When thy feet, on Jordan's side, + Feel the waters, as they glide, + Thou the Son of God shalt see, + Come to be baptized of thee-- + Hear him named, and see the Dove + Resting on him from above! + + + + + HYMN TO SOLITUDE. + + + O solitude, holy and calm! + From tumult and crowds breaking free, + I fly, sick and sad, for the balm + I find given only by thee. + + Too oft from thy peace I depart, + Kind guardian, friend of my soul,-- + And then bring an earth-wounded heart + For thee to bind up and make whole. + + My spirit, now worn and oppressed, + Her wings in thy bosom hath furled, + To sink, as a bird in its nest, + Away from a cold, faithless world! + + Alarmed at the shade and the chill, + That o'er me its visions have cast, + I here would lie lowly and still, + Till sorrow's dark night hours are past. + + And then, from the dust may I rise, + To mount, as the lark from her sod; + And sing, as the morn of my skies + Appears in the smile of my God. + + O solitude, sacred and sweet; + Whilst thus in thy bosom I lie, + Earth's baubles are under my feet-- + My heart and its treasure, on high. + + + + + THE BIBLE IN THE FIELDS. + + + I love to take this holy book, + In summer's balmy hours, + To study it beside the brook, + Or by the trees and flowers. + + For here I read about the God, + Who made this world so fair, + The skies--the stream--the grassy sod + And bloom, that scents the air. + + The birds flit round, and sweetly sing + Of him, who feeds them all,-- + Who lifts the towering eagle's wing, + And marks the sparrow's fall. + + The violet, from its soft green bed, + To speak his goodness too, + Presents its tender, purple head + Baptized with silvery dew. + + And here the busy bee I view, + As she comes swiftly by, + And seems to ask, if she should do + More work, or good than I. + + Her waxen house betimes to build + I see her wisely bent; + And then, with bread and honey filled + To have it, still intent. + + The bees I find their sweets supplied + In wild Judea's land, + To feed the Baptist, when he cried, + "Heaven's kingdom is at hand." + + And when our Saviour, from the grave, + Had asked his friends for meat, + He ate the honey-comb they gave; + And showed his hands and feet. + + This volume of his will revealed + I here can read within, + "Behold the lilies of the field-- + They neither toil nor spin!" + + And yet the king "was not arrayed + In glory, like to them;" + Their Maker's power is so displayed + In flower and leaf and stem. + + And he sat on the mountain's side, + Who spake these blessed words, + Before him flowery fields spread wide-- + Around were trees and birds. + + The fleecy flocks, that sport so free + On hill and valley deep, + I love to watch: and here I see + 'T is written, "Feed my sheep." + + For thus I seem to keep in view, + And feel how near I am + To that dear friend of children, who + Has named himself THE LAMB. + + + + + THE HOARY HEAD. + + "The hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of + righteousness." + + + Aged man, with locks so hoary, + High estate dost thou possess! + They appear thy crown of glory, + In the way of righteousness. + + Jewels, not of man's preparing, + Form the shining diadem, + Thou art from thy Sovereign wearing: + God's own finger silvered them. + + Thine are honors, proved and heightened + By the gift of lengthened years; + In affliction's furnace brightened, + Tried by cares, and washed with tears. + + Like thy Master, meek and lowly, + Thou a thorny earth hast trod; + With thy breast a high and holy + Temple of the living God. + + Aged saint, thy form is bending, + Sere and withered, to the tomb; + But thy spirit, upward tending, + Budded for immortal bloom. + + + + + MY FATHER. + + "In the evening time there shall be light." + + + Sacred the hour when thou, my sainted father, + Wast of thy worn-out, sinking clay undressed, + Softly, by his pale hand, who comes to gather + Time's weary pilgrims home to joy and rest. + + Noiseless, and clear, and holiest of the seven, + That day when thy last earthly sun went down: + Thy Sabbath, closing here, began in heaven; + Whilst thy meek brow changed ashes for a crown. + + Hush was the evening; not a zephyr swelling + Heaved the tree-blossom, or the woodbine leaves; + Silent the bird, that sang about our dwelling, + Slept where she nestled, close beneath its eaves.[1] + + Cloudless the moon and stars above were shining, + When time's last ray to thy mild eye was shed; + While death's cold touch, life's silver cord untwining, + Brought his chill night-dew on thy reverend head. + + Ninety full years of pilgrimage completing, + Here didst thou linger till one Sabbath more: + 'T was holy time; thy pure heart stilled its beating; + Pain, work, and warfare were forever o'er! + + Meet hour for one, obedient, meek, and lowly, + Wont, by command of Heaven, the day to keep, + Called, at its evening, to the High and Holy, + Peaceful in Jesus thus to fall asleep! + + Sweetly thy form, that seemed a blissful dreamer, + Told, by its features, how the spirit smiled, + Through the dark, shadowy vale, by thy Redeemer + Led to his mansion, like a little child. + + Nature's full hand, that, on thy natal morning, + Clothed earth to greet thee in the flowers of May, + Brought them renewed; thy burial-spot adorning, + When fourscore years and ten had rolled away. + + Now, while the robin, past the window flying, + Leads off her young, forsaking here her nest, + Constant the wild bird, where thy dust is lying, + Sings her sweet hymn, a requiem to its rest. + + There has it joined the ashes of my mother, + Faithful, rewedded to its only bride; + And there thy latest-born, my younger brother, + Thy fond heart's care, sleeps closely by her side. + + Yet, angel father, over Jordan's water + Is it so far, that now thou canst not see + Back to the shore, where lonely stands thy daughter, + Sprinkling its rocks and thorns with tears for thee? + + Art thou so distant, visions of thy glory + May not be granted to her mortal sight; + When she so long watched o'er thy head so hoary, + Smoothing its pillow, till that mournful night? + + Since here so oft, in pain, the path of duty + Thy patient feet, with steady steps, have trod, + Safe now they walk the golden streets in beauty; + And, O! thy blessed eyes, in peace, see God! + + +[1] A robin had, this spring, been seen taking materials from an old +nest on an apple-tree near the door, and carrying them to the corner of +the house, where she built on the top of the water-conductor, and close +under the eaves, so near my father's chamber, that, when her brood had +peeped, if the window was opened, their voices could be heard in the +room, while she was feeding them. + + + + + A SAGE HATH DEPARTED. + + + The Lord, from his cloudy pavilion, hath spoken + The soul to himself, and its dust to the clod; + The cord He hath loosed, and the golden bowl broken, + Who formed them so precious. Be still! it is God. + + A sage hath departed! the cities sit weeping; + From land unto land does the gloom spread away. + The seas give their wail to the winds o'er them sweeping-- + The spirit, that spanned them, hath passed from the clay! + + His form, pale and cold, the dark mansion encloses; + Around it, Philanthropy, Science and Art + Their tears for their friend, as in death he reposes, + Shower warm o'er the hand, and the head, and the heart. + + But there, while affection her tribute is giving, + The beauty, the grandeur, the power of his mind + The grave cannot hide! in his deeds he is living; + He shines in the light he diffused for mankind! + + That mind, as a guide that trod paths on the ocean + Its marks o'er the billowy desert to place, + While man has a heart, and the deep is in motion, + The wide world shall honor, the mariner trace. + + The stars in their courses to grasp and to measure, + His eye loved the blue arch of ether to climb; + His soul rose beyond them to lay up a treasure + More bright than the stars, more enduring than time. + + And here, while the sorrowing Salem[2] is shrouded + In weeds, for the son of her pride and her love, + 'T is his to behold, with a vision unclouded, + The glories unveiled of the SALEM above. + + With BOWDITCH inscribed, for the whole earth's revering, + In letters of light to each point beaming round, + A monument formed of his works, now is rearing + Its head, where with clusters of planets 't is crowned. + + +[2] His birth-place. + + + + + THE BURIAL OF SCHILLER. + + + The still and solemn, shadowy hour, + When Saturday in Sabbath dies, + O'er Weimar hangs; with clouds that lower + And veil in black the moon and skies. + + Lo! from yon mansion lights appear, + Pale glimmering through the midnight gloom. + A coffined form is on the bier, + And thence borne forward to the tomb. + + The funeral train, how sad and slow + They follow that cold sleeping clay; + While sighs and sobs of bitter wo + Sound deep along the silent way. + + And now, the open grave beside, + That dismal bier the bearers rest; + And heavier waves of sorrow's tide + Roll mighty o'er each mourner's breast. + + From him who slumbers in the shroud, + As tremblingly they lift the pall, + The moon rends off her veil of cloud, + And o'er him lets her lustre fall. + + She beams her silvery, soft adieu. + And is again in darkness hid; + As if affrighted, thus to view + The name on that dread coffin lid. + + For 't is her lover, now no more-- + Her friend, whom they to dust consign! + And ne'er again is she to pour + Her light,--for eyes like his to shine. + + 'T is done,--the fearful, final rite, + Too sacred for the glare of day, + Has passed beneath the shadowy night-- + Earth, earth has closed o'er SCHILLER's clay! + + But, hark! the heavens in thunder groan; + They weep in torrents o'er his bed; + And searching, fiery bolts are thrown, + As if to find and wake the dead. + + These funeral honors, so sublime, + Befit him well to whom they 're paid; + And, at the birth of holy time, + 'T is meet his dust at rest be laid. + + His spirit, bright with heavenly fire, + Has burned its way through mortal strife; + And gained its high, intense desire + To solve the mystery of life. + + It is the budding month of May: + This passing storm will call the bloom + A tribute nature soon will pay, + To dress her deathless Poet's tomb. + + + + + FUNERAL HYMN FOR PRESIDENT HARRISON. + + + A wo-stricken people, in sorrow we gather! + The dawn of our glory, our hopes full in bloom + Are changed, with the face of our Chieftain, our Father, + To sable and cypress to hang round his tomb. + + While pale in the shroud lies the Patriot sleeping, + A light, that for earth is no longer to burn, + Removed from its place, a sad nation is weeping; + And dark, where it shone, falls the shade of an urn. + + When loud, through the land, hill and valley and mountain + Were sounding his name, and reflecting its beams, + The death-angel's wand opened griefs bitter fountain, + To quench their warm joys with its far-flowing streams. + + Alas! that the spoiler so early must sever + A tie, which the hearts of a country had bound + To him, who is gone--who is gone, and forever, + To join the bright hosts who their Saviour surround! + + Our Father in heaven, yet grant us another, + Like him, who has left us, as orphans, below! + O did not the Sage on his dear younger Brother, + When called to thy presence, his mantle bestow? + + To Thee, who, from darkness, thy children hast stricken, + We cry with our wound, asking balm from the Tree, + Whose leaves heal the nations: Hear, hear us, and quicken + Our wandering feet to return unto Thee! + + + + + DIRGE FOR FELICIA HEMANS. + + + They hovered around her, an angel band: + They listened her notes to hear. + The voice was one of their own bright land; + But stained was the harp in their sister's hand, + With marks of the falling tear. + + They saw she had wreathed it with deathless flowers; + While many a beauteous leaf, + That looked like the growth of their heavenly bowers, + Was pale with the shade of her darksome hours, + Or wet with the dews of grief. + + Then gently from under her hand they took + Her harp, and laid it aside: + The tremulous chords, at her parting look + And the farewell sweep of her fingers, shook, + And