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PEEENNIAL 
 
 EL WE R S. 
 
 "The cold desponding breast of sloth to warm, 
 
 The flame of industry and genius fan, — 
 
 And the long hours of toil and soUtade to charm." 
 
 B£ATT1E. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 Printed by Munroe and Francis. 
 
 1843. 
 

 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1843, by Munroe &■ 
 Francis, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. j 
 
 to 
 
TO MT YOUNG FRIENDS, 
 
 FOR WHOSE USE THIS SM.\LIi COLLECTION OF POETRY 
 
 HAS BEEN MADE, 
 IT IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED ; 
 WITH THE HOPE, THAT SOME SENTLMENT OF BEAUTY, 
 AWAKENED BY ITS WORDS, MAY GO WITH THEM, AS 
 A KIND ANGEL, THEIR LIFE'S JOURNEY THROUGH. 
 
TO THE PARENTS OF MY PUPILS. 
 
 This little book is an humble attempt to supply, 
 in some degree, the want which is felt by the com- 
 piler, of some collection of poetry appropriate for 
 the use of girls in school. 
 
 When the rhythmical flow of Mother Goose and 
 other nursery verse, and the wondrous disclosures 
 of Fairy Tales, have ceased to delight the ear by 
 their harmony, or excite the imagination by their 
 enchantments, then the young awakening mind waits 
 to receive those images of beauty, which shall be- 
 come to it a life-treasure, garnered among the stores 
 of the yet unburdened memory. The multiform mag- 
 nificence and loveliness of outward nature speak to 
 the heart, while the expression of pure feeling and 
 simple sentiments meets there a ready response. 
 
 To assist the imagination at such period is the 
 design of this work, and the selections from vari- 
 ous poets have been made to that end. While avoid- 
 ing, in general, the expressions of such states of 
 thought and feeling as do not come within the hori- 
 zon of girlhood, it has not been intended to offer 
 merely such as could be fully understood ; for " it 
 is on the unascended that we learn to climb"; and 
 the young apprehension may seize, delighted, some 
 1# 
 
VI 
 
 idea too vast for its dormant capacities yet to com- 
 prehend. The false glitter and distortion of senti- 
 ment, not its loftiness, are repulsive to the child ; 
 and the innocence of the young heart often detects 
 this, where more learned heads pass it unnoticed. 
 Then, in the Eden of childhood, God's voice is heard 
 among the trees, He walks in the garden, and the 
 consciousness of His intimate presence springs from 
 the depths of the soul by means of creation's beau- 
 ty. For, as has been so eloquently said, " Every 
 where in nature we are carried straightway back 
 to Him, The fern, green and growing amid the 
 frost ; each little grass and lichen is a silent memen- 
 to. The first bird of spring, and the last rose of 
 summer ; the grandeur and the dulness of evening 
 and morning ; the rain, the dew, the sunshine ; the 
 stars that come out to watch over the farmer's ri- 
 sing corn ; the birds that nestle contentedly, — all 
 these have a religious significance to a thinking 
 soul. Each violet blooms of God ; each lily is fra- 
 grant with the presence of the Deity." The mind 
 of the young is apt to entertain this truth, and then 
 an unbounded field is opened for the purest exercise 
 of the imaginative faculty. To find our Father's step 
 in every green field. His voice in every utterance of 
 our conscience. His hand in every event of daily 
 life, — then little space is left for the eating cares and 
 trifling follies, which, alas, so often occupy the chief 
 part of woman's existence ! 
 Boston, 1843. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Whenever, in any piece not strictly an Extract, one or more stanzas have 
 been omitted, an asterisk is affixed to its title. In the extract from Cowper, 
 entitled ' The Happiness of Animals,' four diil'use lines are condensed into one, 
 the closing one ; and, in ' The Mariner's Dream,' the words, ' flashing far o'er 
 the sky," are substituted for an expre^sion rallier shocking than sublime to a 
 child. 
 
 Why bloom the Flowers 11 
 
 To my Mother 12 
 
 The Daisy 13 
 
 The Yellow Violet 14 
 
 To the Wind-Flower 16 
 
 Holy rnfluence of Nature 16 
 
 Nature's Teachings 17 
 
 The Flower and the Star 19 
 
 uEolian Harp 19 
 
 The Emigrant's Song " . . 20 
 
 On a Cataract from a mountain precipice . 22 
 
 The Gladness of Nature . - 23 
 
 Lines written in a Highland Glen 24 
 
 Green River 25 
 
 The Drop of Dew 27 
 
 Inward Gratitude 28 
 
 The Happiness of Animals 29 
 
 The Kitten and the falling Leaves 30 
 
 To a Water-fowl 32 
 
 The Summer Shower 33 
 
 Scene after a Summer Shower 34 
 
 April Day 36 
 
Vlll 
 
 Hymn to the Moon 37 
 
 Snow 39 
 
 The Snow-birds 41 
 
 The Woods in Winter .-42 
 
 Why shine the Stars 44 
 
 On his Blindness, by Milton 46 
 
 The Frost 46 
 
 The Nineteenth Psalm 48 
 
 Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright 49 
 
 Sabbath in the Country . . 49 
 
 Hymn of the City 51 
 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night 52 
 
 Hymn of a Hermit 57 
 
 To William 59 
 
 To the Fringed Gentian ... .... 60 
 
 Religion of Ancient Greece 61 
 
 I see thee still 62 
 
 The Deaf 64 
 
 On a Girl leading her Blind Mother 66 
 
 We are Seven 67 
 
 To his Son, six years old, during sickness 70 
 
 Wee Willie 71 
 
 Mary's Smile 75 
 
 Lines to my Children 77 
 
 To a Child 79 
 
 A Lay of Fairy Land 81 
 
 The Reaper and the Flowers 90 
 
 To J. G. S 91 
 
 Thou art safe in Heaven, my dove 92 
 
 It is well with the Child 93 
 
 The American Indians 95 
 
 The Negro Slave 99 
 
 The Slave Mother's Prayer 101 
 
 The Village Blacksmith 102 
 
 To his Mother 104 
 
 The Soldier's Dream 105 
 
IX 
 
 Casabianca 107 
 
 Coeur de Lion at the bier of his father ...... . . 108 
 
 Hellvellyn 112 
 
 The Lady Jane Grey 114 
 
 The Mariner's Dream • 117 
 
 Bruce at the source of the Nile 119 
 
 To an Indian Gold Coin 121 
 
 Home 123 
 
 To Duty 125 
 
 Tired of Play 126 
 
 The Icicle 127 
 
 She was a Phantom of Delight 129 
 
 Mercy 130 
 
 Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 131 
 
 Forest scene in the days of Wickliff 132 
 
 Sweet Auburn 139 
 
 The Village Clergyman 141 
 
 The Dying Swan 144 
 
 The Minstrel 146 
 
 Indian Death Song 147 
 
 The Sliipwreck 149 
 
 Rest 151 
 
 Why dost thou talk of death, laddie 153 
 
 From the 'Sexton's Daughter' '154 
 
 The Cloud Voice 155 
 
 The old oaken Bucket 157 
 
 Seasons of Prayer . . 165 
 
 The old Arm-Chair 160 
 
 The Rose and the Gauntlet 158 
 
 The Boy and his Angel 162 
 
 The silent Expression of Nature ...... 167 
 
 The disinterred Warrior 169 
 
 The Waterfall and the Eglantine 170 
 
THE WREATH. 
 
 WHY BLOOM THE FLOWERS ? 
 
 God might have made the earth bring forth 
 
 Enough for great and small, 
 The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, 
 
 Without a flower at all. 
 
 We might have had enough, enough 
 
 For every want of ours ; 
 For luxury, medicine, and toil. 
 
 And yet have had no flowers. 
 
 Then wherefore, wherefore Avere they made, 
 
 All dyed with rainbow light, 
 All fashioned with supremest grace, 
 
 Upspringing day and night, — 
 
 Springing in valleys green and low. 
 
 And on the mountains high. 
 And in the silent wilderness. 
 
 Where no man passes by ? 
 
12 
 
 Our outward life requires them not, — 
 Then wherefore had they birth ? 
 
 To minister delight to man, 
 To beautify the earth ; 
 
 To comfort man ; to whisper hope 
 
 Whene'er his faith is dim; 
 For whoso careth for the flowers, 
 
 Will much more care for him. 
 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 They tell us of an Indian tree, 
 
 Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky 
 
 May tempt its boughs to wander free. 
 And shoot and blossom w^ide and high. 
 
 Far better loves to bend its arms 
 
 Downward again, to that dear earth. 
 
 From which the life, that fills and warms 
 Its grateful being, first had birth : 
 
 'Tis thus, though wooed by flattering friends, 
 And fed with fame, — if fame it be, — 
 
 This heart, my own dear mother, bends. 
 With love's true instinct, back to thee. 
 
 MooRE. 
 
13 
 
 THE DAISY. 
 
 There is a flower, a little flower ; 
 
 With silver crest and golden eye, 
 That welcomes every changing hourj 
 
 And weathers every sky. 
 
 The prouder beauties of the field I 
 
 In gay but quick succession shine ; 
 
 Race after race their honors yield, ' 
 
 They flourish and decline. 
 
 But this small flower, ib nature dear, 
 
 While moons and stars their courses run, 
 
 Wreathes the whole circle of the year, j 
 
 Companion of the sun. j 
 
 It smiles upon the lap of May, | 
 
 To sultry August spreads its charms, | 
 
 Lights pale October on its Way, ' 
 
 And twines December's arms. i 
 
 The purple heath &.nd golden broom 
 On moory mountains catch the gale. 
 
 O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, 
 
 The violet in the vale. i 
 
 But this bold floweret climbs the hill, 
 
 Hides in the forest, haunts the gletiy { 
 
 Plays on the margin of the rill, 
 
 Peeps round the fox's den. 
 2 
 
14 
 
 Within the garden's cultured round, 
 It shares the sweet carnation's bed ; 
 
 And blooms on consecrated ground 
 In honor of the dead. 
 
 The lambkin crops its crimson gem, 
 The wild-bee murmurs on its breast, 
 
 The blue-fly bends its pensile stem 
 Light o'er the skylark's nest. 
 
 'Tis Flora's page ; in every place, 
 In every season, fresh and fair. 
 
 It opens with perennial grace, 
 And blossoms everywhere. 
 
 On waste and woodland, rock and plain, 
 Its humble buds unheeded rise ; 
 
 The rose has but a summer reign. 
 The daisy never dies. 
 
 Montgomery. 
 
 THE YELLOW VIOLET. 
 
 When beechen buds begin to swell, 
 
 And Avoods the blue-bird's warble know. 
 
 The yellow violet's modest bell 
 
 Peeps from the last year's leaves below. 
 
 Ere russet fields their green resume, 
 Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, 
 
15 
 
 To meet thee, when thy faint perfume 
 Alone is in the virgin air. 
 
 Of all her train, the hands of Spring 
 First plant thee in the watery mould, 
 
 And I have seen thee blossoming 
 Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. 
 
 Thy parent sun, who bade thee view 
 Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip. 
 
 Has bathed thee in his own bright hue. 
 And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. 
 
 Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat. 
 And earthward bent thy gentle eye, 
 
 Unapt the passing view to meet. 
 
 When loftier flowers are flaunting high. 
 
 Oft, in the sunless April day. 
 
 Thy early smile has met my walk, 
 
 But, 'midst the gorgeous blooms of May, 
 I passed thee on thy humble stalk. 
 
 So they, who climb to wealth, forget 
 The friends in darker fortunes tried ; 
 
 I copied them, — but I regret 
 
 That I should ape the ways of pride. 
 
 And when again the genial hour 
 Awakes the painted tribes of light, 
 
 I '11 not o'erlook the modest flower 
 That made the woods of April bright. 
 
 Bryant. 
 
16 
 
 TO THE WIND-FLOWER. 
 
 Thou lookest up with meek, confiding eye 
 Upon the clouded smile of April's face ; 
 Unharmed, though winter stands uncertain by, 
 Eyeing, with jealous glance, each opening grace. 
 Thou trustest wisely ! in thy faith arrayed, 
 More glorious thou than Israel's wisest king. 
 Such faith was his, whom men to death betrayed, I 
 As thine, who hear'st the timid voice of spring. 
 While other flowers still hide them from her call. 
 Along the river's brink and meadows bare. 
 Thee will I seek, beside the stony wall, 
 And in thy trust with childlike heart would share, 
 O'erjoyed, that, in thy early leaves, I find « 
 
 A lesson taught by Him,who loved all human kind. 
 
 Very. '; 
 
 HOLY INFLUENCE OF NATURE.=^ « 
 
 Nature never did betray | 
 
 The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege, * 
 
 Through all the years of this our life, to lead . 
 
 From joy to joy ; for she can so inform | 
 
 The mind that is within us, so impress i 
 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed | 
 
17 
 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
 
 Elash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
 
 S'or greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
 
 Che dreary intercourse of daily life, 
 
 5hall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
 
 3ur cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
 
 s full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
 
 5hine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
 
 Vnd let the misty mountain winds be free 
 
 Do blow against thee ; and, in after years, 
 
 tVhen these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
 
 nto a sober pleasure, when thy mind 
 
 ^hall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
 
 Phy memory be as a dwelling-place 
 
 ^'or all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then, 
 
 f solitude, or pain, or grief, or fear, 
 
 Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 
 
 3f tender joy wilt thou remember these. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 NATURE'S TEACHINGS. 
 
 Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, 
 tVhose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, 
 Mil up the interspersed vacancies 
 Vnd momentary pauses of the thought ! 
 Vly babe, so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
 2^ 
 
18 
 
 With tender gladness thus to look at thee, 
 And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, 
 And in far other scenes ! For I was reared 
 In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, 
 And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. 
 But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze, 
 By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
 Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds. 
 Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
 And mountain crags ; so shalt thou see and he^ir 
 The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
 Of that eternal language, which thy God 
 Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
 Himself in all, and all things in Himself. 
 Great universal Teacher ! He shall mould 
 Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 
 Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 
 Whether the summer clothe the general earth ' 
 With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
 Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
 Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 
 Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eavedrops fal) 
 Heard only in the trances of the blast, 
 Or if the secret ministry of frost 
 Shall hang them up in silent icicles. 
 Quietly shining to the shining moon. 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
19 
 
 THE FLOWER AND STAR, 
 
 The Flower beheld the Star above, 
 
 And longed to reach its airy love, 
 
 But longed in vain. A dew-drop fell 
 
 Into the soft and fragrant cell ; 
 
 And then the Star was imaged there, 
 
 As if it dropped from upper air, 
 
 And gliding down from heaven, had come 
 
 To fir^d on earth a kindred home. 
 
 Sterling. 
 
 THE iEOLIAN HARP. 
 
 And that simplest lute. 
 Placed lengthways in the clasping casement, hark ! 
 How by the desultory breeze caressed. 
 It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs 
 Tempt to repeat the wrong ! And now, its strings 
 Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes 
 Over delicious surges sink and rise. 
 Such a soft, floating witchery of sound 
 As twilight elfins make, when they at eve 
 Voyage on gentle gales from fairy land. 
 Where melodies, round honey-dropping flowers, 
 Footless and wild, like birds of paradise. 
 Nor pause nor perch, hovering on untamed wing ! 
 
20 
 
 Oh ! the one life within us and abroad, 
 Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, 
 A light in sound, a sound-like power in light, 
 Rhythm in all thought, and joyance everywhere ; 
 Methinks it should have been impossible 
 Not to love all things in a world so filled ; 
 Where the breeze warbles, and the mute, still air 
 Is Music slumbering on her instrument. 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 THE EMIGRANT'S SONG. 
 
 Where the remote Bermudas ride 
 In the ocean's bosom unespied, 
 From a small boat, that rowed along, 
 The listening winds received this song. 
 
 " What should we do but sing His praise, 
 That led us through the watery maze 
 Unto an isle so long unknown, 
 And yet far kinder than our own ? 
 Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, 
 That lift the deep upon their backs. 
 He lands us on a grassy stage 
 Safe from the storms and prelates' rage. 
 He gave us this eternal spring, 
 Which here enamels every thing ; 
 
21 
 
 And sends the fowls to us in care, 
 On daily visits through the air. 
 He hangs in shades the orange bright, 
 Like golden lamps in a green night ; 
 And does in the pomegranate close 
 Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. 
 He makes the figs our mouths to meet. 
 And throws the melons at our feet ; 
 But apples plants of such a price, 
 No tree could ever bear them twice. 
 With cedars, chosen by his hand 
 From Lebanon, he stores the land ; 
 And makes the hollow seas that roar 
 Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 
 He cast, — of which we rather boast, — 
 The gospel's pearl upon our coast ; 
 And in these rocks for us did frame 
 A temple where to sound his name. 
 O let our voice his praise exalt, 
 Till it arrive at heaven's vault ! 
 Which, thence perhaps rebounding, may 
 Echo beyond the Mexique bay." 
 
 Thus sang they in the English boat, 
 A holy and a cheerful note ; 
 And all the way, to guide their chime, 
 With falling oars they kept the time. 
 
 Andrew Marvell. 
 
22 
 
 ON A CATARACT FROM A CAVERN NEAR THE 
 SUMMIT OF A MOUNTAIN PRECIPICE. 
 
 Unperishing youth ! 
 Thou leapest from forth 
 The cell of thy hidden nativity. 
 
 Never mortal saw 
 The cradle of the strong one ; 
 
 Never mortal heard 
 The gathering of his voices. j 
 
 The deep-murmured charm of the son of the rock, 
 That is lisped evermore at his slumberless fountain. 
 There's a cloud at the portal, a spray-woven veil 
 At the shrine of his ceaseless running ; ^ 
 
 It embosoms the roses of dawn, j 
 
 It entangles the shafts of the noon, t 
 
 And into the bed of its stillness v 
 
 The moonshine sinks down as in slumber, i 
 
 That the son of the rock, that the nursling of I 
 
 heaven i 
 
 May be born in a holy twilight. \ 
 
 The wild goat in awe I 
 
 Looks up, and beholds ( 
 
 Above him the cliff inaccessible. \ 
 
 Thou, at once full-born, \ 
 
 Maddenest in thy joyance ; ♦ 
 
 Whirlest, shatterest, spillest, -: 
 
 Life invulnerable ! Coleridge, . 
 
23 
 
 THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. 
 
 Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, 
 When our mother Nature laughs around; 
 When even the deep blue heavens look glad, 
 And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground ? | 
 
 There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, 
 And the gossip of swallows through all the sky ; 
 The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den. 
 And the wilding bee hums merrily by. 
 
 The clouds are at play in the azure space, I 
 
 And their shadows at play on the bright green vale ; \ 
 And here they stretch to the frolic chase, 
 And there they roll on the easy gale. 
 
 There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower ; , 
 
 There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree ; 
 There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the | 
 flower, ; 
 
 And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. 
 
 And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles j 
 
 On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, \ 
 
 On the leaping waters and gay young isles ; — 
 Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away. i 
 
 Bryant. I 
 
24 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN; 
 
 ^0 whom belongs this valley fair, 
 That sleeps beneath the filmy air, 
 
 Even like a living thing? 
 Silent, as infant at the breast. 
 Save a still sound that speaks of rest^ 
 
 That streamlet's murmuring. 
 
 The heavens appear to love this vale ; 
 Here clouds with unseen motion sail. 
 
 Or mid the silence lie. 
 By that blue arch, this beauteous earthy 
 Mid evening's hour of deWy mirth, 
 
 Seems bound unto the sky. 
 
 O ! that this lovely vale were mine ! 
 Then, from glad youth to calm decline, 
 
 My years would gently glide ; 
 Hope would rejoice in endless dreams, 
 And memory's oft-returning gleams 
 
 By peace be sanctified. 
 
 There would unto my soul be given. 
 From presence of that gracious heaven, 
 
 A piety sublime : 
 And thoughts would come of mystic mood 
 To make, in this deep solitude. 
 
 Eternity of Time ! 
 
25 
 
 And did I ask to whom belonged 
 This vale ? — I feel that I have wronged 
 
 Nature's most gracious soul ; 
 She spreads her glories o'er the earth, 
 And all her children, from their birth, 
 
 Are joint heirs of the whole. 
 
 Yes, long as Nature's humblest child 
 Hath kept her temple undefiled 
 
 By sinful sacrifice, 
 Earth's fairest scenes are all his own ; 
 He is a monarch, and his throne 
 
 Is built amid the skies. 
 
 Wilson.- 
 
 GREEN RIVER. 
 
 When breezes are soft and skies are fair, 
 I steal an hour from study and care, 
 And hie me away to the woodland scene 
 Where Wanders the stream with waters of green 
 As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink. 
 Had given their stain to the Wave they drink ; 
 And they whose meadows it murmurs through 
 Have named the stream from its own fair hue. 
 
 Yet pure its waters, its shallows are bright 
 
 With colored pebbles and sparkles of lighty 
 3 
 
26 
 
 * 
 And clear the depths where its' eddies play, 
 
 And dimples deepen and whirl away, 
 
 And the plane tree's speckled arms o'ershoot 
 
 The swifter current that mines its root ; 
 
 Through whose shifting leaves,as you walk the hill, 
 
 The quivering glimmer of sea and rill 
 
 With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, 
 
 Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone* 
 
 O ! loveliest there the spring days come. 
 With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum ; 
 The flowers of summer are fairest there. 
 And freshest the breath of the summer air ; 
 And sweetest the golden autumn day, 
 In silence and sunshine, glides away. 
 
 Yet fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide, 
 Beautiful stream ! by the village side ; 
 But windest away from the haunts of men, 
 To quiet valley and shaded glen ; 
 And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill 
 Around thee are lonely, lovely and still. 
 Lonely — save when by thy rippling tides, 
 From thicket to thicket, the angler glides ; 
 Or the simpler comes, with basket and book, 
 For herbs of power on thy banks to look ; 
 Or haply some idle dreamer, like me, 
 To wander and muse and gaze on thee. 
 Still — save the chirp of the birds that feed 
 On the river cherry and seedy reed. 
 
27 
 
 And thy own wild music gushing out, 
 With mellow murmur and fairy shout, 
 From dawn to the blush of another day, 
 Like traveller singing along his way. 
 
 Bryant. 
 
 THE DROP OF DEW. 
 
 See how the orient dew. 
 
 Shed from the bosom of the morn 
 Into the blowing roses, 
 Yet careless of its mansion new, 
 
 For the clear region where 'twas born, 
 Round in itself incloses ; 
 
 And in its little globe's extent 
 
 Frames as it can its native element. 
 How it the purple flower does slight, 
 
 Scarce touching where it lies ; 
 
 But, gazing back upon the skies, 
 Shines with a mournful light, 
 
 Like its own tear. 
 
 Because so long divided from its sphere. 
 Restless it rolls and insecure, 
 Trembling lest it grow impure, 
 Till the warm sun pities its pain. 
 And to the skies exhales it back again. 
 
2S 
 
 So the soul, that drop, that ray, 
 
 Of the clear Fountain of Eternal Day,-^ 
 
 Could it within the human flower be seen,-^ 
 
 Remembering still its former height. 
 Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green ; 
 
 And, recollecting its own light. 
 Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express 
 The greater heaven in a heaven less. 
 In how coy a figure wound. 
 
 Every w^ay it turns away ; 
 So the world excluding round 
 
 Yet receiving in the day ; 
 Dark beneath, but bright above ; 
 Here disdaining, there in love ; 
 
 How loose and easy hence to go ; 
 How girt and ready to ascend ; ' 
 
 Moving but on a point below. 
 It all about does upward tend. 
 
 Andrew Marveli,, 
 
 INWARD GRATITUDE. 
 
 As few the gleams that here and there betray 
 The secret streamlet on its leaf-clad way, J 
 
 So faintest hints and tokens may express \ 
 
 Hearts poor in thanks, but rich in thankfulness. 
 
 Sterling. 
 
29 
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF ANIMALS.^ 
 
 The timorous hare, 
 Grown so familiar with her frequent guest, 
 Scarce shuns me ; and the stock-dove unalarmed 
 Sits cooing in the pine tree, nor suspends 
 His long love-ditty for my near approach. 
 Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm, 
 That age or injury has hollowed deep. 
 Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves, 
 He has outslept the winter, ventures forth. 
 To frisk awhile and bask in the warm sun. 
 The squirrel flippant, pert and full of play ; 
 He sees me, — and at once, swift as a bird, 
 Ascends the neighboring beech ; there whisks his 
 
 brush. 
 And perks his ears, and stamps, and cries aloud. 
 With all the prettiness of feigned alarm, 
 And anger insignificantly fierce. 
 
 The heart is hard in nature, and unfit 
 For human fellowship, as being void 
 Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike 
 To love and friendship both, that is not pleased 
 With sight of animals enjoying life,' 
 Nor feels their happiness augment his own. 
 The bounding fawn, that darts along the glade 
 When none pursues, through mere delight of heart, 
 And spirits buoyant with excess of glee ; 
 3* 
 
30 
 
 The horse, as wanton and almost as fleet, 
 That skims the spacious meadow at full speed. 
 Then stops and snorts, and, throwing high his heels, 
 Starts to the voluntary race again ; 
 The very kine, that gambol at high noon. 
 The total herd receiving first from one 
 That leads the dance, a summons to be gay ; 
 Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth 
 Their efforts, yet resolved, with one consent, 
 To give such act and utterance as they may 
 To ecstacy too big to be suppressed ; — 
 These and a thousand images of bliss, 
 With which kind Nature graces every scene, 
 Impart to the benevolent true joy. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES. 
 
 See the kitten on the wall. 
 Sporting with the leaves that fall. 
 Withered leaves, one — two — and three, 
 From the lofty elder tree ! 
 Through the calm and frosty air 
 Of this morning, bright and fair. 
 Eddying round and round, they sink 
 Softly, slowly ; one might think, 
 
31 
 
 From the motions that are made, 
 Every little leaf conveyed 
 Sylph or fairy hither tending, 
 To this lower world descending ; 
 Each invisible and mute 
 In his wavering parachute. 
 
 . . , But the kitten, how she starts, 
 Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts, 
 First at one, and then its fellow, 
 Just as light and just as yellow ; 
 There are many now — now one — 
 Now they stop, and there are none. 
 What intenseness of desire 
 In her upward eye of fire ! 
 With a tiger-leap, half way 
 Now she meets the coming prey, 
 Lets it go as fast, and then 
 Has it in her power again. 
 Were her antics played i' the eye 
 Of a thousand standers-by. 
 Clapping hands with shout and stare, 
 What would little Tabby care 
 For the plaudits of the crowd ? 
 Over happy to be proud, 
 Over wealthy in the treasure 
 Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
32 
 
 TO A WATER FOWL. 
 
 Whither, 'midst falling dew, 
 While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
 Par, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
 
 Thy solitary way ? 
 