snapped as her numbers died. + + The angels had whispered of joys above, + And wooed her with them to soar, + Till spreading her wings like a peaceful dove, + Her spirit arose for a world of love + To wander on earth no more. + + BRITANNIA, drop thy heaviest tear! + O weep! it will be forgiven, + That, fain we had kept in her bondage here + A soul so pure, and a voice so dear + Had longer withheld from heaven. + + + + + SHE DIED, AS DAWNED HER NATAL DAY. + + + She died, as dawned her natal day! + Amid the buds and flowers of May + Her spirit left the beauteous clay, + In death's deep slumber here; + And mounting up her starry way, + Attained that holier sphere, + Where falls no night o'er birth-day light-- + No sorrow brings a tear. + + The joy and glory of the skies + With radiance fill her heavenly eyes, + Where thornless flowers around her rise, + And founts that ne'er shall fail; + While here her form so lowly lies + All silent, cold and pale; + Where dews distil, and night-winds chill + Moan through the shadowy vale. + + + + + WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AFTER THE LINES OF A DECEASED FRIEND. + + + Close to the lines that her dear hand had traced, + Who took so soon an angel's form on high-- + After her name is my memorial placed + For thee, my friend, and it shall tell thee why. + + I find a sweetness where her spirit breathed: + A sacred halo round her name is thrown; + So, with the flowers that here her fingers wreathed + To borrow life from them, I twine my own. + + Fresh in thy heart and mine her memory lives, + Fragrant and fair, and thornless in its bloom: + Here with the precious odor that it gives, + I fain my simple offering would perfume. + + Then, whatsoe'er the change that comes to me-- + Though death or duty put me far away, + These silent leaves may still unfold to thee + The wish of one who was thy friend to-day. + + Peace be to thee--long life, and joy, and health + The blest allotment of thy sojourn here; + The portion of a child of God, thy wealth, + When time must close, and earth shall disappear! + + + + + THE SOVEREIGN OF BABYLON. + + + The monarch has opened his banqueting hall + For his thousand lords, and his ladies all! + The sparkling wine to each guest is poured, + And mirth swells high at the festal board, + Where none hath the heart more careless and light, + Than he, whose glory must end to-night. + + With the cup and the revel the king grows bold-- + He calls for the vessels of silver and gold; + The spoils his idolatrous father brought, + 'Mid the impious deeds which that proud one wrought, + From the temple of God, at Jerusalem, + That he and his nobles may drink from them. + + Each sacred vessel they fill and raise + To a laughing lip, as it speaks the praise + Of the gods of metal, of wood and stone, + But mocks at the name of the Holy One, + Whose finger this hour shall come so near:-- + That lip will quiver and blanch with fear. + + Monarch! what's there, on the lighted wall, + That can fix thy gaze and thy spirit appall? + Why is thy countenance changed, O king? + Is it one of thy gods this awe can bring, + Which makes thy knees together to smite, + Thine eye so wild, and thy cheek so white? + + "A hand! a hand! it hath written a line! + And who will the terrible words define? + A chain of gold shall encircle his neck-- + A vesture of scarlet his form shall deck-- + And the third, as ruler, shall be that seer, + With honor and power throughout Chaldea!" + + Not all the wise and the learned of thine, + Poor impotent one, shall explain that line! + But the captive of Judah, him thy queen + Has bid thee summon--let him be seen! + His eye prophetic receives its sight + From the Being, who caused the hand to write. + + The slave is brought to the potentate! + To spurn his gifts, but to read his fate; + To whom 't is inscribed on the lofty wall, + "Thou art weighed, found wanting, and now must fall! + Thy kingdom is numbered--the Persian and Mede + Shall hence to thy throne and thy power succeed!" + + They come!--the foemen--nor sword nor flight, + Shall win for that monarch the morning light! + The haughty head where the crown was set, + In dust is pillowed--with gore is wet! + Ye, who are trusting in honor and gold, + Look on him now, and your strength behold! + + + + + THE DEER STRICKEN BY TORCH-LIGHT. + + + The arrow! the arrow is fast in his side! + And still through the forest they follow + The poor stricken deer, that has nowhere to hide, + And dared not to pause where the cool waters glide, + When, leaping the brook, he would almost have died, + One draught from its ripple to swallow. + + That deep-planted arrow! O how can he bear + The anguish of feeling it quiver, + When shook by the branches, the wave, or the air, + As forward he bounds, but without heeding where, + From thicket to crag, with the force of despair, + To plunge in the cold, sweeping river? + + They hunted him hard, till the sun in the west + Had sunk, while their aim he evaded. + At evening, he sought a calm refuge of rest, + And dropped from pursuit, by his terrors oppressed, + Beneath the close branches, in verdure full-dressed, + By night and the covert o'ershaded. + + But ah, the poor deer! they had doomed him to die! + For near the green turf where he laid him, + They lighted the torch, and they brandished it high; + It glared through the boughs on his tender black eye, + That fatally shone for the death-shaft to fly; + His beauty, his beaming betrayed him: + + He cannot by flying now loosen the dart, + The end of his tortures to quicken, + By letting the life in one blood-gush depart. + He seeks a retreat, like the warm, wounded heart, + When, lone, slow, and silent, the victim of art, + It dies, as a deer that is stricken. + + + + + THE DEATH OF SAPPHIRA.[3] + + + Sapphira, Sapphira, awake! + Alas! she is gone in the sleep + That but the archangel can break; + For life hath no slumber so deep. + + 'T is death! his pale ashes are cast + On those withered lips, where but now + An insult to Heaven was passed; + His dumbness hath followed the vow. + + A bolt from above, swift and sure, + Hath blasted the pride of the clay; + The spirit, in boldness secure, + In guilt hath been stricken away. + + O child of delusion! to stand + The chosen of Jesus among, + To cover the fraud of thy hand, + By falsehood to him on thy tongue! + + How vain, the deceit of the heart + To shroud in a mantle so frail! + Its perfidy, thus by its art. + To think from Omniscience to veil! + + Lost woman! but three hours before, + The form of thy partner in sin + Was borne, wan and cold, from the door, + Where thou didst so rashly come in. + + And they, who had carried him out, + The clods o'er his bosom to lay, + Were waiting, the threshold about, + To bear thee to darkness away. + + Sapphira, could Mercy restore, + Or Pity thy spirit recall, + To light up its dwelling once more, + It should not thus hopelessly fall. + + But Mercy besought thee in vain, + From death's awful brink to recede; + To shun the despair and the pain + Where she is forbidden to plead. + + And Pity's warm tear-drops must roll + The more, that she cannot relume + The clay whence the self-wounded soul + Hath rushed to a suicide's doom. + + How potent, how maddening the love, + O gold, of a mortal must be, + To challenge an arm from above-- + To stake earth and heaven for thee! + + For Justice to Judgment will call; + And who shall their coming abide, + When wrath the most fearful of all, + "The wrath of the Lamb," is defied? + + +[3] This piece originally illustrated an engraving. + + + + + WILLIAM AT SEA. + + + Whilst thou art away, where the proud waves are swelling + Beneath thy light bark, ever mindful of thee, + The days of thine absence, at home we are telling, + And counting the hours of our William at sea. + + And thou, whether cradled to sleep by the billow, + Or watching the sport of the spray and the foam, + If pensive on deck, or in dreams on thy pillow, + We know hast thy soul rapt with visions of home. + + We know, when the sun mounts the east in his glory, + Or smiles a "good night," as the west he descends, + Thy heart, pointing back, to itself tells the story + Of mansion paternal, and kindred and friends. + + And when at the morning and evening devotion, + While bending with offerings of praise and of prayer, + To God we commend thee afar on the ocean, + We feel thou art kneeling for us to him there. + + While months on the waters, long months are before thee, + The two fluid worlds thou art tossing between-- + The cold deep below, and the skies bending o'er thee, + Alone by their changes will vary the scene. + + Or, if a bright isle, on the flood-waste upstarting, + Rude ocean's green oasis, rest thy glad eye, + 'T will fade as a cloud--as a phantom departing, + 'T will sink in the circle that bounds sea and sky. + + Should some white-winged ship, with her light pennon streaming, + Thy heart on that wide watery desert to cheer, + Arise, like a star through night's solitude beaming, + With meteor swiftness she 'll soon disappear. + + And when the coy sea-bird, a wild ether-sailor, + Comes near on her passage, for one language more, + O! how wilt thou long, ere she flies thee, to hail her, + To ask whither bound, and the tidings from shore! + + Yet, while so unstable, so pathless and lonely, + Thy way o'er that desolate deep may be found, + 'T is marked with the impress of Deity only; + His merciful arms will thy frailty surround. + + 'T is grand, 't is ennobling, while feeling and knowing + His presence is power, and his banner is love, + To look from that flood, to the firmament showing + Bright shadowings-forth of his glory above. + + And, William, though tempest and terrors assail thee-- + Though clouds rolled on clouds hide the stars and the sun, + Thy soul's chosen Friend never, never will fail thee! + Winds and waves but obey that omnipotent ONE. + + While o'er and around thee thick darkness may gather; + When wide yawns the deep, and the surges swell high, + Thy spirit may hear the kind voice of her Father, + Still whispering, "Be of good cheer; it is I." + + And safe may he bear thee through perils and changes + Besetting his course, who so widely would roam, + Then speed thy return from the land of the Ganges, + From pagod and painim! Dear William, come home. + + Come home, where the eyes beam through tears to behold thee; + Where arms open wide to receive thee will be; + And promise, while yet to the heart they infold thee + To be, never after, our William at sea! + + + + + MY PORTRAIT. + + + Well, thou art done, cold, speechless thing; + Yet, in thy silence, with the power + A crowd of feelings deep to bring + Unknown until the present hour. + + But wherefore done, to life so true? + Not human pride, nor vanity + Could ask the artist hand to do, + And show the world a deed like thee. + + And was it simple most, or kind + To have upon the canvass cast + My semblance, thus to leave behind + My shadow, when myself am past? + + I know not if another eye + Will ever weep beside thee, more + Than mine does now, I know not why-- + It never dropped such tears before. + + I view thee as a piece, composed + To last, when I have passed from sight-- + When time and earth to me are closed, + To be in time and earthly light. + + Perhaps 't is this, that makes me weep-- + The thought that I shall pass away, + And those, who have thee then to keep, + May glance at thee, and still be gay. + + But why should grief be felt by me, + For fear that others will not grieve? + And what to others then will be + A shade of life, that I may leave? + + Still, from their deep, mysterious spring + Gush up these hot, resistless tears; + Whilst thou, cold, heartless, stoic thing, + Dost wear a smile that 's set for years. + + Years! Ah, but then, when years shall wipe + From being every line of thee, + The spirit, which thy prototype + Enshrined, shall live eternally! + + + + + THE WIDOW'S ONLY SON. + + + She wrapped her in her sable cloak, + And walked beside the sea; + But seldom of her sorrow spoke,-- + Too full of grief was she! + + 'T was this that made her heart so sad, + To view the ocean wide: + The only son, that widow had, + Went out to sea and died. + + And then, in that great, rolling deep, + With solemn, tearful eyes, + His mess-mates lowered him down, to sleep + Till all the dead shall rise. + + But where, among those waters vast, + With ceaseless fall and swell, + Her child to that repose had passed, + The mother none could tell. + + She therefore questioned wave on wave, + As up they heaved to shore, + If they had rolled across his grave, + Whom she must see no more. + + And often, when she marked a ship + With full, returning sail, + The color would forsake her lip, + And speech and vision fail. + + For, O! she thought about the one + That spread its canvass white, + To waft away her only son + Forever from her sight! + + But still, amid the bitter grief + Which wrung that widow's heart, + Her spirit felt the sweet relief + That faith and hope impart. + + She knew her son had ever kept + The path to heavenly rest-- + That, when he sank in death, he slept + Upon a Saviour's breast. + + "My heavenly Father," she would say, + "I know the troubled sea + But holds from me the precious clay: + My child 's at home with thee!" + + + + + THE YOUNG MOTHER. + + + Composed in its beauty, the fair infant slept; + But still the young mother sat by it and wept: + She rocked not the cradle, she sang not the song, + The sleep of her dear, only child to prolong. + + The same fleecy cover, so soft and so warm, + That oft wrapped it sleeping, lay light o'er its form; + Its pillow was downy, and smooth was its bed, + And yet, that sad mother! her fond bosom bled. + + She knew that no dream of her babe, in its rest, + Was now of her voice, or its home on her breast; + She caught not the sound nor the balm of its breath: + She knew that her little one slumbered in death! + + A hand with the pencil was called to portray + The features and form of her child as it lay; + But false were the hues and the touches of art + To paint the bright image enshrined in her heart. + + Its lustre was drawn from a glory on high: + No pencil of earth could the likeness supply; + Nor yet on the canvass was mortal to trace + A smile the pure spirit had left on that face. + + The skies, as they opened, their guest to receive, + Had shed, on the dust they allured it to leave, + A sign of the peace, of the joy, and the love, + Encircling for aye the young angel above. + + That mother rose calm, when the beautiful clay + Must be from her sight laid forever away! + The gloom left her soul, as a cloud leaves the sun; + It whispered, "Thy will, O my Father, be done!" + + + + + EVENING AT ANDOVER SEMINARY-HILL. + + + I stood on that majestic height, + The lofty Hill of Andover, + Where sacred science holds the light + That beams to distant lands from her. + + For there the school of sages stands, + Where, from afar, disciples meet + For lore divine, in holy bands + To sit and learn at Wisdom's feet. + + Within its consecrated walls + Is kept and taught Jehovah's will:-- + The LAW, whose voice in thunder falls-- + The GOSPEL, whispering, "_Peace! be still!_" + + The structures while I viewed around, + I seemed to breathe Mount's Zion's air; + I set my foot with awe profound, + As if the ark of God were there. + + Each earthly care was calm and dumb, + For holier thoughts the soul to fill; + As if the Shechinah had come + To rest upon that reverend hill. + + A mellow glory crowned its head; + And from its foot, in landscape wide, + Profusely nature's charms were spread, + Till in the distance vision died. + + It was a summer day's decline: + The drowsy flowers began to close; + The breezes lulled, that stirred the vine; + And all things tended to repose. + + The sun, adown the western skies, + Was sinking fast to pass from view, + Calm as the righteous when he dies + To earth, in heaven to live anew. + + And thence, on edifice and site, + His golden smile was backward cast, + As if he loved that favored height + To bless the longest and the last. + + In eastern splendor, then arrayed, + The full-orbed moon arose serene, + Through evening's hush and night's cool shade + To throw her lustre o'er the scene. + + Her silvery vesture wrapped in sheen + The stately seminary pile, + And fell on tree, and flower, and green, + Where pearly dews distilled the while. + + And through the chapel's crystal shone + Her light, within the place of prayer, + Till bright-winged angels, from the throne + Above, seemed met and hovering there. + + It was a scene--it was an hour + A spirit bowed in dust to raise + Ennobled, till its every power, + Awaked to joy, was tuned to praise. + + Clear as that sun, fair as that moon, + Shall thy dear Zion rise and shine + Above her foes--Ah! Lord, how soon?-- + When shall the ends of earth be thine? + + + + + HYMN OF THE PARTING CLASS. + + SUNG BY THEOLOGICAL STUDENTS. + + + We feel the parting angel's hand + Is in our midst, to loose the band + So close, so sacred, and so dear, + That long hath bound us, brethren, here. + + No more within this hallowed place, + United at the throne of grace, + Our prayers shall rise--our voices pour + In praise, when this, our song is o'er. + + To each we hear the Saviour say + We to his work must hence away; + For great the field--the laborers few! + What wilt thou, Lord, have us to do? + + O send thy Spirit from above + To fire our hearts with heavenly love; + And light our lips with truth, that we + May, witnesses, go forth for thee. + + And may we count all else as loss + To spread the glory of thy cross-- + From shades and death redeemed, to bring + The priceless jewels of our King. + + On distant islands of the sea-- + On heathen shores our lot may be, + To dying souls to bear the bread + And balm of life on Calvary shed. + + Yet, though our lines be marked afar, + And some beneath a foreign star, + We may look upward to the Sun + Of righteousness, and still be one. + + And when our works of faith are past, + In joy we 'll meet on high at last; + And there, in praise, our voices swell + The song, where enters no farewell. + + + + + THE SPECKLED ONE. + + + Poor speckled one! none else will deign + To waft thy name around; + So, let me take it on my strain, + To give it air and sound. + + Yes--air and sound, low child of earth! + For these are oft the things + That give a name its greatest worth, + Its gorgeous plumes and wings. + + But do not shun me thus, and hop + Affrighted from my way. + Dismiss thy terrors--turn, and stop; + And hear what I may say. + + Meek, harmless thing, afraid of man? + This truly should not be. + Then calmly pause, and let me scan + My Maker's work in thee. + + For both of us to him belong; + We 're fellow-creatures here; + And power should not be armed with wrong, + Nor weakness filled with fear. + + I know it is thy humble lot + To burrow in a hole-- + To have a form I envy not, + And that without a soul. + + In motion, attitude and limb + I see thee void of grace; + And that a look supremely grim, + Reigns o'er thy solemn face. + + But thou for this art not to blame; + Nor should it make us load + With obloquy, and scorn, and shame + The honest name of TOAD. + + For, though so low on nature's scale-- + In presence so uncouth, + Thou ne'er hast told an evil tale + Of falsehood, or of truth. + + Thy thoughts are ne'er on malice bent-- + Nor hands to mischief prone; + Nor yet thy heart to discontent; + Though spurned, and poor and lone. + + No coveting nor envy burns + In thy bright golden eye, + That calm and innocently turns + On all below the sky. + + Thy cautious tongue and sober lip + No words of folly pass, + Nor, are they found to taste and sip + The madness of the glass. + + Thy frugal meal is often drawn + From earth, and wood, and stone; + And when thy means by these are gone, + Thou seem'st to live on none. + + I hear that in an earthen jar + Sealed close, shut up alive, + From food, drink, air, sun, moon and star, + Thou 'lt live and even thrive: + + And that no moan, or murmuring sound + Will issue from the lid + Of thy dark dwelling under ground, + When it is deeply hid. + + Thou hast, as 't were, a secret shelf + Whereon is a supply, + Of nourishment within thyself, + Concealed from mortal eye. + + Methinks this self-sustaining art + 'T were well for us to know, + To keep us up in flesh and heart, + When outer means grow low. + + Could we contain our riches thus, + On such mysterious shelves, + Why, none could rob or beggar us; + Unless we lost ourselves! + + But ah! my Toadie, there 's the rub, + With every human breast-- + To live as in the cynic's tub, + And yet be self-possessed! + + For, how to let no boast get round + Beyond our tub, to show + That we in head and heart are sound, + Is one great thing to know. + + And yet, the prison-staves and hoop + To let no murmur through, + However hard we find the coop, + Is greater still to do. + + Then go, thou sage, resigned and calm; + Amid thy low estate, + And to thy burrow bear the palm + For victory over fate. + + We conquer, when we meekly bear + The lot we cannot shape, + And hug to death the ills and care + From which there 's no escape. + + + + + THE MOON OF A WINTRY NIGHT. + + + Moon, thou art wading through the gathered snow, + That o'er us, on the fields of ether spread, + Threatens, ere morning to be here below, + To lie where our poor mortal feet must tread. + + Thy face is muffled in a gelid haze, + That shrouds its lustre like a frozen veil; + And kills the twinkling of the starry rays, + Till all on high looks cheerless, dim, and pale. + + It gives almost the ague, to behold + The skies so rayless, yet so far from dark; + As when our hearth's white ashes, tired and cold, + We stir in vain to find one pleasant spark. + + Yet, by to-morrow's eve our parts may shift, + And thou be shining there, serene and clear, + While we are hedged by many a frigid drift; + Or sleigh-bells shrill may pierce the tingling ear. + + How dreary then the scene for thy mild beams + To light, and for the burning stars to view! + The hard ice coating all the lakes and streams, + And one dead white where late gay flowerets grew. + + The naked trees, that stand with buried feet, + Like skeletons, will slender shadows throw + On what seems spread as nature's winding-sheet, + While her slain beauties lie concealed below. + + Then, but to look abroad on vale and hill, + Where one pale uniform invests the whole, + Though it should make one's vital current chill, + It must not let in winter to the soul! + + It must not bring a frost upon the heart, + To kill affection's tendrils--friendship's root, + Where vernal shoots and buds should ever start, + And grow with summer flowers and autumn fruit: + + Nor cause the streams of thought to be congealed, + Or, pressed beneath incumbent ice, grow low; + But, like the fount that irrigates the field, + Make bloom and verdure spring, where'er they flow. + + It must not make our shrinking fancies flee, + Like birds of summer from the cold withdrawn; + But wise, the mind should, like the prudent bee, + On honey banquet, though the flowers are gone. + + Nor must it strike the hopeful spirit dumb, + Or quench the beaming of her upturned eye, + Or close her ear, or make her members numb, + Ere her thank-offerings on the altar lie. + + And yet, fair Moon, methinks I like the best + To see thy silvery lustre sprinkled here, + When these bare branches all appear full-dressed, + In some more gentle season of the year. + + I love to see it, mingled with the dew, + Falling to bathe the sleeping buds and flowers; + And soft, and silent, coolly streaming through + The whispering leaves, that clothe the summer bowers. + + I love to see thy beaming mantle trail + Along the flower-sprent borders of the rill, + With rich, deep shadows stamped, o'erspread the vale, + Or bind the forehead of the silent hill. + + I love to see thee through the foliage peep, + Where, one soft hour before, the robin sung + Her vesper song; the while, in downy sleep, + With peaceful breast she guards her callow young. + + I love to see thee, when the whip-poor-will + Moans in the hedge behind the cottage-eaves; + And when the plaintive crickets, hidden, trill + Their harvest-hymn among the golden sheaves. + + But these are tender memories--ay, and more-- + Fresh budding hope from memory's root that grows, + To see earth clothed in beauty as before, + When thou