 Vainly the fowler's eye 
 Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong. 
 As, darkly painted on the crimson sky. 
 
 Thy figure floats along. 
 
 Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
 Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
 Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
 
 On the chafed ocean side ? 
 
 There is a Power, whose care 
 Teaches thy way along that pathless coast — 
 The desert and illimitable air — 
 
 Lone wandering, but not lost. 
 
 All day thy wings have fanned 
 At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere, 
 Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
 
 Though the dark night is near. 
 
 And soon that toil shall end. 
 Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest 
 
33 
 
 And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend 
 Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. 
 
 Thou'rt gone ; the abyss of heaven 
 Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my heart 
 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
 
 And shall not soon depart. 
 
 He, who, from zone to zone, 
 Guides thro' the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
 In the long way that I must tread alone. 
 
 Will lead my steps aright. 
 
 Bryant, 
 
 THE SUMMER SHOWER. 
 
 The blazing sky is overcast, 
 Reviving nature breathes again ; 
 
 A grateful darkness gathers fast, 
 And brings the welcome rain. 
 
 Large drops now fall around. 
 
 And singly beat the dusty ground. 
 
 Now faster fall the drops 
 Pattering on forest tops. 
 As if innumerable feet 
 Upon the green roofs beat^ 
 All hastening to and fro 
 Love's ministry to do. 
 
34 
 
 Meekly the flower-spirits hold ! 
 
 Their cups of silver and of gold, — 
 
 Those delicate children of the sun, — ; 
 
 As if their sire for them had spun 
 
 Their robes — the lily's virgin hue, 
 
 The regal rose's crimson dye, .j 
 
 The violet's celestial blue, — 
 That, clad in beauty, they might woo j 
 
 The rain god, sweeping through the sky. 
 To fill their vessels with his precious dew. 
 
 See the transparent nectar swell, 
 Curving upon the brim ! 
 How far behind art's best essays ! 
 
 How poor Etruscan skill, 
 Seen and admired in far-famed vase, ] 
 
 Or urn with sculptured rim ! 
 
 Art imitates with feeble lines l 
 
 The forms that Nature's hand designs. 
 
 LUNT. ■• 
 
 SCENE AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER. 
 
 The rain is o'er, — How dense and bright 
 
 Yon pearly clouds repos'ng lie ! 
 Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight, I 
 
 Contrasting with the dark blue sky I 1 
 
 In grateful silence earth receives v I 
 
 The general blessing ; fresh and fair, - 
 
35 
 
 Each flower expands its little leaves, 
 As glad the common joy to share. 
 
 The softened sunbeams pour around 
 
 A fairy light, uncertain, pale ; 
 The wind blows cool ; the scented ground 
 
 Is breathing odors on the gale. 
 
 Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, 
 
 Methinks some spirit of the air 
 Might rest to gaze below awhile, 
 
 Then turn to bathe and revel there. 
 
 The sun breaks forth ; — from off the scene 
 Its floating veil of mist is flung ; 
 
 And all the wilderness of green 
 
 With trembling drops of light is hung. 
 
 Now gaze on Nature, — yet the same — 
 Glowing with life, by breezes fanned, 
 
 Luxuriant, lovely, as she came 
 
 Fresh in her youth from God's own hand. 
 
 Hear the rich music of that voice. 
 Which sounds from all, below, above ; 
 
 She calls her children to rejoice, 
 
 And round them throws her arms of love. 
 
 Drink in her influence ; — low-born care. 
 And all the train of mean desire 
 
 Refuse to breathe this holy air. 
 And mid this living light expire. 
 
 Norton. 
 
36 
 
 APRIL DAY. 
 
 All day the low-hung clouds have dropt 
 
 Their garnered fullness down ; 
 All day that soft, grey mist hath wrapt 
 
 Hill, valley, grove and town. 
 
 There has not been a sound to-day 
 
 To break the calm of nature ; 
 Nor motion, I might almost say. 
 
 Of life or living creature ; — 
 Of waving boughs, or warbling bird, 
 
 Or cattle faintly lowing ; — 
 I could have half believed I heard 
 
 The leaves and blossoms growing. 
 
 I stood to hear — I love it well — 
 
 The rain's continuous sound ; 
 Small drops, but thick and fast, they fell 
 
 Down straight into the ground. ".j 
 
 For leafy thickness is not yet 
 
 Earth's naked breast to screen. 
 Though every dripping branch is set 
 
 With shoots of tender green. 
 
 Sure, since I looked at early morn^ h 
 
 Those honeysuckle buds j 
 
 Have swelled to double growth ; that thorn j 
 
 Hath put forth larger studs. J 
 
37 
 
 That lilac's cleaving cones have burst, 
 The milk-white flowers revealing ; 
 
 Even now, upon my senses first 
 Methinks their sweets are stealing. 
 
 The very earth, the steamy air, 
 
 Are all with fragrance rife ; 
 And grace and beauty every where 
 
 Are flushing into life. 
 
 Down, down they come — those fruitful stores I 
 
 Those earth-rejoicing drops ! 
 A momentary deluge pours. 
 
 Then thins, decreases, stops. 
 And ere the dimples on the stream 
 
 Have circled out of sight, 
 Lo ! from the west, a parting gleam 
 
 Breaks forth, of amber light. 
 
 Blackwood's Magazine* 
 
 HYMN TO THE MOON. 
 
 Refulgent pilgrim of the sky. 
 
 Beneath thy march, within thy [sight, 
 
 What varied realms outstretching lie ! 
 Here landscape rich with glory bright 
 There lonely wastes of utter blight ; 
 
 The nightingale, upon the bough 
 
 Of cypress, here her song is pouring 
 4 
 
38 
 
 And there, begirt with mounts of snow, 
 For food the famished bear is roaming- 
 
 What marvel that the spirits high 
 
 Of eastern climes and ancient days, 
 Should hail thee as a deity, 
 
 And altars to thine honor raise ! 
 
 So lovely wert thou to the gaze 
 Of shepherds on Chaldean hills, 
 
 When summer flowers around were springing, 
 And when to thee a thousand rills 
 
 Throughout the quiet night were singing. 
 
 And lo ! the dwarfish Laplander, 
 
 Far from his solitary home, 
 Dismayed beholds the evening star, 
 
 While many a mile remains to roam ; i 
 
 Thou lightest up the eastern dome, i 
 
 And, in his deer-drawn chariot, he 
 
 Is hurled along the icy river ; 
 And leaps his sunken heart to see 
 
 The light in his own casement quiver.- | 
 
 I 
 
 Nor beautiful the less art thou, i 
 
 When ocean's gentlest breezes fan, 
 With gelid wing, the feverish glow * 
 
 That daylight sheds on Hindostan. 
 
 There, on the glittering haunts of man, 
 And on the amaranthine bowers. 
 
 The glory of thy smile reposes ; 
 
39 
 
 On hedge-rows, white with jessamine flowers, 
 And minarets o'erhung with roses. 
 
 The exile on a foreign shore 
 
 Dejected sits, and turns his eye 
 To thee, in beauty evermore, 
 
 Careering through a cloudless sky ; 
 
 A white cloud comes, and, passing by, 
 Veils thee a moment from his sight ; 
 
 Then, as he rests beneath the shadows, 
 He thinks of many as sweet a night. 
 
 When glad he roamed his native meadows, 
 
 Enthroned amid the cloudless blue, 
 
 Majestic, silent, and alone. 
 Above the fountains of the dew, 
 
 Thou glidest on, and glidest on. 
 
 To shoreless seas and lands unknown. 
 The presence of thy face appears. 
 
 Thou eldest-born of Beauty's daughters ! 
 A spirit traversing the spheres. 
 
 And ruling o'er the pathless waters. 
 
 Blackwood's Magazine. 
 
 SNOW. 
 
 Through the hushed air the whitening shower 
 
 descends. 
 At first thin wavering ; till at last the flakes 
 Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day 
 
40 
 
 With a continual flow. The cherished fields 
 Put on their winter robe of purest white. 
 'Tis brightness -all, save where the new snow melts \ 
 Along the mazy current. Low the woods 
 Bow their hoar head ; and, ere the languid sun : 
 Faint from the west emits his evening ray, ; 
 
 Earth's universal face, deep hid and chill, ? 
 
 Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide 
 The works of man. Drooping, the laborer ox 
 Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands 
 The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, 
 Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around 
 The winnowing store, and claim the little boon 
 Which Providence assigns them. One alone, 
 The red-breast, sacred to the household gods, 
 Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, 
 In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves ; 
 
 His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man .; 
 
 His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first i 
 
 Against the window beats ; then brisk alights 
 On the warm hearth ; then, hopping o'er the floor, i 
 Eyes all the smiling family askance, j 
 
 And pecks and starts and wonders where he is ; ' 
 Till, more familiar grown, the table crumbs I 
 
 Attract his slender feet. The bleating kind | 
 
 Eye the bleak heaven, and next the glistening earth, ' 
 With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad-dispersed, ] 
 Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow, j 
 
 Thomson, ' 
 
 I 
 i 
 
 i 
 
41 
 
 THE SNOW BIRDS. 
 
 How busy at work are the snow and the frost ! 
 
 The wintry winds cheerlessly blow ; 
 If a green little plant dares to peep forth its head, 
 
 It straightway is covered with snow. 
 
 In the midst of the storm from which we all shrink, 
 How blithely the snow bird is hopping ; 
 
 So tiny, it seems that its small spark of life 
 
 Might be quenched by each flake that is dropping. 
 
 Didst thou come to tell us of sunshine and bloom. 
 Of the seasons so bright and pleasant ? 
 
 A messenger sent by the Genius of spring, 
 A link 'tween the future and present ? 
 
 Or didst thou but come in a frolicking mood, 
 
 To ridicule comforts and fire ; 
 To laugh at proud man in his vain robes of fur, 
 
 " Thou poor, little, barefooted friar ?" 
 
 Sweet bird ! as I watch thee so gay mid the storm, 
 
 A moral instructer I see ; 
 Teaching us amid suffering, privation, suspense. 
 
 To be cheerful, confiding, like thee ; 
 
 Revealing the depth of a kind Father's love ; 
 
 Confirming the truth before taught, 
 
 'Mid the sternest, the dreariest season of life 
 
 The sparrov^r is never forgot. 
 40 
 
42 
 
 I think thou art sent in this dull, cheerless day, 
 When all things are locked up in frost, 
 
 By thy gladness and vigor and brightness to say 
 That the beauty of life is not lost. 
 
 And so when adversity chills o'er our soul, 
 And we scarcely with sorrow can cope. 
 
 There's ever some beautiful thought left untouched, 
 Some teacher of heaven and hope. 
 
 THE WOODS IN WINTER. 
 
 Winter boasts 
 Splendors beyond what gorgeous summer knows ; 
 Or autumn, with his many fruits and woods 
 All flushed with many hues. Come, when the rains 
 Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice; 
 While the slant sun of February pours 
 Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach ! 
 The encrusted surface shall bear up thy steps, 
 And the broad arching portals of the grove 
 W^elcome thy entering. Look ! the massy trunks 
 Are cased in the pure crystal ; each light spray, 
 Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven, 
 Is studded with its trembling water-drops. 
 That stream with rainbow radiance as they move. 
 But round the parent stem the long low boughs 
 
43 
 
 Bend in a glittering ring, and arbors hide 
 The grassy floor. Oh ! you might deem the spot 
 The spacious cavern of a virgin mine, 
 Deep in the breast of earth — where the gems grow, 
 And diamonds put forth radiant rods, and bud 
 With amethyst and topaz — and the place 
 Lit up most royally, with the pure beam 
 That dwells in them. Or haply the vast hall 
 Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night, 
 And fades not in the glory of the sun ; 
 Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts 
 And crossing arches ; and fantastic aisles 
 Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost 
 Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye — 
 Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault ; 
 There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud 
 Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams 
 Of spouting fountains frozen as they rose, 
 And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air, 
 And all their sluices sealed. All, all, is light ; 
 Light without shade. But all shall pass away 
 With the next sun. From numberless vast trunks 
 Loosened, the crushing ice shall make a sound 
 Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve 
 Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont. 
 
 Bryant. 
 
44 
 
 WHY SHINE THE STARS? 
 
 Now came still evening on, and twilight grey 
 Had in her sober livery all things clad ; 
 Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird, 
 They to their grassy couch, these to their nests 
 Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale ; 
 She all night long her amorous descant sung ; 
 Silence was pleased ; now glowed the firmament 
 With living sapphires ; Hesperus that led 
 The starry host, rode brightest, till the mqon, 
 Rising in clouded majesty, at length 
 Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, 
 And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 
 
 " Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
 With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun, 
 When first on this delightful land he spreads 
 His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit and flower, 
 Glistering with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth 
 After soft showers ; and sweet the coming on 
 Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night, 
 With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, 
 And these, the gems of heaven, her starry train. 
 But wherefore all night long shine these ? for whom 
 This glorious sight,when sleep hath shut all eyes ? " 
 
 To whom our general ancestor replied ; 
 
 ^' Daughter of God and man, accomplished Eve, 
 
 These have their course to finish round the earth 
 
45 
 
 By morrow evening, and from land to land 
 In order, though to nations yet unborn, 
 Ministering light prepared, they set and rise ; 
 Lest total darkness should by night regain 
 Her old possession, and extinguish life 
 In nature and all things ; which these soft fires 
 Not only enlighten, but with kindly heat 
 Of various influence, foment and warm, 
 Temper or nourish, or in part shed down 
 Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow 
 On earth, made hereby apter to receive 
 Perfection from the sun's more potent ray. 
 These then, though unbeheld in deep of night, 
 Shine not in vain ; nor think, tho' men were none, 
 That heaven would want spectators, God want 
 
 praise : 
 Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 
 Unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep ; 
 All these, with ceaseless praise his works behold 
 Both day and night. How often from the steep 
 Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard 
 Celestial voices to the midnight air. 
 Sole, or responsive each to other's note, 
 Singing their great Creator ! oft in bands 
 While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk^ 
 With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds 
 In full harmonic number joined, their songs 
 Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven.'* 
 
 MiLTDN. 
 