and we have struggled through the snows. + + Then come, sweet Moon, and fondly smile on me, + From thy pure azure home, with face serene, + While I will look abroad, and up to thee, + And bless the great Creator of the scene. + + Others may call thee fickle--faithless--strange, + When veiled in part, or wholly from their view; + Yet, though twelve times a year thou _seems't_ to change, + Again twelve times I ever find thee true. + + 'T is our gross planet, heaving misty shrouds, + Or rolled before thee, that our darkness brings, + Just as earth's bulk or vapor hides or clouds + Our glorious view of higher, holier things. + + + + + TOM TAR. + + + I 'll tell you now about Tom Tar, + The sailor stout and bold, + Who o'er the ocean roamed so far, + To countries new and old. + + Tom was a man of thousands; he + Would ne'er complain nor frown, + Though high and low the wind and sea + Might toss him up and down. + + Amid the waters dark and deep, + He had the happy art, + When all around was storm, to keep + Fair weather in his heart. + + Though winds were wild, and waves were rough, + He 'd always cast about, + And find within he 'd calm enough + To stand the storms without. + + "For naught," said Tom, "is ever gained + By sighs for what we lack; + Nor can it mend a vessel strained, + To let our temper crack. + + "And sure I am, the worst of storms, + That any man should dread, + Is that, which in the bosom forms, + And musters to the head." + + Serene, and ever self-possessed, + His mess-mates he would cheer, + And often put their fears to rest, + When dangers gathered near. + + If on the rocks the ship was cast, + And surges swept the deck, + Tom Tar was ever found the last, + Who would forsake the wreck. + + And when his only hat and shoes + The waters plucked from him, + Why, these, he felt, were small to lose, + Could he keep up and swim! + + Then through the billows, foam, and spray, + That rose on every hand, + He 'd, somehow, always find a way + Of getting safe to land. + + The secret was, the fear and love + Of Heaven had filled his soul: + His trust was firm in One above, + Howe'er the seas might roll. + + And Tom had sailed to many a shore, + And many a wonder seen: + The stories he could tell would more + Than fill a magazine. + + He 'd seen mankind in every state, + Almost, that man can know; + But envied not the rich and great, + Nor scorned the poor and low. + + The monarch in his sight had stood, + Superb, in glittering vest; + The savage, too, that roams the wood, + In skins and feathers dressed. + + The tribes of many an isle he knew; + And beasts, and birds, and flowers, + And fruits, of many a shape and hue, + In lands remote from ours. + + He 'd seen the wide-winged albatross + Her breast in ocean lave; + And bold sea-lions, playing, toss + Their heads above the wave. + + He 'd seen the dolphin, while his back + Went flashing to the sun, + A swarm of flying fish attack, + And swallow every one! + + The porpoise and the spouting whale + Had sported in his view; + And hungry sharks pursued his sail, + As if they 'd eat the crew. + + And ever, when Tom Tar got home, + The children, at their play, + Were glad to have the sailor come, + And greet them by the way. + + Then, oft, some curious stone, or shell, + The laughing girls and boys + Would find, that on their aprons fell, + To put among their toys. + + "These pearly shells," said he, "I found + Where gloomy waters roar: + These polished stones, so smooth and round, + Rough surges washed ashore. + + "Though small to us a pebble seems, + 'T is made and marked by One, + Who gave the warmth, and lit the beams + Of yon great shining sun. + + "And when these pretty shells I find, + Along the ocean strand, + Their beauteous finish brings to mind + Their Maker's perfect hand. + + "When on the wildest shore I'm thrown, + And far from human eye, + I think of him who made the stone, + And shell, and sea, and sky. + + "For he 's my friend, and I am his, + Though cold and rough the blast: + My safest guide I know he is, + Where'er my lot is cast." + + When Tom passed on, the children said, + "These treasures from afar + He brought us! Blessings on his head! + For he 's a good Tom Tar!" + + + + + THE SEAMAN'S HYMN. + + + Landmen, on your downy pillows, + While your eyes are sealed in sleep, + Seamen, tossed 'mid foam and billows, + Roam, for you, a boisterous deep. + When the glorious light of day + Is on your homes so peaceful dawning, + Along our pathless, troubled way + The surge swells high, the flood is yawning. + + When earth's flowers to you are blooming, + Or your hearths are bright and warm; + We behold the wild waves booming, + Mount the shrouds, and brave the storm. + Singing birds your hearing greet-- + Your hearts the kindred tone rejoices; + While winds, that on our canvass beat, + And roaring ocean join their voices. + + Then, to meet the High and Holy, + When ye to his throne repair, + O before him, meek and lowly, + Bow for us, as suppliants there! + When his blessed day appears, + The dearest, best of all the seven, + Your souls the gospel herald cheers; + But none tells us of rest and heaven. + + Zion, bid thy sons and daughters + Often, on the bended knee, + Cry to Him, who rules the waters, + For the wanderers o'er sea! + Now, to Thee, the seaman's Friend, + Our guide--our light--our ark abiding, + Our Saviour, we our all commend, + While time's rude waves in frailty riding. + + + + + THE MARINER'S SONG OF DEPARTURE. + + + While o'er the bright bay, + With her streamers at play, + Our bark in her beauty is gliding, + As brothers, are we, + The glad sons of the sea, + Our own darling element riding. + + Good pilot, adieu; + For the skies are all blue; + And yonder, blue billows are bounding. + We speed from the port, + To be off by the fort, + While her gun to the sunrise is sounding. + + We leave all behind, + That a warm heart can bind, + In home, love, and friendship endearing; + While hope flies before, + For a far, foreign shore, + As the hand at the rudder is steering. + + And well do we know + The proud waters below, + That hence are by us to be ridden; + 'Mid the corals and caves + There are mariners' graves, + Dark wrecks, and lost treasures deep hidden. + + Yet, before our frail bark, + Be the way light or dark, + Our Sun, and the Star that we follow, + Is He, who unbinds + Or enchains the strong winds; + Whose hand holds the seas in its hollow. + + If o'er the bright skies + The wild storm-spirit rise, + And spread his black wings full of thunder, + Our canvass we 'll reef, + Or heave-to for relief, + And safely his pinions pass under. + + And so, 'mid the strife + On the flood-waves of life, + To Heaven in our ark lowly bending + For help would we cry, + Till the dove, from on high, + Appears with the peace-branch descending. + + Thus, we've friend, love, and home, + Wheresoe'er we may roam + The wide seas, from pole to equator-- + We 've a light, and high-tower, + In the name and the power + Of him, who is ocean's Creator. + + + + + THE SEA-EAGLE'S FALL. + + + An Eagle, on his towering wing, + Hung o'er the summer sea; + And ne'er did airy, feathered king + Look prouder there than he. + + He spied the finny tribes below, + Amid the limpid brine; + And felt it now was time to know + Whereon he was to dine. + + He saw a noble, shining fish + So near the surface swim, + He felt at once a hungry wish + To make a feast of him. + + Then straight he took his downward course; + A sudden plunge he gave; + And pouncing, seized, with murderous force, + His tempter in the wave. + + He struck his talons firm and deep, + Within the slippery prize, + In hope his ruffian grasp to keep; + And high and dry to rise. + + But ah! it was a fatal stoop, + As ever monarch made; + And, for that rash--that cruel swoop, + He soon most dearly paid! + + The fish had too much gravity + To yield to this attack. + His feet the eagle could not free + From off the scaly back. + + He 'd seized on one too strong and great; + His mastery now was gone! + And on, by that prepondering weight, + And downward, he was drawn. + + Nor found he here the element + Where he could move with grace; + And flap, and dash, his pinions went, + In ocean's wrinkled face. + + They could not bring his talons out, + His forfeit life to save; + And planted thus, he writhed about + Upon his gaping grave. + + He raised his head, and gave a shriek, + To bid adieu to light: + The water bubbled in his beak-- + He sank from human sight! + + The children of the sea came round, + The foreigner to view. + To see an airy monarch drowned, + To them was something new! + + Some gave a quick, astonished look, + And darted swift away; + While some his parting plumage shook, + And nibbled him for prey. + + O! who that saw that bird at noon + So high and proudly soar, + Could think how awkwardly--how soon, + He 'd fall to rise no more? + + Though glory, majesty, and pride + Were his an hour ago, + Deprived of all, that eagle died, + For stooping once too low! + + Now, have you ever known or heard + Of biped, from his sphere + Descending, like that silly bird, + To buy a fish so dear? + + + + + THE CAGED LION. + + + Lion, like a captive king, + Sad behind thy prison grate, + Monarch, how I long to bring + Back to thee thy lost estate! + + Where thy royal kindred live-- + Where thy native sky is warm, + Sufferer, how I long to give + Freedom to that noble form! + + Gladly would I know thee there, + Bounding over Afric's plain, + Wildly, with the desert air + Wafting wide thy flowing mane. + + Are there words that can describe + What thou wast, at liberty, + When "The Lion of the tribe + Of Judah" names his type in thee? + + Here, beneath thy keeper's hand, + Where the blasts of winter freeze, + Think'st thou of that palmy land, + Thy mild country o'er the seas? + + Seen but through thy prison bars, + Round thee set so strong and thick, + Do not sun, and moon, and stars + Make thy cowering spirit sick? + + Grace, and majesty, and power + Were thy gifts by nature made; + Yet, in one unhappy hour, + All to lose, wast thou betrayed. + + When thou first was snared and caught, + Never after to be free, + How thy mighty spirit wrought + In thee, like a troubled sea! + + But thou didst not, couldst not think + Of the deep indignity, + To which thou then wast doomed to sink-- + Of the exile thou must be. + + Oh! that quenched and languid eye + Tells me of a pining heart: + Homesick prisoner, sooner die + Than remain the thing thou art. + + Liberty to me and mine-- + Liberty is life and breath! + So no less to thee and thine-- + Bonds to both but lingering death. + + + + + THE TRAVELLER AT THE RED SEA. + + + At last have I found thee, thou dark, rolling sea! + I gaze on thy face, and I listen to thee, + With spirit o'erawed by the sight and the sound, + While mountain and desert frown gloomy around. + + And thee, mighty deep, from afar I behold, + Which God swept apart for his people of old-- + That Egypt's proud army, unstained by their blood, + Received on thy bed, to entomb in thy flood. + + I cast my eye out, where the cohorts went down: + A throng of pale spectres, no waters can drown, + With banner and blades, seem to rise on the waves, + As Pharaoh's bold hosts rushed in arms to their graves. + + But quick from the light of the skies they withdraw, + At silent Omnipotence shrinking with awe; + And each sinks away in his billowy shroud, + From him who walked here, clothed in fire and a cloud. + + I stand by the pass, the freed Hebrews then trod, + Sustained by the hand of Jehovah, dry-shod; + And think how the song of salvation, they sang, + With praise to his name, through the wilderness rang. + + Our Father, who then didst thine Israel guide, + Console, and rebuke in their wanderings wide, + From these gloomy waters, through this desert drear, + O still in life's maze, to thy pilgrim be near! + + Let sins, that would hold in their service, or slay + The soul, that would break from their bondage away, + Forever be drowned in the blood of thy Son, + Who o'er sin and death hath the victory won. + + Whilst thou, day by day, wilt thy manna bestow, + And give, for my thirst, the Rock-fountain to flow, + Refreshed by the way, will I speed to the clime + Of rest for the weary, beyond earth and time. + + + + + THE HEBREW CAPTIVES. + + + Our altars they razed, and our temples profaned! + The blood of our prophets and kindred they drained! + And us, from our desolate homes did they bear + Afar, the cold chains of the Painim to wear. + + And they, who had carried us captive, drew nigh; + They looked on our woes with an insolent eye; + Our burdens were heavy, our fetters were strong; + And then, they required of us mirth and a song! + + We hung up our harps on the willows to sleep; + By Babylon's rivers we sat down to weep; + The song of the Lord, as too holy to sound, + We shut in our souls, on that dark heathen ground. + + We thought of our Zion, and sent her a sigh + By each gentle breeze, that went silently by; + But poured not the strains in the proud Painim's ear, + That God and his angels will hearken to hear! + + + + + FRAGMENTS FROM "ESTHER," A POEM. + + + The monarch of Persia has wrapped o'er his breast + The vesture, whose jewels emblazoned the throne: + His lovely young queen, who in sackcloth is dressed, + Is far from his presence, and weeping alone. + + * * * * * + + And who in behalf of her people shall sue + For mercy? To whom will the sovereign give ear? + 'T is death now to be, in his kingdom, a Jew-- + 'T is death in his presence uncalled to appear. + + The wife of his bosom that peril will take! + The helpless young Jewess, so gentle and fair, + To live with her people, or die for their sake, + Will go to her lord, and her nation declare. + + For little he deems that his idolized bride, + The joy of his heart--the delight of his eyes, + Is born of that race whom the Persians deride-- + A people, his nation oppress and despise. + + There 's wine at the palace, and feasting, and mirth; + In Esther's still chamber there 's fasting, and prayer; + While he with the crown, has the homage of earth, + She calls on her God her doomed people to spare. + + She thinks of her fathers in Egypt's dark land-- + She thinks of the bush, as in Horeb it burned; + She knows who the hearts of the kings hath in hand, + To turn them, as rivers of water are turned. + + To him, for support, and for light to her mind, + She sends up the cries of her soul from the dust; + Then, rising to go to the king, is resigned + To do this and perish, if perish she must. + + * * * * * + + With fasting and tears she is languid and pale; + But o'er her young face beams the sunrise of soul; + And flesh, though but feeble, and ready to fail, + Is urged to its point by the spirit's control. + + The _woman_ within her is timid and faint; + The _holy believer_, unawed and serene; + She goes to the presence, adorned as a _saint_, + With power that has never invested the _queen_. + + * * * * * + + And now are her people to safety restored-- + To peace, and their rights, when resistance had failed: + A woman in weakness, who drew on the Lord + For strength, o'er the mighty of earth hath prevailed. + + Fair Jewess, the tears thou hast dropped in the dust, + As pearls, to Jehovah are precious and bright. + The hand, that in sorrow has here been thy trust, + Will crown thee with joy in the kingdom of light. + + + + + GONE IN HER BEAUTY. + + + O! she is gone! the wintry blasts, that sweep + Wild round her mansion, trouble not her sleep: + Gone in her beauty! Fast the drifting snows + Fall cold, but harmless, o'er her deep repose! + + Here, in her circle of its gem bereft, + Love hath but tears to fill the place she left. + Sigh calls to sigh, from aching bosoms drawn. + Void gives to void the mournful echo, "_gone!_" + + Spring will return, and bring around her door + Sweet opening flowers, their odors there to pour, + Striving to win her forth, who planted them, + Once more to smile that they adorn the stem. + + Yet, must they wait her, till they die away: + She was a fairer, lovelier flower than they, + Snapped off in blooming! ere a leaf could fade, + Cast into darkness! wrapped in silent shade! + + O! she is gone; and where shall burdened grief + Pour forth her fountains for the soul's relief? + Not to the dust to nourish earthly weeds: + They yield no balsam while the spirit bleeds! + + Not unto death let sorrow's waters flow, + But to death's victor may the weeper go! + His risen glory, chasing mortal gloom, + Shows grief a rainbow, bending o'er the tomb. + + + + + THE NUN. + + + Fair penitent, with rosary, + And cross and veil, in gloomy cell, + What guilty deed was done by thee, + To cause thee here immured to dwell? + + Come forward, and present thy cause; + That we may clearly judge, and know + If violated human laws + Imprison and afflict thee so: + + Or if it be some secret sin, + That haunts thy contrite soul with fears; + And here sequesters thee within + The place of fasting, gloom, and tears? + + Art thou the guiltiest of thy race? + Why, thou art human, it is true; + Which is alone enough for grace + To have renewing work to do. + + But, can devotion, warm and deep, + Thy duty's bounds so closely set, + That faith may plough, and sow, and reap + By trials shunned, instead of met? + + What ray of truth, revealed, would thus + Make of a tender opening soul + A close, dark blue convolvulus, + And give its bloom this inward roll? + + Dost thou the never-fading crown + Of life and joy intend to win, + By here supinely sitting down, + Where others but the race begin? + + And dost thou think to gain the palm + By hiding from thy Saviour's foes; + Or hope in Gilead's sacred balm + A cure for self-inflicted woes? + + I never saw a Nun before; + And therefore claim indulgence now, + If I presume to question more + Than courtesy might, else, allow: + + As one, then, who in darkness pleads, + For light, I ask to be informed + How, by a string of pegs and beads, + A soul is raised, or fed, or warmed. + + Tell me, thou sober _cabalist_, + What is the potent, hidden charm + Hung on that string, or in its twist + Contorted, for repelling harm? + + And is thy spirit kept so faint, + It cannot mount to God above; + But here must substitute a saint, + In image, for a heavenly love? + + Has He, who lived and died for us-- + Whose gifts are light and liberty, + Left in his Word the _mitimus_ + That here confines and fetters thee? + + Does He assign a living tomb + For souls, endowed with vital grace; + Or need surrounding convent gloom, + To show the radiance of his face? + + And, pensive Nun, now what 's the chart + That he has drawn, and left below, + That by it every pious heart + May follow on the Lord to know? + + Far from temptation, in retreat, + Did he consume his earthly days? + With houseless head, and weary feet, + What were his works? and where his ways? + + O! get thy spirit's wings unfurled! + Hide not thy candle, if 't is lit: + Be _in_, but be not _of_ the world, + If thou wouldst shine to lighten it. + + Come out, and show that face demure; + And see, if, smit on either cheek, + Thy righteous soul would then endure + To turn the other, and be meek. + + For, let me tell thee, coy recluse, + If we are gold, we must be tried; + If stones, we must be hewn for use, + Or by the builder cast aside. + + The axe and chisel, we must bear, + To give us smoothness, shape, and size, + Are in the world--the furnace there; + For Heaven the gold and silver tries. + + If we are salt to salt the earth, + Ah, then, our savor, to be known, + Must be diffused; for what 's the worth + Of salt _en masse_, boxed up alone? + + The touchstone, where we must inquire + If we have safely hid our life, + Is found in pitfall, flood, and fire, + Allurements sweet, and bitter strife. + + Come out! behold the billowy seas, + The flowery earth, and shining skies: + Say wherefore God created these; + And then, fair Nun, thy beauteous eyes. + + Was it for thee to turn and slight + The glorious things he spread to view-- + To give earth, ocean, air, and light, + And freedom, for a dismal mew? + + O! if beneath some lawless vow + To man, in self-delusion made, + An heir of heaven is brought to bow, + That vow were better broke than paid. + + What binds thee here? or who shall set + His name endorsed a pledge for thee, + When Christ has died to pay thy debt, + And burst the tomb to make thee free? + + The world's the great arena, where + The fight of faith must well be fought, + And each good warrior seen to wear + The armor for the victory wrought. + + How dost thou know but it may be + Thy foe, thy tempter, who has found + This cunning way to corner thee, + To keep thee from the battle-ground? + + Come forth, thou timid, hampered one, + And doff that outward, odd disguise, + That cumbers thee, if thou wouldst run, + Or fight the fight, to win the prize. + + Come! from the bushel take thy light, + And give its radiance room to play; + Bind on thy shoes and armor tight, + And up, and to the field away! + + + + + TREES FOR THE PILGRIM'S WREATH. + + Knowing that tribulation worketh patience, and patience + experience, and experience hope; and hope maketh not ashamed. + + ROMANS v. 3-5. + + + Tribulation, if by loss, + Or by thorny gain, the cross, + Thou art not a barren tree; + Seeds of Patience drop from thee. + + Patience, bitter from thy root + Upward, till we reach the fruit, + Thou hast golden grains to sow, + Whence Experience full shall grow. + + Broad Experience, rank and dark; + Thick in leaves, and rough in bark; + Through thy dubious shade we grope, + Till we grasp the bough of Hope. + + Hope, we 're not ashamed, with thee + Showered by drops from Calvary, + When thy branches shoot and bloom + Through a Saviour's broken tomb. + + Trees, whereof the pilgrim weaves + For his crown the mingled leaves, + Wreaths of you are rich and bright; + Earth 's the shade, and heaven 's the light. + + + + + THE MUSHROOM'S SOLILOQUY. + + + O what, and whence am I, 'mid damps and dust, + And darkness, into sudden being thrust? + What was I yesterday? and what will be, + Perchance, to-morrow, seen or heard of me? + + Poor, lone, unfriended, ignorant, forlorn, + To bear the new, full glory of the morn, + Beneath the garden wall I stand aside, + With all before me, beauty, show, and pride. + + Ah! why did nature shoot me up to light, + A thing unfit for use--unfit for sight; + Less like her work, than like a piece of art, + Whirled out and trimmed exact in every part? + + Unlike the graceful shrub and flexile vine, + No fruit, nor branch, nor leaf, nor bud is mine. + No humming-bird, nor butterfly, nor bee + Will come to cheer, caress or flatter me. + + No beauteous flower adorns my humble head, + No spicy odors on the air I shed; + But here I 'm stationed in my sober suit, + With only top and stem--I 've scarce a root. + + Untaught of my beginning and my end, + I know not whence I sprang, or where I tend; + Yet, I will wait and trust, and ne'er presume + To question JUSTICE--I, a frail Mushroom! + + + + + THE SPIRIT AND THE MOUNTAIN. + + + Mountain, with thy firm old foot + Fast beside the sea, + What was in thy keeping put, + Prisoned under thee? + + "Hark, and hear the shuddering ground! + Feel it rock and quake! + Struggling fires, beneath me bound, + Strive their chains to break." + + Mountain, with a cloudy vest + Girded o'er thy heart, + Does it pierce thine aged breast, + When its lightnings dart? + + "No:--beneath me far, the crash + Of the bolt is felt: + Here, the fiery chain and flash + But adorn my belt." + + Mountain, with a snowy crown + Stainless on thy brow, + Wilt thou never cast it down-- + Never, never bow? + + "When the mandate I shall hear + From my Maker's throne, + I will bow and disappear, + Hence to be unknown." + + Mountain, holding proud and high + Thine old hoary head, + What is written on the sky, + Thou so long hast read? + + "Brighter than the stars and sun + Shining over me, + I behold the name of ONE + Thou must die to see!" + + Mountain, bold thine eloquence-- + Glowing is thy speech; + Mighty import flashes thence; + What is it to teach? + + "Thoughts of Him, before whose breath + I shall melt away; + While of thee, soul--spirit, death + Ne'er shall quench a ray!" + + + + + THE FALL OF THE STATUE. + + A SCENE OF THE REVOLUTION. + + This declaration [of Independence] was received by the people + with transports of joy. Public rejoicings took place in various + parts of the Union. In