46 
 
 ON HIS BLINDNESS. 
 
 When I consider how my life is spent 
 
 Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 
 And that one talent, which is death to hide, 
 Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
 To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
 My true account, lest he returning chide ; 
 Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ? 
 I fondly ask ; but patience, to prevent 
 That murmur, soon replies, God doth need 
 
 Either man's work or his own gift ; who best 
 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best ; his state 
 Is kingly ; thousands at His bidding speed, 
 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
 They also serve who only stand and wait. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 THE FROST. 
 
 I 
 
 The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, 
 And whispered, *' Now I shall be out of sight ; 
 So through the valley and over the height 
 
 In silence I'll take my way ; 
 I will not go like that blustering train, J 
 
 The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, : 
 Who make so much bustle and noise in vain : j 
 
 But I'll be as busy as they. J 
 
47 
 
 Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its 
 
 crest ; 
 He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest 
 In diamond beads ; and over the breast 
 
 Of the quivering lake, he spread 
 A coat of mail, that it need not fear 
 'The downward point of many a spear. 
 That he hung on its margin, far and near, 
 
 Where a rock coilld rear its head. 
 
 He went to the windows of those who slept, 
 And over each pane, like a fairy, crept ; 
 Wherever he breathed, wherever he stopped. 
 
 By the light of the moon were seen 
 Most beautiful things ; there were flowers and trees ; 
 There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees ; 
 There were cities with temples and towers ; and 
 these 
 
 All pictured in silver sheen; 
 
 But he did one thing that was hardly fair ; 
 He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there 
 That all had forgotten for him to prepare, 
 
 " Now just to set them a-thinking, 
 I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, 
 " This costly pitcher I'll burst in three ; 
 And the glass of water they 've left for me 
 
 Say ' tchick ! ' to tell them I'm drinking ! " 
 
 Miss Gould. 
 
48 
 
 THE NINETEENTH PSALM. 
 
 The spacious firmament on high, 
 
 With all the blue ethereal sky, 
 
 And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
 
 Their great Original proclaim ; 
 
 The unwearied sun, from day to day, 
 
 Does his Creator's power display, 
 
 And publishes to every land 
 
 The work of an Almighty Hand. 
 
 Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
 The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
 And nightly to the listening earth 
 Hepeats the story of her birth ; 
 While all the stars that round her burn, 
 And all the planets in their turn, 
 Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
 And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
 
 What though in solemn silence all 
 Move round this dark terrestrial ball ! 
 What though no real voice, nor sound 
 Amid their radiant orbs be found ! 
 In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
 And utter forth a glorious voice, 
 For ever singing, as they shine, 
 *' The Hand that made us is divine. "^ 
 
 Addison, 
 
49 
 
 SWEET i)AY, SO COOL, SO CALM, SO BRIGHT; 
 
 Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so brightj 
 The bridal of the earth and sky. 
 Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night, 
 
 For thou must die. 
 
 Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 
 Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
 Thy root is ever in its grave. 
 
 And thou must die. 
 
 Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses ; 
 A box where sweets compacted lie ; 
 My music shows you have your closes. 
 
 And all must die; 
 
 Only a sweet and virtuous soul. 
 Like seasoned timber, never gives, 
 But when the whole world turns to coal 
 
 Then chiefly lives. 
 
 Herbert. 
 
 SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 It is not only in the sacred fane 
 
 That homage should be paid to the Most High : 
 
 There is a temple, one not made with hands, — 
 
 The vaulted firmament ; far in the woods, 
 5 
 
50 
 
 Almost beyond the sound of city chime, 
 At intervals heard through the breezeless air ;' 
 When not the limberest leaf is seen to move, ? 
 
 Save where the linnet lights upon the spray ; ' 
 
 When not a floweret bends its little stalk, ' 
 
 Save where the bee alights upon the bloom ; — ■ 
 There, rapt in gratitude, in joy and love, i 
 
 The man of God will pass the Sabbath noon : 
 Silence his praise, his disembodied thoughts. 
 Loosed from the load of words, will high ascend! 
 Beyond the empyrean. 
 
 Nor yet less pleasing at the Heavenly Throne, 
 The Sabbath service of the shepherd boy. 
 In some lone glen, where every sound is lulled 
 To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill, I 
 
 Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry, ]] 
 
 Stretched on the sward, he reads of Jesse's son, | 
 Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold ; ; 
 
 And wonders why he weeps. The volume closed,, j 
 With thyme sprig laid between the leaves, he sings- , 
 The sacred lays, his weekly lesson conned t 
 
 With meikle care beneath the lowly roof, | 
 
 Where humble lore is learned, where humble worth 
 Pines unrewarded by a thankless state. ^ 
 
 Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen, 1 
 
 The shepherd-boy the Sabbath holy keeps, . 
 
 Till, on the heights, he marks the straggling bands ; 
 Returning homeward from the house of prayer. ] 
 
 GrahamEv 
 
51 
 
 HYMN OF THE CITY. 
 
 Not in the solitude 
 Alone may man commune with heaven, or see 
 
 Only in savage wood 
 And sunny vale the present Deity, 
 
 Or only hear His voice 
 Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice. 
 
 Even here do I behold 
 Thy steps, Almighty ! — here, amidst the crowd 
 
 Through the great city rolled, 
 With everlasting murmur, deep and loud, 
 
 Choking the ways that wind 
 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. 
 
 Thy golden sunshine comes 
 From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies., 
 
 And lights their inner homes ; 
 For them Thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, 
 
 And givest them the stores 
 Of ocean, and the harvest of its shores. 
 
 Thy spirit is around. 
 Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along ; 
 
 And this eternal sound — 
 Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng — 
 
 Like the resounding sea. 
 Or, like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee. 
 
52 
 
 And when the hours of rest 
 Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, 
 
 Hushing its billowy breast, 
 The spirit of that moment too is Thine ; 
 
 It. breathes of Him who keeps 
 The vast and helpless city while it sleeps. 
 
 Bryant. 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY I^IGHT.* 
 
 November chill bloAvs loud with angry sugh ; 
 The shortening winter day is near a close ; 
 
 The miry beasts retreating frae the plough ; 
 The blackening trains of crows to their repose ; 
 The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes, 
 
 This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
 Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes, 
 
 Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
 And weary, o'er the moor, his course does homer 
 ward bend. 
 
 At length his lonely cot appears in view. 
 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
 
 The expectant wee things, todlin, stacher thro^ 
 To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee. 
 His wee bit ingle blinkin' bonnily, 
 
 His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, 
 The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
 
53 
 
 Does all his weary, carking cares beguile, 
 And make him quite forget his labor and his toil. 
 
 Belyve the elder bairns come dropping in, 
 At service out among the farmers roun' ; 
 
 Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 
 A cannie errand to a neebor town ; 
 Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown. 
 
 In youthful bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
 Comes home, perhaps to show a braw new gown, 
 
 Or deposite her sair-won penny fee. 
 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 
 
 Wi' joy unfeigned brothers and sisters meet, 
 An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers ; 
 
 The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet ; 
 Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
 The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 
 
 Anticipation forward points the view. 
 The mother, with her needle and her shears, 
 
 Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
 The father mixes a' with admonition due. 
 
 Their master's an' their mistress's command 
 The younkers all are warned to obey, 
 
 An' mind their labors with an eydent hand. 
 And ne'er, though out of sight, to jauk or play ; 
 " An' ! be sure to fear the Lord alway I 
 
 An' mind your duty duly morn an' night ! — 
 Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
 5° 
 
54 
 
 Implore His counsel an' assisting might ; 
 They never sought in vain that sought the Lord 
 aright !" 
 
 But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 
 Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
 
 Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor 
 To do some errands, and convoy her hame, 
 The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
 
 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
 With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, 
 
 While Jenny haffiins is afraid to speak ; 
 Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wildj 
 worthless rake. 
 
 Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben, 
 A strappan youth, he takes the mother's eye ; 
 
 Blythe Jenny sees the visit's not ill ta'en ; 
 The father cracks of horses, pleughs and kye. 
 The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. 
 
 But, blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; 
 The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
 
 What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; 
 Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like 
 the lave. 
 
 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face 
 They round the ingle form a circle wide ; 
 
 The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace 
 The big ha' bible, ance his father's pride ; 
 His bonnet reverently is laid aside. 
 
55 
 
 His lyart haffets wearing- thin an' bare ; 
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 
 
 He wales a portion with judicious care, 
 And ' Let us worship God'!' he says, with solemn 
 air. 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
 They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
 
 Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise^ 
 Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; 
 Or noble Elgin bears the heavenward flame, 
 
 The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
 Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 
 
 The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise, 
 Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 
 
 The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
 How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
 
 Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
 With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
 Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
 
 Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
 Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry; 
 
 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, prophetic fire ; 
 Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 
 
 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
 How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
 
 How he, who bore in heaven the second name. 
 Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 
 
56 
 
 How his first followers and servants sped ; 
 
 The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; 
 How he who lone in Patmos banished, 
 
 Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
 And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by 
 Heaven's command. 
 
 Then, kneeling down, to heaven's eternal King 
 The saint, the father, and the husband prays ; 
 
 Hope ' springs exulting on triumphant wing,' 
 That thus they all shall meet in future days ; 
 There ever bask in uncreated rays. 
 
 No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 
 Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
 
 In such society, yet still more dear. 
 While circling time moves round in an eternal 
 sphere. 
 
 Then homeward all take off their several way, 
 The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
 
 The parent pair their secret homage pay, 
 And proffer up to Heaven the warm request 
 That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, 
 
 And decks the lily fair in flowery pride. 
 Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best. 
 
 For them and for their little ones provide ; 
 But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 J 
 
57 
 
 HYMN OF A HERMIT, 
 
 Thou, Lord ! who rear'st the mountains' height, 
 And mak'st the cliff with sunshine bright, 
 Oh grant that I may own thy hand 
 No less in every grain of sand ! 
 
 2 
 
 With forests huge of dateless time 
 Thy will hath hung each peak sublime ; 
 But withered leaves beneath a tree 
 Have tongues that tell as loud of Thee. 
 
 3 
 
 While clouds to clouds through ages call, 
 Thou pour'st the thundering waterfall ; 
 But every silent drop of dew 
 Reflects thy ordered world to view. 
 
 4 
 
 In all the immense, the strange, the old, 
 Thy presence careless men behold ; 
 In all the little, weak, and mean. 
 By faith be thou as clearly seen. 
 
 5 
 
 Teach, Thou! that not a leaf can gro\v 
 Till life from thee within it flo\v ; 
 
58 
 
 That not a speck of dust can be, 
 O Fount of Being ! save by thee. 
 
 6 
 
 Instruct my soul, by shows distraught, 
 
 Too vast and loud for peaceful thought, 
 That every quiet mote and gleam 
 With Thee, to musing spirits, beam, 
 
 7 
 Inspire me. Thou, in every glance 
 Of all our dreams confuse as chance, 
 In every change of mortal things. 
 To see a power from thee that springs. 
 
 8 
 In every human word and deed, 
 Each flash of feeling, will, or creed, 
 To know a plan ordained above, 
 Begun and ending all in love. 
 
 9 
 
 So smallest bubbles here on earth 
 With me shall claim a heavenly birth, 
 And each faint atom passing by 
 Seem bright with thine eternal eye. 
 
 10 
 
 So best we learn what light sublime 
 Is hid within the clouds of time, 
 Whose darkness, dreadful though it be, 
 From those who seek conceals not Thee. 
 
 Sterling, 
 
59 
 
 TO WILLIAM.=^ 
 
 It seems but yesterday, my love, thy little heart beat high,- 
 
 And I had almost scorned the voice that told me thou 
 
 must die : 
 I saw thee move with active bound, with spirits wild and 
 
 free. 
 And infant grace and beauty gave their glorious charm 
 
 to thee. 
 
 Far on the sunny plains I saw thy sparkling footsteps fly, 
 
 Fair, light, and graceful, as the bird that cleaves the 
 
 morning sky ; 
 And often, as the playful breeze waved back thy shining 
 
 hair, 
 Thy cheek displayed the red-rose tint that health had 
 
 painted there. 
 
 And then in all my thoughtfulness, I could not but rejoice 
 To hear upon the morning wind the music of thy voice, — 
 Now echoing in the rapturous laugh, now sad almost to 
 
 tears ; 
 'Twas like the sounds I used to hear in old and happier 
 
 years. 
 
 I loved thee, and my heart was blest ; but, ere that day 
 
 was spent, 
 I saw thy light and graceful form in drooping illness benty 
 And shuddered as I cast a look upon thy fainting head ; 
 The mournful cloud was gathering there, and life was 
 
 almost fled. 
 
60 
 
 And when I could not keep the tear from gathering in my' 
 
 eye, 
 *rhy little hand pressed gently mine in token of reply ; : 
 To ask one more exchange of love thy look was upward 
 
 cast, 
 And in that long and burning kiss thy happy spirit passed. 
 
 W. B. 0. Peabody. , 
 
 TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 
 
 Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew, ! 
 