New York, the statue of George III. was taken + down; and the lead, of which it was composed, was converted into + musket-balls. + + GOODRICH'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES. + + + There stood in New York, when, the times growing warm, + All o'er our fair country had gathered the storm, + Which wore in its coming, so fearful a form, + But left us the rainbow of peace, + An image of royalty, stately and proud-- + A leaden old king, where his votaries bowed; + While true friends of Liberty marked it, and vowed + That its honors should speedily cease. + + And when our brave statesmen the article signed, + Declaring us free, with pure freedom of mind, + Columbia's true sons, feeling strongly inclined + To learn how the statue was based, + Assembled forthwith; and, besieging it, found + That the king in head, body and limb was quite sound, + And had of good lead in him many a pound, + Which might be more usefully placed. + + Then, "Down with the ponderous George the Third!" + From a mingling of voices together, was heard, + With shoutings aloud, as they gave out the word, + "Down with it! let it come down! + We 'll soon transform his grave highness of lead, + And turn him to balls from the feet to the head; + And then shall the mouths of our muskets be fed + With him of the throne and the crown. + + "So now for the fall! for our Sages have met, + And their names to a broad Declaration have set, + That they are resolved, from this moment, to get + Of the king independent and free; + And to give by their valor a nation her birth, + Or to empty their veins, a free gift to the earth, + In Liberty's name, to betoken her worth + To us and the millions to be. + + "Columbia's wrongs have gone to the skies; + 'T is time that her blood and her spirit should rise + Above her oppressors, till tyranny flies, + And leaves her unfettered, to bear + The flag of a nation instead of a chain-- + The palm of her triumph, 'mid weakness and pain, + O'er them that were mighty, but struggled in vain + To force her their shackles to wear. + + "And, no leaden monarch will we have to stand + Proclaiming our vassalage here, in the land + Of lovely Manhattan! We 'll each lend a hand + To give him a jerk or a pull, + And flat to the ground, in a trice, as we bring + His dignified form, it shall merrily ding, + To sound all around how we honor the king, + And pay our respects to John Bull. + + "This, this is the season for trying men's souls, + The nerves of their arms, and the worth of their polls! + So, we 'll have his Majesty _over the coals_, + And make him the first that shall _run_: + When, heated to melting, he hides in the mould, + We 'll hold him there still, till new-shapen and cold; + Then, off he shall go, like a tale that is told, + In the voice of the thundering gun! + + "The discomposed Sovereign with us shall unite, + And fly at his friends for our cause in the fight, + To scatter his subjects--to purchase our right-- + The land of oppression to clear. + And he, to whom, whizzing, his monarch shall come, + In the form of a ball, 'mid the noise of the drum, + The flashes and smoke, will have finished the sum + Of his deeds as a royalist here!" + + Then, flat to the earth was his Eminence cast! + The dust rose above him, and mounted the blast, + While a bevy of Rome's feathered sentinels passed, + Raised their wings, and huzzaed as he fell! + But, how the proud royalist felt, when the lead + Of his late British Majesty came at his head, + While some dropped before it, and some turned and fled, + Is more than a _Yankee_ can tell. + + + + + THE BIRD'S MATERNAL CARE. + + The following is but versified statement of a touching, literal + fact that occurred not long since a few rods from my own door. + + + A shadowy tree, that grew beside + Its city owner's door, + Its branches threw so high and wide, + That many a bird could sing, and hide + Among the leaves it bore. + + A robin came, and built her nest + In that green rustling tree. + At evening, there she sank to rest + And furled her weary wings, as blest + As little bird could be. + + Upon her side her drowsy head, + Beneath her folded wing, + She pillowed, while the night-hours fled; + When morning flushed the east with red, + She 'd wake, and mount, and sing. + + Five pretty eggs of azure hue, + In that soft nest she laid. + So clear and vivid was their blue, + Like polished balls they shone to view, + Of purest sapphire made. + + And many a day she brooded o'er + Those treasures, till they grew, + In what the shells contained before, + To something different--something more-- + Young birds came peeping through! + + Five little baby birds were there, + In that fond robin's nest, + All callow; and their mother's care + Was now to find their daily fare, + And shield them with her breast. + + Her tiny game, or berries ripe + From some far distant stem + She 'd bring them; then her beak she 'd wipe, + And sit upon a twig, and pipe + A mother's tune to them. + + At length, the owner of the tree + One dismal, stormy day, + His window from the shade to free, + The better in his room to see, + Some branches lopped away. + + He dropped the very bough that hung + A curtain o'er the nest. + The sun burnt through the clouds, and flung + His fire the helpless brood among, + Till they were sore oppressed. + + Their tender mother then was seen + To stand on weary feet, + Where now they missed the leafy green, + With one wing raised her babes to screen + From sultry noontide heat. + + And, patient there, she day by day, + Upon her nest's round edge, + Stood up to keep the sun away, + While, shaded thus, her nestlings lay + Till time their forms could fledge. + + Then, when the master of the tree + Beheld what love and care + Within a mother bird could be, + He wished in vain that he could see + The bough still living there. + + Thus, thoughtless we may often pain + Or grieve a feeling heart, + Wherein the anguish must remain, + While we may wish, but wish in vain, + To lay or lull the smart. + + A good destroyed 's a fearful thing, + And so 's a good undone! + We, serving self, on self may bring + A heavier ill--a keener sting + Than what we sought to shun. + + 'T is little acts of good or ill, + That make our vast account. + No _one_, though great, does _all_ God's will + Small drops the caves of ocean fill; + And sands compose the mount. + + + + + SONG. + + + Little bird, little bird, with thy beautiful eye. + Looking as if 't were cut out of a star, + How do I know but it once was on high, + Beaming through evening, sublime from afar? + + I cannot say what thy Maker divine, + When he composed thee an optic so bright, + Making the skill of his finger to shine, + Drew from those high upper regions of light. + + Little bird, little bird, with thy spirit-like wings, + Fleet as the air,--as the rainbow in hues, + How can I tell but the Ruler of kings + Formed them by those his blest ministers use? + + Were not the fancy-like tints of thy plume, + Was not the delicate down of thy breast, + Caught from the flowers that in Paradise bloom,-- + Plucked from the couch where the weary ones rest? + + Little bird, little bird, with thy musical voice + Tuned like a seraph's, deep, flowing, and clear, + Was not thy melody, touching and choice, + Taught by some angel, who visited here? + + What, what, pretty fairy! so soon must thou go, + Fleet as a vision, without a reply, + Just like all other bright treasures below, + Charming a moment, to change or to fly? + + + + + THE WHITE MOTH. + + + Beware, pretty Moth, so unsullied and white, + Beware of the lamp's dazzling rays! + It is not a drop of the sun! but a light + That shines to allure little rovers by night; + Away! there is death in the blaze. + + O why didst thou come from thy covert of green, + The vine, round my window so bright; + And pop in to know what was here to be seen, + Forsaking thy shield, and escaping thy screen, + And hazarding life by the flight? + + The down on thy limbs and thy bosom so pure + That flame would most fatally singe: + And nothing thy beautiful wings can insure + From harm and from pain beyond mending or cure, + If caught by their delicate fringe. + + Return, giddy wanderer, safe to the vine; + And breathe in the fresh evening air; + Go, look at the stars, as they twinkle and shine; + And cling to a leaf, or the tendrils that twine, + My soft little eavesdropper, there! + + And then, by a song I will sing, thou shalt know, + Why thus I have lifted my arm + To scare thee away from thy luminous foe. + That threw out its beams, as a snare, and a show + To tempt the unwary to harm. + + For, I through the day, have been guarded by One, + Who, greater and wiser than I, + Has pitied my frailty; and forced me to shun + Illusive temptations, where I might have run + The peril of sporting to die. + + 'T was kindness from Him, to whose care I commend + Myself through the darkness of night, + That taught me so quick to come in, as a friend, + Between thee and evil, thy life to defend; + Pretty Moth, so unsullied and white. + + + + + EDWARD AND CHARLES. + + + The brothers went out with their father to ride, + Where they looked for the flowers, that, along the way-side, + So lately were blooming and fair; + But their delicate heads by the frost had been nipped; + Their stalks by the blast were all twisted and stripped; + And nothing but ruin was there. + + "Oh! how the rude autumn has spoiled the green hills!" + Exclaimed little Charles, "and has choked the bright rills + With leaves that are faded and dead! + The few on the trees are fast losing their hold, + And leaving the branches so naked and cold, + That the beautiful birds have all fled." + + "I know," replied Edward, "the country has lost + A great many charms by the touch of the frost, + Which used to appear to the eye; + But then, it has opened the chestnut-burr too, + The walnut released from the case where it grew; + And now is our _Thanksgiving_ nigh! + + "Oh! what do you think we shall do on that day?" + "I guess," answered Charles, "we shall all go away + To Grandpa's; and there find enough + Of turkeys, plum-puddings, and pies by the dozens, + For Grandpa' and Grandma', aunts, uncles and cousins; + And at night we 'll all play blind-man's-buff. + + "Perhaps we 'll get Grandpa' to tell us some stories + About the old times, with their _Wigs_ and their _Tories_; + And what sort of men they could be; + When some spread their tables without any cloth, + With basins and spoons, and the fuming bean-broth + Which they took for their coffee and tea. + + "They 'd queer kind of sights, I have heard Grandma' say, + About in their streets; for, if not every day, + At least it was nothing uncommon, + To see them pile on the poor back of one horse + A saddle and _pillion_; and what was still worse, + Up mounted a man and a woman! + + "The lady held on by the driver; and so, + Away about town at full trot would they go; + Or perhaps to a great country marriage-- + To Thanksgiving-supper--to husking, or ball; + Or quilting; for thus did they take nearly all + Their rides, on an animal carriage. + + "I know not what _huskings_ and _quiltings_ may be; + But Grandma' will tell; and perhaps let us see + Some things, she has, long laid away:-- + That stiff damask gown, with its sharp-pointed waist, + The hoop, the craped-cushion, and buckles of paste, + Which they wore in her grandparents' day. + + "She says they had buttons as large as our dollars, + To wear on their coats with their square, standing collars: + And then, there 's a droll sort, of hat, + Which Mary once fixed me one like, out of paper, + And said she believed 't was called, _three-cornered scraper_; + Perhaps, too, she 'll let us see that. + + "Oh! a glorious time we shall have! If they knew + At the South, what it is, I guess they 'd have one too; + But I have heard somebody say, + That, there, they call all the New England folks _Bumpkins_, + Because we eat puddings, and pies made of pumpkins + And have our good Thanksgiving-day." + + "I think, brother Charles," returned Edward, "at least, + That they might go to church, if they do n't like the feast; + For to me it is much the best part, + To hear the sweet anthems of praise, that we give + To Him, on whose