 And colored with the heavens' own hue, 
 That openest when the quiet light 
 Succeeds the keen and frosty night. 
 
 Thou comest not when violets lean 
 
 O'er wandering brooks and springs unseerl^ 
 
 Or columbines, in purple drest, 
 
 Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. , 
 
 Thou waitest late, and comest alone, 
 When woods are bare and birds are floXvn, 
 And frosts and shortening days portend 
 The aged year is near its end. 
 
 Then doth thy sWeet and quiet eye 
 
 Look through its fringes to the sky, ]{ 
 
 Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall i 
 
 A flower from its cerulean wall. ■* 
 
 Bryant. 
 
61 
 
 RELIGION OF ANCIENT GREECE. 
 
 In that fair clime, the lonely herdsman, stretched! 
 
 On the soft grass through half a summer's day, 
 
 With music lulled his indolent repose ; 
 
 And, in some fit of weariness, if he, 
 
 When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear' 
 
 A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds 
 
 Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetched!,. 
 
 Even from the blazing chariot of the sun, 
 
 A beardless youth, Vv^io touched a golden lute, 
 
 And filled the illumined groves with ravishment. 
 
 The nightly hunter, lifting up his eyes 
 
 Towards the crescent moon, with grateful heart 
 
 Called on the lovely wanderer, who bestowed 
 
 That timely light to share his joyous sport ; 
 
 And hence a beaming goddess with her nymphs. 
 
 Across the lawn and through the darksome grove 
 
 Swept in the storm of chase, as moon and stars 
 
 Glance rapidly along the clouded heavens. 
 
 When winds are blowing strong. The traveller 
 
 slaked 
 
 His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked 
 
 The Naiad. Sunbeams, upon distant hills 
 
 Gliding apace, with shadows in their train. 
 
 Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed 
 
 Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly. 
 6 
 
62 
 
 The Zephyrs, fanning as they passed, their wings, 
 Lacked not for love fair objects, whom they wooed 
 With gentle whispers. Withered boughs grotesque^ 
 Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age^ 
 From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth 
 In the low vale, or on steep mountain side, 
 And sometimes intermixed Avith stirring horns 
 Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard ; 
 These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood 
 Of gamesome deities ; or Pan himself, 
 The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring God t 
 
 Wordsworth^ 
 
 I SEE THEE STILL. 
 
 I SEE thee still ; 
 Remembrance, faithful to her trust. 
 Calls thee in beauty from the dust; 
 Thou comest in the morning light, 
 Thou'rt with me through the gloomy nightV 
 In dreams I meet thee as of old ; 
 Then thy soft arms my neck enfold, 
 And thy sweet voice is in my ear ; 
 In every scene to memory dear, 
 
 I see thee still. 
 
 I see thee still, 
 In every hallowed token round ; 
 This little ring thy finger bound, 
 
63 
 
 This lock of hair thy forehead shaded, 
 This silken chain by thee was braided, 
 These flowers, all withered now like thee, 
 Sweet Sister, .thou didst cull for me ; 
 This book was thine ; here didst thou read ; 
 This picture, ah I yes, here, indeed, 
 I see thee still. 
 
 I see thee still ; 
 Here was thy summer noon's retreat, 
 Here was thy favorite fireside seat ; 
 This was thy chamber — here, each day, 
 I sat and watched thy sad decay ; 
 Here, on this bed, thou last didst lie, 
 Here, on this pillow — thou didst die. 
 Dark hour ! once more its woes unfold ; 
 As then I saw thee, pale and cold, 
 
 I see thee still. 
 
 I see thee still ; 
 Thou art not in the grave confined — 
 Death cannot claim the immortal mind ; 
 Let Earth close o'er its sacred trust, 
 But goodness dies not in the dust ; 
 Thee, my Sister, 'tis not thee 
 Beneath the coffin's lid I see; 
 Thou to a fairer land art gone ; 
 There, let me hope, my journey done, 
 
 To see thee still ! 
 
 SPRAGUE. 
 
64 
 
 THE DEAF. 
 
 There, beneath 
 A plain blue stone, a gentle dalesman lies, 
 From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn 
 The precious gift of hearing. He grew up 
 Prom year to year in loneliness of soul ; 
 And this deep mountain valley was to him 
 Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn 
 Did never rouse this cottager from sleep 
 With startling summons ; not for his delight 
 The vernal cuckoo shouted ; not for him 
 Murmured the laboring bee. 'Mid stormy winds, 
 The agitated scene before his eye 
 Was silent as a picture ; evermore 
 Were all things silent, wheresoe'er he moved. 
 Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts 
 Upheld, he duteously pursued the round 
 Of rural labors ; the steep mountain side 
 Ascended with his staff and faithful dog ; 
 The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed ; 
 And the ripe corn before his sickle fell 
 Among the jocund reapers. 
 
 His books 
 Were ready comrades whom he could not tire ; 
 Of whose society the blameless man 
 Was never satiate. Their familiar voice, 
 JSven to old age, with unabated charm, 
 
65 
 
 Beguiled his leisure hours, and bestowed 
 
 Upon his life an outward dignity, 
 
 Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night, 
 
 The stormy day, had each its own resource. 
 
 Thus soothed at home,. thus busy in. the field, 
 
 To no perverse suspicion he gave way. 
 
 No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint, 
 
 And they who were about him did not fail 
 
 In reverence or in courtesy ; they prized 
 
 His gentle manners ; — and his peaceful smiles, 
 
 The gleams of his slow-varying countenance, 
 
 Were met with ansAvering sympathy and love. 
 
 At length, when sixty years and five were told, 
 
 A slow disease insensibly consumed 
 
 The powers of nature : and a few short steps 
 
 Of friends and kindred bore him from his home 
 
 To the profounder stillness of the grave. 
 
 And now that monumental stone preserves 
 
 His name, and unambitiously relates 
 
 How long, and by what kindly outward aids, 
 
 And in what pure contentedness of mind, 
 
 The sad privation was by him endured. 
 
 And yon tall pine tree, whose composing sound 
 
 Was wasted on the good man's living ear. 
 
 Hath now its own peculiar sanctity ; 
 
 And, at the touch of every wandering breeze. 
 
 Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 6« 
 
66 
 
 ON A GIRL, 
 
 LEADING HER BLIND MOTHER THROUGH THE WOOD.* 
 
 The green leaves, as we pass. 
 Lay their light fingers on thee unaware, 
 And by thy side the hazels cluster fair, 
 
 And the low forest grass 
 Grows green and silken where the wood-paths wind; 
 Alas for thee, dear mother ! thou art blind ! 
 
 The moon's new silver shell 
 Trembles above thee, and the stars float up 
 In the blue air, and the rich tulip's cup 
 
 Is pencilled passing well. 
 And the swift birds on glorious pinions flee ; — 
 Alas, sweet mother ! that thou canst not see ! 
 
 And the kind looks of friends 
 Peruse the sad expression in thy face, 
 And the child stops amid his bounding race, 
 
 And the tall stripling bends 
 Low to thine ear with duty unforgot ; — 
 Alas, sweet mother ! that thou seest them not ! 
 
 But thou canst hear ; and love 
 May richly on a human tone be poured, 
 And the least cadence of a whispered word 
 
67 
 
 A daughter's love may prove ; 
 And while I speak thou knowest if I smile, 
 Albeit thou canst not see my face the while. 
 
 Yes ! thou canst hear, and He, 
 Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung, 
 To the attentive ear, like harps, hath strung 
 
 Heaven and earth and sea ; 
 And 'tis a lesson to our hearts to know 
 With but one sense the soul may overflow. 
 
 Willis. 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN.^ 
 
 I MET a little cottage girl ; 
 She was eight years old, she said ; 
 Her hair was thick with many a curl 
 That clustered round her head. 
 
 She had a rustic, woodland air. 
 And she was wildly clad ; 
 Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; 
 Her beauty made me glad. 
 
 Sisters and brothers, little maid, 
 How many may you be ? 
 " How many ? Seven in all," she said, 
 And wondering looked at me. 
 
68 
 
 And where are they ? I pray you tell. 
 She answered, " Seven are we ; 
 And two of us at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 
 " Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
 My sister and my brother; 
 And in the churchyard cottage, I 
 Dwell near them with my mother." 
 
 You say that two at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 Yet ye are seven ? I pray you tell. 
 Sweet maid, how this may be ? 
 
 Then did the little maid reply, 
 " Seven boys and girls are we ; 
 Two of us in the churchyard lie 
 Beneath the churchyard tree." 
 
 You run about, my little maid. 
 Your limbs they are alive ; 
 If two are in the churchyard laid. 
 Then ye are only five. 
 
 " Their graves are green, they may be seen," 
 The little maid replied ; 
 " Twelve steps or more from mother's door, 
 And they are side by side. 
 
 " My stockings there I often knit. 
 My kerchief there I hem ; 
 
69 
 
 And there upon the ground I sit — 
 I sit and sing to them. 
 
 *' And often after sunset, sir, 
 When it is light and fair, 
 I take my little porringer 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
 " The first that died was little Jane ; 
 In bed she moaning lay, 
 Till God released her of her pain ; 
 And then she went away. 
 
 *' So in the churchyard she was laid ; 
 And all the summer dry 
 Together round her grave we played, 
 My brother John and I. 
 
 " And when the ground was white with snow, 
 And I could run and slide, 
 My brother John was forced to go ; 
 And he lies by her side." 
 
 How many are you then, said I, 
 If they two are in Heaven ? 
 The little maiden did reply, 
 *' O master ! we are seven." 
 
 But they are dead ; those two are dead ; 
 Their spirits are in Heaven ! 
 'Twas throwing words away, for still 
 The little maid would have her will, 
 And said, " Nay, we are seven." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
70 
 
 TO HIS SON, SIX YEARS OLD; 
 
 DURING SICKNESS.^ 
 
 Sleep breathes at last from out thee, 
 
 My little patient boy ; 
 And balmy rest about thee 
 Smooths oJEf the day's annoy. 
 
 I sit me down and think 
 Of all thy winning ways ; 
 Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, 
 That I had less to praise. 
 
 Thy sidelong pillowed meekness, 
 
 Thy thanks to all that aid, 
 Thy heart, in pain and weakness, 
 Of fancied faults afraid, 
 
 The little trembling hand 
 That wipes thy quiet tears, — 
 These, these are things that may demand 
 Dread memories for years. 
 
 Sorrows I've had, severe ones, 
 
 I will not think of now ; 
 And calmly, midst my dear ones, 
 Have wasted with dry brow ; 
 But when thy fingers press 
 And pat my stooping head, 
 I cannot bear the gentleness, — 
 The tears are in their bed. 
 
71 
 
 Ah ! still he's fixed and sleeping I 
 
 This silence too the while, — 
 Its very hush and creeping 
 Seem whispering as a smile : 
 Something divine and dim 
 Seems going by one's ear, 
 Like parting wings of Cherubim, 
 
 Who say, " We've finished here.'^ 
 
 • Leigh Hunt* 
 
 WEE WILLIE.=^ 
 
 Fake thee well, our last and fairest ! 
 
 Dear wee Willie, fare thee well ! 
 He, who lent thee, hath recalled thee 
 
 Back with Him and his to dwell. 
 Fifteen moons their silver lustre 
 
 Only o'er thy brow had shed. 
 When thy spirit joined the seraphs, 
 
 And thy dust the dead. 
 
 Like a sunbeam, through our dwelling, 
 Shone thy presence bright and calm ! 
 
 Thou didst add a zest to pleasure. 
 To our sorrows thou wert balm ; 
 
 Brighter beamed thine eyes that summer ; 
 And thy first attempts at speech 
 
72 
 
 Thrilled our heart-strings with a rapture 
 Music ne'er could reach. 
 
 As we gazed upon thee sleeping, 
 
 With thy fine, fair locks outspread, 
 Thou didst seem a little angel, 
 
 Who from heaven to earth had strayed j 
 And, entranced, we watched the vision, 
 
 Half in hope and half affright, 
 Lest what we deemed ours, and earthly, 
 
 Should dissolve in light. 
 
 Snows o'ermantled hill and valley, 
 
 Sullen clouds begrimed the sky. 
 When the first drear doubt oppressed us. 
 
 That our child was doomed to die ; 
 Through each long night-watch, the taper 
 
 Showed the hectic of thy cheek ; 
 And each anxious dawn beheld thee 
 
 More worn-out and weak. 
 
 Then our Father's last kind angel 
 
 Shook his pinions o'er our path. 
 Touched the rosiest of our household, 
 
 Closed his merry eyes in death ; 
 Quickly was the call repeated, 
 
 Dearest blessings to resign. 
 For we turned from Charlie's death-bed^ 
 
 Willie, round to thine* 
 
73 
 
 As the beams of spring's first morning' 
 
 Through the silent chamber played, 
 Lifeless, in mine arms I raised thee, 
 
 And in thy small coffin laid ; 
 Ere the day-star with the darkness 
 
 Nine times had triumphant striven, 
 In one grave had met your ashes, 
 
 And your souls in Heaven ! 
 
 Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms 
 
 Of our hopes and hearts and hearth ; 
 Two asleep lie buried under — 
 
 Three for us yet gladden earth ; 
 Thee, our hyacinth, gay Charlie, 
 
 Willie, thee our snowdrop pure, 
 Back to us shall second spring-time 
 
 Never more allure ! 
 
 Yet while thinking, O our lost ones ! 
 
 Of how dear ye were to us. 
 Why should dreams of doubt and darkness 
 
 Haunt our troubled spirits thus ? 
 Why, across the cold dim churchyard, 
 
 Flit our visions of despair ? 
 Seated on the tomb. Death's angel 
 
 Says, ye are not there. 
 
 Where then are ye ? With the Savior 
 Blest, for ever blest, are ye, 
 
74 
 
 Mid the sinless little childreri, 
 
 Who have heard his ' Come to me !* 
 
 *Yond the shades of death's still valley, 
 Now ye lean upon his breast, 
 
 Where the wicked dare not enter, 
 And the weary rest. 
 
 MoiR. 
 
 Even with the certainty of marring the exquisite 
 beauty of this little poem, I have ventured to sub- 
 stitute for the fifth stanza, as it stands in the orig- 
 inal, another, whose poetic merit consists only in 
 what it has borrowed from that, but which seems to 
 me to convey a truer sentiment with regard to that 
 solemn event, which, as the greatest, must be the 
 most beautiful, circumstance of our earthly lot ; and 
 to invest which with images of gloom and terror 
 seems as much at variance with the trustful spirit of 
 Christianity, as it is accordant with the practice of 
 Christendom. Such a stanza as this fails to express 
 our best thought : 
 
 'Twas even then Destruction's angel 
 
 Shook his pinions o'er our path. 
 Seized the rosiest of our household, 
 
 And struck Charlie down in death. 
 Fearful, awful Desolation 
 
 On our lintel set his sign ; 
 And we turned from his sad death-bed, 
 
 Willie, round to thine ! 
 
75 
 
 MARY'S SMILE. 
 
 For many an anxious, weary day 
 Not one glad smile is seen to play 
 
 Around this pallid face ; 
 For here disease has set its seal, 
 And slowly from the features steal 
 
 Each beam, each radiant grace. 
 
 The languid form, the drooping eye, 
 The fevered lip and frequent sigh 
 
 Speak to us of decay ; 
 And while we watch her fluttering breath, 
 It seems the angel-wing of Death 
 
 To bear her soul away. 
 
 All tenderest thoughts are inly stirred, 
 And prayer ascends, although unheard 
 
 Save by the Ever-nigh, 
 That He, who watches over all, 
 And sees the sparrows when they fall, 
 
 Would listen to our cry ; 
 
 And save this gentle babe from death. 
 And give again the healthful breath 
 
 Which seems so nearly spent ; 
 That all the joys which she may bring, 
 And all the hopes which round her cling 
 
 May longer still be lent. 
 
76 
 
 But see ! a light is round her playing, 
 Its radiance o'er her features straying, — 
 
 A smile is on her brow ; 
 As if too full of Heaven it were 
 To linger for a moment there, 
 
 'Tis seen — and vanished now. 
 
 Does some kind spirit whisper there 
 Of happy home, a Father's care. 
 
 And bliss to be revealed ? 
 Or does some angel-form appear 
 That little fainting heart to cheer, 
 
 From our dull sense concealed ? 
 
 We may not pierce the thoughts which lie, 
 Deep hidden in their mystery. 
 
 Within the infant soul ; 
 Nor search among the treasures rare 
 Which may be fitly garnered there. 
 
 Untouched by earth's control. 
 
 That token-smile may dimly show 
 Deep things, we cannot clearly know 
 
 By earthly stains defiled ; 
 If, trustless, we in anguish sore 
 Should grieve to see her face no more, 
 
 Yet happy is the child. 
 
77 
 
 LINES TO MY CHILDREN.^ 
 
 My babes ! no more I'll behold ye ! 
 
 Little think ye how he, ye once loved, 
 Your father, who oft did enfold ye 
 
 With all that a parent ere proved, 
 
 How with many a pang he is saddened, 
 
 How many a tear he has shed, 
 For the eight human blossoms that gladdened 
 
 His path, and his table, and bed ; 
 
 And who — can I finish my story ! 
 
 Has seen them all shrink from his grasp ; 
 Departed the crown of his glory; 
 
 No wife and no children to clasp. 
 
 Ah ! all the dear names I have uttered, 
 
 And all the most sacred caresses, 
 The frolicsome nothings I've muttered. 
 
 In a mood that sheds tears while it blesses ; 
 
 The kisses so fond I have given. 
 
 The plump little arm's cleaving twine. 
 
 The bright eye, whose language was heaven, 
 The rose on the cheek pressed to mine ; 
 
 Its warmth that seemed pregnant with spirit ; — 
 
 The little feet's fond interlacing, 
 •7* 
 
78 
 
 While others pressed forward to inherit 
 The place of the one thus embracing ; 
 
 The breast that with pleasure was troubled 
 Since no words were to speak it availing, 
 
 Till the bliss of the heart was redoubled 
 As in smiles on the lips 'twas exhaling ; 
 
 The girl, who to sleep when consigned, 
 The promised kiss still recollected ; 
 
 And no sleep on her pillow could find 
 If her father's farewell were neglected ; 
 
 Who asked me, when infancy's terrors 
 
 Assailed her, to sit by her bed ; 
 And for the past day's little errors 
 
 On my cheek tears of penitence shed ; 
 
 Those innocent tears of repentance. 
 
 More pure e'en than smiles without sin, 
 
 Since they mark with what delicate sentence 
 Childhood's conscience pronounces within ; 
 
 The dear little forms, one by one, 
 
 Some in beds closely-coupled half sleeping,- 
 While the cribbed infant nestled alone — 
 
 Whose heads, at my coming, all peeping, 
 
 Betrayed that the pulse of each heart 
 
 Of my foot's stealing fall knew the speech ; 
 
 While all would not let me depart. 
 Till the kiss was bestowed upon each ; 
 
79 
 
 The boy who, when walking and musing, 
 
 And thinking myself quite alone, 
 Would follow the path I was choosing, 
 
 And thrust his dear hand in my own ; 
 
 Were these not as the rays that are twinkling 
 On the waves of some clear, haunted stream ? 
 
 Were ye not as the stars that are sprinkling 
 Night's firmament, dark without them ? 
 
 Lloyd. 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 Dear Child ! whom sleep can hardly tame, 
 As live and beautiful as flame. 
 Thou glancest round my graver hours 
 As if thv crown of wild-wood flowers 
 Were not by mortal forehead worn. 
 But on the summer-breeze were borne. 
 Or on a mountain streamlet's waves 
 Came glistening down from dreamy caves. 
 
 With bright, round cheek, amid whose glow 
 Delight and wonder come and go, 
 And eyes whose inward meanings play, 
 Congenial with the light of day. 
 And brow so calm, a home for thought 
 Before he knows his dwelling wronght ; 
 
80 
 
 Though wise indeed thou seemest not 
 Thou brightenest well the wise man's lot. 
 
 That shout proclaims the undoubting mind, 
 That laughter leaves no ache behind ; 
 And in thy look and dance of glee, 
 Unforced, unthought of, simply free, 
 How weak the schoolman's formal art 
 Thy soul and body's bliss to part ! 
 I hail thee Childhood's very lord, 
 In gaze and glance, in voice and word. 
 
 In spite of all foreboding fear, 
 A thing thou art of present cheer ; 
 And thus to be beloved and known 
 As -is a fountain's rushy tone. 
 As is the forest's leafy shade. 
 Or blackbird's hidden serenade : 
 Thou art a flash that lights the whole ; 
 A gush from nature's vernal soul. 
 
 And yet, dear Child I within thee lives, 
 A power that deeper feeling gives, 
 That makes thee more than light or air. 
 Than all things sweet, and all things fair ; 
 And sweet and fair as ought may be, 
 Diviner life belongs to thee, 
 For mid thine aimless joys began 
 The perfect heart and will of Man. 
 
 Thus what thou art foreshows to me 
 How greater far thou soon shalt be ; 
 
81 
 
 And while amid thy garlands blow 
 The winds that warbling come and go, 
 Ever within, not loud but clear, 
 Prophetic murmur fills the ear, 
 And says that every human birth 
 Anew discloses God to earth. 
 
 Sterling- 
 
 A LAY OF FAIRY LAND. 
 
 It is upon the Sabbath-day, at rising of the sun, 
 
 That to Glenmore's black forest side a shepherdess hath 
 
 gone, 
 From eagle and from raven to guard her little flock, 
 And read her Bible as she sits on greensward or on rock. 
 
 Her widow mother wept to hear her whispered prayer so 
 sweet. 
 
 Then through the silence blessed the sound of her soft 
 parting feet 5 
 
 And thought, '' while thou art praising God amid the hills 
 so calm, 
 
 Far off this broken voice, my child ! will join thy morn- 
 ing psalm." 
 
 So down upon her rushy couch her moistened cheek she 
 
 laid. 
 And away into the morning hush is flown her highland 
 
 maid ; 
 
82 
 
 In heaven the stars are all bedimmed, but in its dewy 
 mirth 
 
 A star more beautiful than they is shining on the earth. 
 
 — Tn the deep mountain hollow the dreamy day is done, 
 
 For close the peace of Sabbath brings the rise and set of 
 sun ; 
 
 The mother through her lowly door looks forth unto the 
 green, 
 
 Yet the shadow of the shepherdess is nowhere to be seen. 
 
 "Within her loving bosom stirs one faint throb of fear — 
 
 " ! why so late ! " a footstep — - and she knows her child 
 is near ; 
 
 So out into the evening the gladdened mother goes, • i 
 
 And between her and the crimson light her daughter's 
 beauty glows. i 
 
 The heather balm is fragrant — the heather bloom is fair. 
 But 'tis neither heather balm nor bloom that wreathes 
 round Mhairi's hair ; 
 
 Round her white brows so innocent, and her blue quiet 
 
 eyes, j; 
 
 That look out bright, in smiling light, beneath the flowery 1 
 
 . dyes. J 
 
 These flowers,by far too beautiful among our hills to grow, 
 
 These gem-crowned stalks, too tender to bear one flake of 
 
 snow, j 
 
 Not all the glens of Caledon could yield so bright a band, | 
 
 That in its lustre breathes and blooms of some warm for- j 
 eign land. 
 
83 
 
 ^' The hawk hath long been sleeping upon the pillar stone. 
 And what hath kept my Mhairi in the woodlands all 
 
 alone? 
 And where .got she those lovely flowers mine old eyes 
 
 dimly see ? 
 Where'er they grew it must have been upon a lovely tree." 
 
 " Sit down beneath ouf elder-shade, and I my tale will 
 
 tell "— 
 And speaking, on her mother's lap the wondrous chaplet 
 
 fell ;■ 
 It seemed as if its blissful breath did her worn heart 
 
 restore, 
 Till the faded eyes of age did beam as they had beamed 
 
 of yore. 
 
 " The day Avas something dim, but the gracious sunshine 
 
 fell 
 On me, and on our sheep and lambs, and our own little 
 
 dell ; 
 Soirie lay down in the warmth and some began to feed, 
 And I took out the Holy Book, and thereupon did read. 
 
 " And while that I was reading of him who for us died, 
 And blood and water shed for us from out his blessed side, 
 
 An angel's voice above my head came singing o'er and 
 
 o'er. 
 In Abernethy wood it sank, now rose in dark Glenmore. 
 
 " Mid lonely hills on Sabbath, all by myself to hear 
 That voice, unto my beating heart did bring a joyful fear ; 
 For well I knew the wild sor:g that wavered o'er my head 
 Must be from some celestial thing, or from the happy dead. 
 
84 
 
 " I looked up from my Bible — and lo ! before me stood, 
 In her green, graceful garments, the Lady of the Wood ; \ 
 Silent she was and motionless, but when her eyes met mine \ 
 I knew she came to do me good, her smile was so divine. I 
 
 " Sh€ laid her hand as soft as light upon your daughter's ! 
 
 hair, 
 And up that white arm flowed my heart into her bosom 
 
 fair ; : 
 
 And all at once I loved her well, as she my mate had been, 1 
 Though she had come from Fairy Land, and was the 
 
 Fairy Queen'. I 
 
 Then started Mhairi^s mother at that wild word with fear, 
 For a daughter had been lost to her for many a hopeless ' 
 year ; ^ 
 
 The child had gone at sunrise among the hills to yoam, \ 
 
 But many a sunset since had been, and none bad brought \ 
 her home. i 
 
 Some thought that Fhaum, the savage shape, that on the i 
 
 mountain dwells, 
 
 Had somewhere left her lying dead among the heather .j 
 
 bells ;. j 
 
 And others said the river red had caught her in her glee, ^ 
 
 And her fair body swept unseen into the unseen sea. 
 
 But thoughts come to a mother's breast a mother only j 
 
 knows. 
 And grief, although it never dies, in fancy finds repose j 
 
 By day she feels the solemn truth that death has ta'en her ] 
 
 child, 
 At night she hears her singing still and dancing o'er the 
 
 wild. 
 
85 
 
 And then her country's legends lend all their lovely 
 
 faith, 
 Till sleep reveals a silent land, but not a land of 
 
 death, — 
 Where, happy in her innocence, her living child doth 
 
 play 
 With those fair elves that wafted her from her own 
 
 land away. 
 
 " Look not so mournful, mother ! 'tis not a tale of 
 
 woe ; — 
 The Fairy Queen stooped down and left a kiss upon 
 
 my brow. 
 And, faster than mine own two doves e'er stooped unto 
 
 my hand, 
 Our flight was through the ether, — then we dropt on 
 
 Fairy Land. 
 
 "Along a river-side, that ran wide-winding through a 
 
 wood, 
 We walked, the Fairy Queen and I, in loving solitude ; 
 And there, serenely on the trees, in all their rich attire, 
 Sat crested birds, whose plumage seemed to burn with 
 harmless fire. 
 