bounty we constantly live:-- + It is feasting the ear and the heart. + + "From Him, who has brought us another year round, + Who gives every blessing, wherewith we are crowned, + Their gratitude who can withhold? + And now how I wish I could know all the poor + Their Thanksgiving-stores had already secure, + Their fuel, and clothes for the cold!" + + "I 'm glad," said their father, "to hear such a wish; + But wishes alone, can fill nobody's dish, + Or clothe them, or build them a fire. + And now I will give you the money, my sons. + Which I promised, you know, for your drum and your guns, + To spend in the way you desire." + + The brothers went home, thinking o'er by the way, + For how many comforts this money might pay, + In something for clothing or food: + At length they resolved, if their mother would spend it + For what she thought best, they would get her to send it + Where she thought it would do the most good. + + + + + MUSIC OF THE CRICKETS. + + + I cannot to the city go, + Where all in sound and sight, + Declares that nature does not know, + Or do a thing aright. + To granite wall, and tower, and dome + My heart could never cling; + Its simple strings are tied to home-- + To where the crickets sing. + + I 'm certain I was never made + To run a city race, + Along a human palisade, + That 's ever shifting place. + The bustle, fashion, art and show + Were each a weary thing; + Amid them, I should sigh to go + And hear the crickets sing. + + If there, I might no longer be + Myself, as now I seem, + But lose my own identity, + And walk, as in a dream; + Or else, with din and crowd oppressed, + I 'd wish for sparrow's wing. + To fly away, and be at rest, + Where free the crickets sing. + + The fire-fly, rising from the grass + A winged and living light, + I would not give for all the gas, + That spoils their city sight. + Not all the pomp and etiquette + Of citizen or king, + Shall make my rustic heart forget + The song, the crickets sing. + + I find in hall and gallery, + Their figures tame and faint, + To my wild bird, and brook, and tree, + Without a touch of paint. + And from the sweetest instrument + Of pipe, or key, or string, + I 'd turn away, and feel content + To hear the crickets sing. + + O! who could paint the placid moon, + That 's beaming through the bough + Of yon high elm, or play the tune, + That sounds beneath it now? + Not all the silver of the mine, + Nor human power could bring + Another moon like her to shine, + Or make a cricket sing. + + I know that, when the crickets trill + Their plaintive strains by night, + They tell us that, from vale and hill, + The summer takes her flight. + And were there no renewing Power, + 'T would be a mournful thing, + To think of fading leaf and flower; + And hear the crickets sing. + + But, why should change with sadness dim + Our eye, when thought can range + Through time and space, and fly to him, + Who is without a change? + For he, who meted out the year, + Will give another spring: + He rolls at once the shining sphere, + And makes the cricket sing. + + And when another autumn strips + The summer leaves away, + If cold and silent be the lips + That breathed and moved to-day, + The time I 've passed with nature's God + Will cause no spirit sting, + Though I 've adored him from the sod + Whereon the crickets sing. + + + + + CHILDHOOD'S DREAM. + + + Give me back, give me back but my one infant dream, + As it passed on the turf by my dear native stream, + Where I slept from my play, while the wind tossed my hair, + Till its ringlets, unbound, clasped the violets there. + + O return, fleeting time, the soft moments that flew + By the calm sinking sun, and the fall of the dew, + When, refreshing as light, and as dew to the flower + O'er my young spirit came the blest dream of that hour! + + I remember the song of the bird, and the breeze + With the perfumes it swept from the bloom of the trees, + As my eyes gently closed; but the visions that stole + Through my fancy's green bowers, come no more to my soul! + + They were sweet but to pass, as the odors that fled + From the young flowers I crushed, while they pillowed my head; + And like them, when they flew on the wings of the air, + They are gone, and have left not a trace to tell where! + + They were clear as the sun in his mild, setting rays; + They were pure as the stars, soon to kindle and blaze; + But they 're gone! I have lost the dear dream of that sleep, + As a bright planet drowned in the vast ether deep. + + Yet the face of my mother, through tears as she smiled, + When she found, gently raised, and led home her lost child-- + I shall see that loved face by time's stream evermore, + Till I follow her home, where life's dreamings are o'er. + + + + + THE FRUIT-TREE BLOSSOM. + + + My flower, thou art as sweet to me. + Thy form as full and fair-- + As rich a fruit shall follow thee, + As if thou hadst denied the bee + The pure and precious gift, that he + Wafts joyous through the air. + + The spices from thy bosom flow + As freely round thee now, + As if withheld an hour ago. + Bestowing, thou canst still bestow; + Though, whence thy gifts thou may'st not know, + Or giving, tell me how. + + And future good, we yet shall find, + Was hidden in thy heart; + Its witness shall be left behind, + When thou like all thy tender kind, + Thy minutes summed, shalt be resigned + Forever to depart. + + Thy ruin I would not forestall; + Yet soon, I know, to thee + Must come, what happens once to all:-- + Thy life will fail, and thou must fall-- + Must fade and perish, past recall, + To vanish from the tree. + + Then, on the bough where thou wast sent + To pass thy fleeting days, + At work for which thine hours were lent, + In silent, balmy, mild content, + A rich and shining monument + To thee will nature raise. + + Now, not in pride--in purpose high, + Awhile in beauty shine; + And speak, through man's admiring eye, + Forbidding every passer by + To wish to live, or dare to die + With object less than thine. + + + + + THE PLYMOUTH APPLE DECLINED. + + Visiting at the house of a friend in Boston, I was shown an apple + which he told me had been sent to him from Plymouth, and was the + fruit of a tree that was planted by Peregrine White, the first child + born of Pilgrim parents in New England. I praised the apple for its + beauty, and the venerable associations connected with it. He wished + me to keep it; but, as he had no other of the tree, I declined the + gift. + + + I wanted the apple, when offered to me + By its generous owner, but thought it not right + To take it, because it had grown on a tree, + That sprang from a seed sown by PEREGRINE WHITE. + And he, who thus proffered it, had none beside it; + While diffidence checked the words,--"Let us divide it." + + Now Peregrine White was the first _white_, you know, + Who drew his first breath in New England--the child, + Whose parents were making to bud and to blow, + With its earliest blossoms, America's wild: + But he with the fruit never questioned me, whether + We might partake of the apple together. + + Though a fabled divinity once had let fall + An apple of gold, where his favorites thronged, + Inscribed, "Of the fair, to the fairest of all!" + It was not to me this whole apple belonged: + My friend was no god--and then I, but a woman; + I thought that to halve it were just about human. + + The whole I declined; still I did not deny + A wish that, unuttered, was strong in my heart; + And from it _entire_, while averting my eye, + I own I was secretly coveting _part_; + And had he divided the offering presented, + Preserving one half, I had come off contented. + + Had Solomon been there to put in a word, + His wisdom had brought the debate to an end, + Deciding at once, by the edge of his sword, + This contest of kindness between friend and friend: + Yet he with the apple was quite too short-sighted + To see how I might in a half have delighted. + + I hope that next autumn he 'll go where it grew, + And, if not forbidden the fruit, that he 'll reach + And pluck a fair apple, then cut it in two, + And tell me at once that _a half is for each_. + Of friendship's best gift how the worth may be lightened + By having it whole, when, if shared, how 't were heightened! + + + + + THE HALF APPLE. + + A year after the foregoing poem was written, a nice little casket + was sent me, at the distance of thirty-five miles, which, on + opening, I found to contain the half of an apple like the one I had + seen the previous autumn. + + + The half of an apple, well-flavored and fair, + Which shows by division such soundness of heart, + I gratefully hold; and acknowledge the care + And kindness of him, who retains t 'other part. + + The fruit, that would perish, I taste with delight, + The seed taking out to lay cautiously by, + Because it encloses, concealed from my sight, + An emblem of that, which in us cannot die. + + Its elements, when 't is laid low in the earth, + If good, will arise in fresh verdure and bloom; + As man's deathless soul seeks the world of its birth, + When what it once dwelt in lies dark in the tomb. + + The little memento I 'll hide in the ground, + For Nature, its mother, to tenderly rear; + And bright be its blossoms--its fruit fair and sound, + When I and the giver no more shall be here! + + For, when I depart, and some good, living deed + Would fain leave behind, in remembrance of me, + At least, be it said that I planted a seed, + That others might gather the fruit from the tree! + + + + + THE HORTICULTURIST'S TABLE-HYMN. + + + From him, who was lord of the fruits and the flowers, + That in Paradise grew, ere he lost its possession-- + Who breathed in the balm, and reposed in the bowers + Of our garden ancestral, we claim our profession. + And fruits rich and bright + Bless our taste and our sight + As e'er gave our father in Eden delight: + Our fount clear as that, which he drank from, here flows; + Where green grows the myrtle, and blushing the rose. + + While some sit in clouds but to murmur, or grieve + That earth has her wormwood, her pitfalls, and brambles; + We smile, and go forth her rich gifts to receive, + Where the boughs drop their purple and gold on our rambles. + Untiring and free, + As we work, like the bee, + We bear off a sweet from each plant, shrub, and tree: + Where some gather thorns but to torture the flesh, + Ripe clusters we pluck, and our spirits refresh. + + Yet, not to self only, we draw from the soil + The treasures that Heaven in its vitals hath hidden; + For thus to lock up the fair fruits of our toil + Were bliss half possessed, and a sin all forbidden. + Like morning's first ray, + When it spreads into day, + Our hearts must flow out, until self melts away! + Our joys, in the bosoms around us when sown, + Spring up and bloom out, throwing sweets to our own. + + And this makes the world all a garden to us, + Where He, who has walled it, his glory is shedding: + His smile is its sun; and beholding it thus, + We gratefully feast, while his bounty is spreading. + Our spirits grow bright + As they bathe in his light, + That beams on the board where in joy we unite: + And the sparks, which we take to enkindle our mirth, + Are blessings from heaven showering down on the earth. + + And now that we meet, and the chain is of _flowers_, + Which binds us together, may sadness ne'er blight them, + Till those, who _must_ break from a compact like ours, + Ascend where the ties of the blest reunite them! + May each, who is here, + At the banquet appear, + Where Life fills the wine-cup, and Love makes it clear; + And Gilead's balm in its freshness shall flow + On the wounds, which the _pruning-knife_ gave us below! + + + + + THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. + + + Thou mournful bird, when shadows fell + At yester-eve on hill and dell, + I heard thee of thy sorrows tell; + And, as the dews distil, + Again, amid this twilight gray, + I hear thee pour thy solemn lay, + With only one sad thing to say, + Still crying, "Whip-poor-will." + + O who has grieved thee, gentle bird, + That now thy vesper note is heard + And with thy melting, triple word + Thus dropping from thy bill? + How could they rudely whip at thee, + To scare thee from thy native tree, + And send thee