 " No sound was in our steps, — as on the ether mute, — 
 For the velvet moss lay greenly deep beneath the gli- 
 ding foot. 
 Till we came to a waterfall, and,'mid the rainbows there, 
 The mermaids and the fairies played in water and in air. 
 
 "And sure there was sweet singing, for it at once did 
 breathe 
 
 From all the woods and waters, and from the caves be- 
 neath ; 
 
 8 • ■ 
 
86 
 
 But when those happy creatures beheld their lovely 
 
 Queen, ) 
 
 The music died away at once, as if it ne'er had been. 
 
 " And hovering in the rainbow, and floating on the wavej 
 Each little head, so beautiful, some show of homage J 
 
 gave, 1 
 
 And bending down bright lengths of hair that glistened | 
 
 in its dew. 
 Seemed as the sun ten thousand rays against the water | 
 
 threw. 
 
 " Soft the music rose again, — but we left it far behind, ' 
 Though strains o'ertook us now and then on some small ; 
 
 breath of wind ; 
 Our guide into that brightening bliss was aye that 
 
 brightening stream. 
 Till, lo ! a palace silently unfolded like a dream. 
 
 " Then thought I of the lovely tales, and music lovelier 
 
 still, 
 That my dead sister used to sing at evening on the hill. 
 When I was but a little child, too young to watch the 
 
 sheep, 
 And on her kind knees laid my head in very joy to sleep. 
 
 " Tales of the silent people, and their green silent land ! 
 — But the gates of that bright palace did suddenly 
 expand, 
 
 And, tilled with green-robed fairies, was seen an am- 
 ple hall, 
 
 Where she, who held my hand in hers, was the loveliest 
 of them all. 
 
 " Round her in happy heavings flowed that bright and 
 
 glistening crowd, 
 Yet, though a thousand voices hailed, the murmur was 
 
 not loud J 
 
87 
 
 And o'er their plumed and flowery heads there sang 
 
 a whispering breeze, 
 When^ as before their Queen, all sank down slowly 
 
 on their knees. 
 
 " Then said the queen, ' Seven years to-day since mine 
 
 own infant's birth, — 
 And we must send her nourice this evening back to 
 
 earth ; 
 Though sweet her home beneath the sun^ — far other 
 
 home than this ; — 
 So I have brought her sister small to see her in her 
 
 bliss. 
 
 ■'^ ' Luhana ! bind thy frontlet upon my Mhairi's brow, 
 That she on earth may show the flowers that in our 
 
 gardens grow.' 
 And from the heavenly odors, breathed o'er my head, 
 
 I knew 
 How delicate must be their shape, how beautiful their 
 
 hue. 
 
 " Then near, and nearer still, I heard small peals of 
 
 laughter sweet, 
 And the infant fay came dancing in with her white 
 
 twinkling feet, 
 "While, in green rows, the smiling elves fell back on 
 
 either side, 
 And up that avenue the fay did like a sunbeam glide. 
 
 ^' But who came then into the hall ? One, long since 
 mourned as dead ! 
 
 O, never had the mould been strewn o'er such a star- 
 like head ! 
 
 On me alone she poured her voice, on me alone her eyes. 
 
 And, as she gazed, I thought upon the deep-blue cloud- 
 less skies. 
 
88 
 
 '' Well knew I my fair sister ! and her unforgotten face ! 
 Strange, meeting one so beautiful in that bewildenng ' 
 
 place ! 
 And, like two solitary rills, that by themselves flowed on, 
 And had been long divided, we melted into one. 
 
 " When that the shower was all wept out of our de- 
 lightful tears, • 
 
 And love rose in our hearts that had been buried there ; 
 for years, i 
 
 You well may think another shower began straight- 
 way to fall. 
 
 Each for our mother and our home, to leave that hea- J 
 venly hall. 
 
 " I may not tell the sobbing and weeping that was there, 
 And how the mortal nourice left that fairy in despair ; j 
 But promised, duly every year, to visit the sad child, 
 As soon as by our forest-side the first pale primrose I 
 smiled. \ 
 
 " While they two were embracing, the palace it was ! 
 
 gone, J 
 
 And I and my sweet sister stood by the great burial 
 
 stone, 
 While both of us our river saw in twilight glimmering ' 
 
 by, 
 
 And knew at once the dark Cairngorm, in his owa 
 silent sky." 
 
 The child hath long been speaking to one who may j 
 not hear, | 
 
 For a deadly joy came suddenly upon a deadly fear ; 
 
 And though the mother fell not down, she lay on | 
 Mhairi's breast. 
 
 And her face was white as that of one whose soul hath , 
 gone to rest. i 
 
89 
 
 She sits beneath the elder shade in that long mortal 
 
 swoonj 
 And piteously on her wan cheek looks down the gentle 
 
 moon J 
 And when her senses are restored, whom sees she at 
 
 her side, 
 But her, believed in childhood to have w^andered off and 
 
 died ! 
 
 In these small hands, so lily-white, is water from the 
 spring, 
 
 And a grateful coolness drops from it, as from an an- 
 gel's wing, 
 
 And to her mother's pale lips her rosy lips are laid, 
 
 "While these long, soft eye-lashes drop tears on her 
 hoary head. 
 
 She stirs not in her child's embrace, but yields her old 
 
 grey hairs, 
 Unto the heavenly dew of tears, the heavenly breath 
 
 of prayers ; 
 No voice hath she to bless her child, till that strong fit 
 
 go by. 
 But gazeth on the long-lost face and then upon the sky. 
 
 The Sabbath morn was beautiful, and the long Sabbath 
 
 day ; 
 The evening star rose beautiful, when daylight died 
 
 away ; 
 Morn, day, and twilight, this lone glen flowed over 
 
 with delight, 
 But the fulness of all mortal joy hath blessed the 
 
 Sabbath night. 
 
 Wilson. 
 
 8* 
 
90 i 
 
 1 
 
 THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, ' 
 
 And, with his sickle keen, < 
 
 III 
 
 He reaped the bearded grain at a breath, ' 
 
 And the flowers that grew between. i 
 
 " Shall I have nought that is fair," saith he, \ 
 
 " Have nought but the bearded grain ? 1 
 
 Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 
 
 I will give them all back again." 
 
 He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes. 
 He kissed their drooping leaves ; 
 
 It was for the Lord of Paradise 
 He bound them in his sheaves. 
 
 " The Lord has need of these flowerets gay/' 
 
 The Reaper said and smiled ; 
 " Dear tokens of the earth are they 
 
 Where he was once a child. 
 
 They shall all bloom in fields of light, 
 
 Transplanted by. my care. 
 And saints, upon their garments white. 
 
 These sacred blossoms wear." 
 
 And the mother gave, in tears and pain. 
 The flowers she most did love, 
 
 \ 
 
91 
 
 She knew she should find them all again 
 In the fields of lio-ht above. 
 
 O 
 
 O not in cruelty, not in wrath, 
 
 The Reaper came that day ! 
 'Twas an Angel visited the green earth, 
 
 And took the flowers away. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 TO J. G. S. 
 
 I SAW a young and tender tree, 
 
 Where leaves were few, and fruit was none, 
 Raising its green and slender stalk 
 
 To imbibe the dew, and feel the sun ; 
 And such, dear little boy, e'en now. 
 In helpless infancy, art thou ! 
 
 I saw a noisy little stream. 
 
 Leaping and sparkling all the day. 
 
 Heaven's light reflected from its waves. 
 As clear and fast they sped away ; 
 
 And such, glad, playful boy, e'en now, 
 
 In sportive infancy, art thou ! 
 
 I saw a beauteous summer cloud. 
 Changing with every passing breeze. 
 
 Now darkening, like the twilight's fall, 
 Now fair as gems in Persian seas ; 
 
92 
 
 And such, my April boy, e'en now, 
 In fickle infancy, art thou ! 
 
 The stately tree, through shine and storm, 
 Shall rear its fair and useful form ; 
 The river, rolling far and wide. 
 Shall bless the nations with its tide ; 
 The cloud, which seems of little worth. 
 Shall join the showers which glad the earth ; 
 And thus, dear boy, we trust to see 
 Bright promises fulfilled in thee ! 
 
 " THOU ART SAFE IN HEAVEN, MY DOVE ! " 
 
 Thou darling child ! through many an hour | 
 
 I've watched thy frolic play, ^ 
 
 And wished that I had but the power 
 
 To bid thy light heart stay ; ! 
 
 1 
 To keep thee still that lovely thing, 
 
 So frank and undefiled, j 
 
 Pure as bright waters at their spring, — j 
 
 A glad, confiding child. 
 
 And when that sweet-toned voice sang out \ 
 
 Its varied notes of glee, 
 I've hoped that ne'er a sadder thought ; 
 
 Than those might come to thee. 
 
93 
 
 When sped thy joy-winged footsteps fast, 
 
 Springing' so free and light, 
 Wished chains were all around them cast 
 
 To keep thee in the right. 
 
 When that full heart, which warmed towards all, 
 
 Poured forth affection's flow, 
 I've grieved that ever there should fall 
 
 A chill on ihat pure glow. 
 
 The trustless prayer, alas, would rise. 
 That grief thou ne'er should'st know ! 
 
 And ne'er be dimmed those sparkling eyes 
 By bitter floods of woe. 
 
 'Tis done! — and now the seal is set. 
 
 Which keeps thee always bright ; 
 The soul, which has been stainless yet, 
 
 Shall never feel earth's blight. 
 
 O not by means we would devise 
 
 Art thou secured from ill ! — 
 Yet never can one murmur rise ; — 
 
 It is our Father's will. 
 
 " IT IS WELL WITH THE CHILD." 
 
 We wake, — but hear no morning song, 
 Pouring its rich, clear tide along 
 From childhood's merry voice ; 
 
94 
 
 Gladdening the first approach of day, 
 Like blithe birds with their matin lay, 
 And making all rejoice. 
 
 The hours pursue their ceaseless round, 
 Uncheered by any sight or sound 
 
 Of what has given such joy ; 
 No plaything wheeling o'er the floor, 
 No summons now to ope the door 
 
 For the heart-stealing boy. 
 
 And when the evening twilight falls, 
 How wide and silent seem those walls. 
 
 Where rang his heartfelt glee ! 
 How flew his tiny feet about ! 
 How gaily rose his frequent shout, — 
 
 The spirit's revelry ! 
 
 And when tired feet no more could run. 
 And songs and stories were all done. 
 
 Which had the hour beguiled. 
 Then came the kind, " good night, my friends ! " 
 While for the parting kiss each bends. 
 
 We bless the lovely child. 
 
 Gone in his beauty — like the star 
 Which beams before day's glorious car. 
 
 Then sinks in that full light ; 
 Still shining on in its own sphere. 
 And still to us as truly near. 
 
 Although withdrawn from sight. 
 
95 
 
 THE AMERICAN INDIANS.^ 
 
 Shall not one line lament that lion race, 
 For us struck out from sweet creation's face ? 
 Alas, alas, for them! — those fated bands, 
 Whose monarch tread was on these broad, green 
 
 lands ! 
 Our fathers called them savage — them, whose 
 
 bread, 
 In the dark hour, these famished fathers fed. 
 
 We call them savage — O be just ! 
 
 Their outraged feelings scan ; 
 A voice comes forth, 'tis from the dust ; — 
 
 The savage was a man ! 
 Think ye he loved not ? Who stood by, 
 
 And in his toils took part ? 
 Woman was there to bless his eye ; — 
 
 The savage had a heart ! 
 Think ye he prayed not ? When on high 
 
 He heard the thunder roll. 
 What bade him look beyond the sky ? 
 
 The savage had a soul ! 
 
 Beneath the pillared dome. 
 
 We seek our God in prayer ; 
 
 Through boundless woods he loved to roam, 
 
 And the Great Spirit worshipped there. 
 
96 
 
 He saw the cloud, ordained to grow, : 
 
 And burst upon his hills in woe ; 
 
 He saw his people withering by, 
 
 Beneath the invader's evil eye ; i 
 
 Strange feet were trampling on his father's bones , 
 
 At midnight hour he woke to gaze 
 
 Upon his happy cabin's blaze, ] 
 
 And listen to his children's dying groans. !] 
 
 He saw — and maddenino- at the sisfht, r 
 
 CD O ' 'I 
 
 Gave his bold bosom to the fight ; J 
 
 To tiger rage his soul was driven ; *i 
 
 Mercy was not — nor sought nor given ; 
 The pale man from his lands must fly ; 
 He would be free — or he would die. 
 
 Alas for them ! — their day is o'er, . • \ 
 
 Their fires are out from hill and shore ; j 
 
 No more for them the wild deer bounds ; f 
 
 The plough is on their hunting grounds ; 1 
 
 The pale man's axe rings through their woods, 
 The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods, ' 
 
 Their pleasant springs are dry ; 
 Their children — look, by power oppressed, 
 Beyond the mountains of the west, 
 
 Their children go — to die. '\ 
 
 i 
 
 O doubly lost ! oblivion's shadows close 
 
 Around their triumphs and their woes ; 
 For the doomed Indian leaves behind no trace, , 
 To save his own, or serve another race ; i 
 
97 
 
 With his frail breath his power has passed away,, 
 His deeds, his thoughts, are buried with his clay. 
 Nor lofty pile, nor glowing page 
 Shall link him to a future age. 
 Or give him with the past a rank ; 
 His heraldry is but a broken bow, 
 His history but a tale of wrong and woe ; 
 His very name must be a blank. 
 
 Sprague. 
 