moaning back to me + Repeating, "Whip-poor-will?" + + And wherefore did they whip thee so, + To give thy voice this sound of wo, + Which comes so plaintively to show + That they have used thee ill? + Didst thou go through the woods alone, + Where brambly snares had thickly grown + When thou wast taught thy piteous tone + And story, "Whip-poor-will?" + + There have they made thee all the day + In silence hide thyself away, + To lose the light, the flash, the play + Of sun, and fount, and rill? + And didst thou now steal out, afraid + Of midnight in the coppice shade, + That here thy tender plaint is made + Again, sad Whip-poor-will? + + The trembling stars and lunar gleam, + That fitful in the thicket beam, + Perhaps would make poor Willie dream + His foes were round him still. + And in the copse-wood, dark and deep, + A waving flower, or leaflet's sweep + Might startle thee, in troubled sleep + To murmur, "Whip-poor-will!" + + My bird, there 's mystery in thy strain-- + A power I might resist in vain, + With mournful joy--with pleasing pain + My inmost soul to thrill. + 'T is memory stirs to wet my eye + By waking shades of days gone by, + When first, a child, I heard the cry + So solemn, "Whip-poor-will." + + I call thee bird, yet thou may'st be + A spirit! for I cannot see-- + I ne'er could catch a glimpse of thee; + And undiscovered still + The vision form, that might appear, + Wert thou to sight revealed as clear, + As is thy presence to mine ear, + Mysterious Whip-poor-will. + + + + + THE AUTUMN ROSE-BUD. + + + Come out, pretty Rose-Bud, my lone, timid one! + Come forth from thy green leaves, and peep at the sun; + For little he does, in these dull autumn hours, + At height'ning of beauty, or laughing with flowers. + + His beams, on thy tender young cheek as he plays, + Will give it a blush that no other can raise; + Thy fine silken petals they 'll softly unfold, + And fill their pure centre with spices and gold. + + I would not instruct thee in coveting wealth; + But beauty, we know, is the offspring of health; + And health, the fair daughter of freedom, is bright + With feasting on breezes, and drinking the light. + + Then come, pretty bud; from thy covert look out, + And see what the glad, golden sun is about: + His shafts, should they strike thee, will only impart + A grace to thy form, and a sweet to thy heart. + + + + + TO L. A. E. ON HER WEDDING-DAY. + + + That I _will_ "be near" on thy "bridal day"-- + Be with thee before we are ten hours older, + This hasty messenger comes to say, + And bringing its witness,--a pearly _folder_. + + And this, perhaps, as a pointed sign, + By the light upon Hymen's altar burning, + May signify, to a heart like thine, + "What a leaf to-day in thy life is turning!" + + May the lines for thy future reading there, + With no sad characters dark or frowning, + In every letter be bright and fair, + To thee and to him thou to-day art crowning. + + Accept the token, and let it prove, + As long as thou hence shalt remain its owner, + When thou must be at a far remove + From her, memorial of the donor. + + Thou 'lt see engraved on its handle-part, + The form of a pen, with its top of feather-- + A type of the wings that heart and heart + May find, when absent, to fly together. + + I send thee an opening, thornless rose, + Harmless and soft as the peaceful turtle; + With an emerald sprig from a branch that grows + On the single stalk of my true green myrtle. + + I bound them about with a silver thread; + But, ere thy hand is the cord untwining, + The rose will have drooped, or its leaves be shed, + While the myrtle still is freshly shining. + + But I _will_ "be near" in thy bridal hour, + This, "Wednesday, evening, at half past seven," + And give at the nuptials my holier dower,-- + A prayer for a smile on them from Heaven. + + + + + TO MRS. H. F. L. + + + To think of thee, my Hannah-- + To sit and think of thee, + Is to my heart like manna, + Or balsam from the tree. + + For, first, its tendrils feeding, + It gives them strength to cling; + And then, if pained or bleeding, + It soothes the wound or sting. + + To thine, a fount of feeling + The warmest and the best, + 'T is sweet to seem revealing + The secrets of my breast. + + Of half its care and trouble, + My bosom, thus beguiled, + Feels every joy is double, + When on it thou hast smiled. + + 'T is dark and stormy weather-- + Our first October day; + But we are here together, + Though thou art far away. + + For still I feel thee near me-- + I see thy soft black eye-- + I fancy thou canst hear me, + And I thy sweet reply. + + And yet, my friend, my dearest, + This moment, where art thou? + What envied eye is nearest, + To look upon thee now? + + Is thine own Hannah present, + In spirit, still with thee? + And dost thou find it pleasant + To feel alone with me? + + Then we are never parted! + Nor distance, place, nor scene, + The whole and faithful-hearted + Shall ever come between. + + And when earth's changeful weather, + Its joys and sorrows cease, + O may we dwell together + In deathless love and peace! + + + + + MUSIC. + + + Music? A blessed angel! She was born + Within the palace of the King of kings-- + A favorite near his throne. In that glad child + Of Love and Joy, he made their spirits one; + And her, the heir to everlasting life! + When his bright hosts would give him highest praise, + They send her forward with her dulcet voice, + To pour their holy rapture in his ear. + When the young earth to being started forth, + Music lay sleeping in a bower of heaven. + A crystal fountain, close beside her, gushed + With living waters; and the sparkling cup + For her pure draught, stood on its emerald brink. + While o'er her brow a tender halo shone, + Kissed by the nodding buds, her head reclined + Upon a flowery pillow. At her ear, + The soft leaves whispered. On her half-closed lips + The gentle air strewed spices, wooing them. + Dropped o'er its radiant orb, the long-fringed lid + Veiled the deep inspiration of her eye; + But on her cheek the rose-tint came and went, + At the quick pulse that fluttered in her breast, + And spoke a wakeful spirit. In her sleep, + With one fair hand thrown o'er its silent strings, + Close to her heart she clasped her golden lyre, + To slumber with her, while she fondly dreamed + Of the sweet uses she might make of it + To numbers yet untried. + When, suddenly, + A shout of joy from all the sons of God, + Rang through his courts: and then the thrilling call, + "Wake! sister Music, wake, and hail with us, + A new-created sphere!" + She woke! She rose-- + She moved among the morning stars, and gave + The birth-song of a world. + Our infant globe, + With life's first pulse, rolled in its ether bed, + Robed with the sunlight, mantled by the moon, + Or tenderly embraced by stellar rays: + Death, with his pale, cold finger, had not touched + Its beauty then. No stain of guilt was here, + And so, no cloud of sorrow cast a shade, + Or rained its bitter drops on fruit or flower. + As earth, on every side, shone fair to heaven, + Not knowing yet whereto she was ordained, + Music, from her celestial walks looked down, + And thought, how sweetly she could wake the hills, + Sing through the silent forests--in the vales-- + Beside the silver waters pour her sounds; + And multiply her numbers by the rocks! + She longed to give it voice to speak to God; + And, being told of her blest ministry, + Bathed in a flood of glory, till her wings + Dripped with effulgence, as they spread, and poised, + And passed the pearly gates in earthward flight. + Made viewless by the circumambient air, + And scattering voices to its feathered tribes, + As down she hastened to the shining sphere, + The happy angel reached the beauteous earth. + At her electric touch, young nature smiled, + And kindled into rapture; then broke forth + With thousand, thousand songs. + The green turf woke; + The sea-shells hummed along the vocal shore, + The busy bee, upon his honeyed flower. + Osier and reed became Eolian lyres. + Trees bore sweet minstrels; while rock, hill, and dell + Sang to each other in a joyous round. + MAN, that mysterious instrument of God, + When the warm soul of new-descended power + Breathed on his heart-strings, lifted up his voice, + Chanting, "JEHOVAH!" + Since that blessed hour, + While still her home is heaven, Music has ne'er + This darkened world forsaken. She delights, + Though man may lose, or keep the paths of peace, + To soothe, to cheer, to light and warm his heart; + And lends her wings to waft it to the skies. + She throws a lustre o'er Devotion's face-- + Drinks off the tear from Sorrow's languid eye-- + Tames wild Despair--brings Hope a brighter bloom-- + Lulls Hate to rest--Love's ruffled bosom smooths; + Pours honey into many a bitter cup; + And often gives the black and heavy hour + A downy breast and pinions tipped with light. + She steals all balmy through the prisoner's grates, + Making that sad one half forget their use. + With holy spell she binds the exile's heart, + And pours her oil upon its hidden wounds. + Kings are her lovers--cottagers her loves: + The hero and the pilgrim walk with her. + Her voice is sweet by cradled infancy, + And from the pillow of the dying saint, + When a glad spirit borrows her light wings + To practise for the skies, ere it unfolds + Its own, and breaks its tenure to the clay. + True, by man's wanderings for his tempter's lure, + Music is often drawn to scenes unmeet + For purity like hers; and made to bear + Unhallowed burdens; or, to join in rites + To turpitude in fellest places held. + Yet, like the sun, whose beaming vesture, trailed + O'er all things staining, still defies a stain; + And is at night withdrawn, and girded up, + Warm and untarnished for the morning skies-- + She comes unsullied from her baser walks, + Sighs at the darkness, guilt and wo of earth; + Breathes Zion's air, and, warmed with heavenly fire, + Mounts to her glorious home! + 'T was she, who bore + The first grand offering of the free, on high, + When to the shore, through Egypt's solemn sea, + The franchised Hebrews passed with feet dry-shod, + And paeans gave to their Deliverer there. + She cheered the wanderers on; and when they crossed + Over old Jordan, to the strong-armed foe, + Still she was with them; and her single breath + Laid the proud Painim's city-walls in dust! + In native light, she walked Judea's hills, + And sipped the dew of Hermon from its flower + Before the Sun of righteousness arose. + The Prophet chose her to unseal his lips, + Ere God spake through them; and the Prophetess, + To lift the heart's pure gift from her's to Heaven. + When Israel's king was troubled, her soft hand + Put close, but gently, to his gloomy breast, + Reached the dark spirit there, and laid it still, + Bound by the chords a shepherd minstrel swept. + And since, her countless thousands she has brought + To heaven's mild kingdom, happy captives led, + By those sweet glowing strings of David's lyre. + But oh! her richest, dearest notes to man, + In strains aerial over Bethlehem poured, + When HE, whose brightness is the light of heaven, + To earth descending for a mortal's form, + Laid by his glory, save one radiant mark, + That moved through space, and o'er the infant hung, + He summoned Music to attend him here, + Announcing peace below! + He called her, too, + To sweeten that sad supper, and to twine + Her mantle round him, and his few, grieved friends + To join their mournful spirits with the hymn, + Ere to the Mount of Olives he went out + So sorrowful. + And now, his blessed word, + A sacred pledge, is left to dying man, + Then at his second coming in his power, + Music shall still be with him; and her voice + Sound through the tombs and wake the dead to life! + + + + + Transcriber's Notes + + + Original spelling has been retained except in the following case: + In the poem "The Pilgrim's Way Song" on page 29 "thrist" has been + corrected to "thirst" (To drink, and to thirst never more.) + The deviation between some items in the table of contents and the + actual headings have also been retained. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Mother's Dream and Other Poems, by Hannah F. 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