 Not many generations ago, where you now 
 sit, circled with all that exalts and embellishes 
 civilized life, the rank thistle nodded in the 
 wind, and the wild fox dug his hole unscared. 
 Here lived and loved another race of beings. 
 Beneath the same sun that rolls over your 
 heads, the Indian hunter pursued the panting 
 deer ; gazing on the same moon that smiles 
 for you, the Indian lover wooed his dusky 
 mate. Here the wigwam blaze beamed on the 
 tender and the helpless, the council-fire glared 
 on the wise and the daring. Now they dip- 
 ped their noble limbs in your sedgy lakes, and 
 now they paddled the light canoe along your 
 rocky shores. Here they warred ; the echo- 
 ing whoop, the bloody grapple, the defying 
 death-song, all were here ; and, when the ti- 
 ger strife was over, here curled the smoke of 
 9 
 
98 
 
 peace. Here too they worshipped ; and from 
 many a dark bosom went up a pure prayer 
 to the Great Spirit. He had not written his 
 laws for them on tables of stone, but He 
 had traced them on the tables of their hearts. 
 The poor child of nature knew not the God 
 of revelation, but the God of the universe 
 he acknoAvledged in every thing around. He 
 beheld him in the star that sank in beauty be- 
 hind his lowly dwelling, in the sacred orb that 
 flamed on him from his mid-day throne ; — in 
 the flower that snapped in the morning breeze, 
 in the lofty pine that had defied a thousand 
 whirlwinds ; — in the timid warbler that never 
 left its native grove, in the fearless eagle 
 whose untired pinion was wet in clouds ; — 
 in the worm that crawled at his foot, and in 
 his own matchless form, glowing with a spark 
 of that light, to whose mysterious Source he 
 bent in humble, though blind adoration. 
 
 And all this has passed away. Across the 
 ocean came a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds 
 of life and death. The former were sown for 
 you, the latter sprang up in the path of the 
 simple native. As a race, they have Avithered 
 from the land. Their arrows are broken, their 
 springs are dried up, their cabins are in the 
 dust. Their council-fire has long since gone 
 out on the shore, and their war-cry is fast dy- 
 
99 
 
 ing away to the untrodden west. Slowly 
 and sadly they climb the distant mountains, 
 and read their doom in the setting sun. They 
 are shrinking before the mighty tide which is 
 pressing them away ; they must soon hear the 
 roar of the last wave, which will settle over 
 them forever. Ages hence, the inquisitive 
 white man, as he stands by some growing 
 city, will ponder on the structure of their dis- 
 turbed remains, and wonder to what manner 
 of persons they belonged. They will live 
 only in the songs and chronicles of their ex- 
 terminators. Let these be faithful to their 
 rude virtues as men, and pay due tribute to 
 their unhappy fate as a people. 
 
 Sprague. 
 
 THE NEGRO SLAVE. 
 
 The broken heart which kindness never heals, 
 The home-sick passion, this the negro feels. 
 When, toiling, fainting, in the land of canes, 
 His spirit wanders to his native plains. 
 His little, lonely dwelling there he sees, 
 Beneath the shade of his paternal trees, 
 The home of comfort ; then before his eyes 
 The terrors of captivity arise. 
 
100 
 
 - — 'Twas night, — his babes around him lay at rest, 
 Their mother slumbered on their father's breast ; | 
 A yell of murder rang around their bed ; 
 They woke ; their cottage blazed ; the victims fled ; 
 Forth sprang the ambushed ruffians on their'prey, 
 They caught, they bound, they drove them farj 
 away. j 
 
 The white man bought them at the mart of blood ;i 
 In pestilential barks they crossed the flood. i 
 
 Then were the wretched ones asunder torn, i\ 
 
 To distant isles, to separate bondage borne ; J 
 
 Denied, though sought with tears, the sad relief J 
 That misery loves, — the fellowship of grief. j 
 
 The negro, spoiled of all that nature gave, i 
 
 The free-born man thus shrinks into a slave ; 
 His passive limbs, to measured tasks confined, 
 Obey the impulse of another mind ; i 
 
 A silent, secret, terrible control, J 
 
 That rules his sinews, and enthrals his soul. ! 
 
 Not for himself he wakes at morning light, i 
 
 Toils the long day, and seeks repose at night ; 
 His rest, his labor, pastime, strength, and health, 
 Are only portions of a master's wealth. 
 Thus spurned, degraded, trampled and oppressed, 
 The negro pines, an exile, in the west. 
 With nothing left of life but hated breath, I 
 
 And not a hope, except the hope in death, \ 
 
 To fly forever from the Creole strand, j 
 
 And dwell a freeman in his father's land. ] 
 
 Montgomery. ^ 
 
 i 
 
101 
 
 THE SLAVE MOTHER'S PRAYER. 
 
 Thou, who hear'st the feeblest prayer, 
 The humblest heart dost see ! 
 
 Upon the chilly midnight air 
 I pour my soul to Thee. 
 
 1 bend a form, Avith ceaseless toil 
 Consuming all the day ; 
 
 And raise an eye that wets the soil, 
 As my life wears away. 
 
 I lift a hand that's only freed 
 
 Until tomorrow's task ; 
 But how, God ! does nature bleed 
 
 Upon the boon I ask ! 
 
 How wretched must that mother be, 
 
 — Behold that hapless one ! — 
 Who begs an early grave of Thee, 
 
 To shield her only son ! 
 
 I would not that my boy were spared 
 
 To curse his natal hour ; 
 To drag the chains his birth prepared 
 
 Beneath unfeeling power. 
 
 Then, ere the nursling at my breast 
 
 Shall feel the tyrant's rod, 
 O lay his little form at rest 
 
 Beneath the quiet sod ! Miss Gould. 
 
 9° 
 
102 
 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 Under a spreading chestnut-tree 
 
 The village smithy stands ; 
 The smith, a mighty man is he, 
 
 With large and sinewy hands ; 
 And the muscles of his brawny arms 
 
 Are strong as iron bands. 
 
 His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 
 
 His face is like the tan ; 
 His brow is wet with honest sweat, 
 
 He earns whate'er he can, 
 And looks the whole world in the face. 
 
 For he owes not any man. 
 
 Week in, week out, from morn till night. 
 You can hear his bellows blow, 
 
 You can hear him swing his heavy sledge 
 With measured beat and slow. 
 
 Like the sexton ringing the bell. 
 When the evening sun is low. 
 
 And children, coming home from school. 
 
 Look in at the open door ; 
 They love to see the flaming forge, 
 
 And hear the bellows roar. 
 And catch the burning sparks that fly 
 
 Like chaff from the threshing-floor. 
 
103 
 
 He goes on Sunday to the church, 
 
 And sits among his boys ; 
 He hears the parson pray and preach, 
 
 And he hears his daughter's voice 
 Singing in the village choir, 
 
 And it makes his heart rejoice. 
 
 It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 
 
 Sino-ing" in Paradise ! 
 He needs must think of her once more 
 
 How in the grave she lies ; 
 And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 
 
 The tears out of his eyes. 
 
 Toiling — rej oicing — sorrowing, 
 Onward through life he goes ; 
 
 Each morning sees some task begun, 
 Each evening sees it close ; 
 
 Something attempted, something done, 
 Has earned a night's repose. 
 
 Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend. 
 For the lesson thou hast taug-ht ! 
 
 '•&•' 
 
 Thus at the flaming forge of life 
 
 Our fortunes must be wrought ; 
 Thus, on its sounding anvil, shaped 
 
 Each burning deed and thought. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 15=^ 
 
104 
 
 I 
 TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 1 
 My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead, | 
 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? J 
 
 Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, | 
 
 Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? j 
 
 Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern, I 
 
 Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; j 
 
 What ardently I wished, I long believed. 
 
 And disappointed still, was still deceived ; 
 
 By expectation every day beguiled. 
 
 Dupe of tomorrow even from a child. ( 
 
 Thus many a sad tomorrow came and went, ': 
 
 Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
 
 I learned at last submission to my lot, ] 
 
 But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. i 
 
 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, 
 Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
 And where the gardener, Robin, day by day, ' 
 
 Drew me to school along the public way. 
 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, j 
 
 'Tis now become a history little known. 
 That once we called the pastoral house our own. ; 
 Short-lived possession ! but the record fair \ 
 
 That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, J 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
105 
 
 Still outlives many a storm that has effaced 
 
 A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
 
 That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid ; 
 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
 
 The biscuit or confectionery plum ; 
 
 The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed 
 
 By thy own hands, till fresh they shone and glowed. 
 
 All this, and, more endearing still than all, 
 
 Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall, 
 
 Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks, 
 
 That humor interposed too often makes ; 
 
 All this still legible in memory's page. 
 
 And still to be so to my latest age, 
 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
 
 Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; 
 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 
 
 Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 
 
 Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had 
 lowered. 
 And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 
 And thousands had sunk on the ground over- 
 powered. 
 The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 
 
106 
 
 When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
 By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, 
 
 At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
 And thrice ere the morning I dreamed it again. 
 
 Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array • 
 Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track ; 
 
 'Twas autumn — and sunshine arose on my way " 
 To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me 
 back. 
 
 I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 
 In life's morning march, when my bosom was 
 young : 
 I heard my own mountain-goat bleating aloft, 
 And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers 
 sung. 
 
 Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 
 From my home and my weeping friends never 
 to part ; 
 
 My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er. 
 And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 
 
 " Stay, stay with us, — rest, — thou art weary and 
 worn ; " 
 And fain was their war -broken soldier to stay ; 
 But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn. 
 And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 ] 
 
107 
 
 CASABIANCA. 
 
 The boy stood on the burning deck, 
 
 Whence all but him had fled ; 
 The flame, that lit the battle's wreck, 
 
 Shone round him o'er the dead. 
 Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 
 
 As born to rule the storm ; 
 A creature of heroic blood, 
 
 A proud, though child-like form. 
 
 The flames rolled on ; — he would not go 
 
 Without his father's word ; 
 That father, — faint in death below, 
 
 His voice no longer heard. 
 He called aloud, " Say, father, say, 
 
 If yet my task is done ? " 
 He knew not that the chieftain lay 
 
 Unconscious of his son. 
 
 " Speak, father ! " once again he cried, 
 
 . " If I may yet be gone ! " 
 
 — And but the booming shots replied. 
 
 And fast the flames rolled on. 
 Upon his brow he felt their breath. 
 
 And in his waving hair, 
 And looked from that lone post of death, 
 
 In still, yet brave despair. 
 
108 
 
 And shouted but once more aloud, 
 
 " My father ! must I stay ? " 
 While o'er him fast, thro' sail and shroud, 
 
 The wreathing fires made way. 
 They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, 
 
 They caught the flag on high, 
 And streamed above the gallant child 
 
 Like banners in the sky. 
 
 There came a burst of thunder sound ; — 
 
 The boy — O ! where was he ? 
 ' — Ask of the winds, that far around 
 
 With fragments strowed the sea. 
 With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
 
 That well had done their part ; — 
 But the noblest thing that perished there, 
 
 Was that young, faithful heart. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 CCEUR D£ LION AT THE BTER OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 Torches were blaizing clear, 
 
 Hymns pealing deep and slow. 
 Where a king lay stately on his bier 
 
 In the church of Fontivraud. 
 Banners of battle o'er him hung. 
 
 And warriors slept beneath. 
 And light, as noon's broad light, was flung 
 
 On the settled face of death. 
 
109 
 
 On the settled face of death 
 
 A strong and ruddy glare ; • 
 Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath, 
 
 Yet it fell still brightest there : 
 As if each deeply-furrowed trace 
 
 Of earthly years to show, — . 
 Alas ! that sceptred. mortal's race 
 
 Had surely closed in woe ! 
 
 The marble floor was swept 
 
 By many a long dark stole, 
 As the kneeling priests round him that slept 
 
 Sang mass for the parted soul ; 
 And solemn were the strains- they poured 
 
 Through the stillness of the night, 
 With the cross above, and the crown and sword, 
 
 And the silent king in sight. 
 
 There was heard a heavy clang 
 
 As of steel-girt men the tread, 
 And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang 
 
 With a sounding thrill of dread ; 
 And the holy chant was hushed awhile, 
 
 As, by the torch's flame, 
 A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle. 
 
 With a mail-clad leader came. 
 
 He came with haughty look, 
 
 An eagle glance and clear, 
 
 But his proud heart through its breast-plate shook, 
 
 When he stood beside the bier ! 
 10 
 
110 
 
 He stood there still with a drooping brow, 
 
 And clasped hands o'er it raised ; — j 
 
 For his father lay before him low ; — 
 It was CoBur de Lion gazed ! 
 
 And silently he strove j 
 
 With the workings of his breast ; 
 But there's more in late-repentant love l 
 
 Than steel can keep suppressed ! i 
 
 And his tears break forth, at last, like rain ; — 
 
 Men held their breath in awe. 
 For his face was seen by his warrior-train. 
 
 And he recked not that they saw. 
 
 He looked upon the dead, I 
 
 And sorrow seemed to lie, i 
 
 A weight of sorrow, even like lead, i 
 
 Pale on the fast-shut eye. 
 He stooped, and kissed the frozen cheek. 
 
 And the heavy hand of clay, ' 
 
 Till bursting words, yet all too weak, ■* 
 
 Gave his soul's passion way. 
 
 " father ! is it vain. 
 
 This late remorse and deep ? 
 Speak to me, father, once again. 
 
 I weep — behold I weep ! 
 Alas ! my guilty pride and ire ! 
 
 Were but this work undone ! ' 
 
 I would give England's crown, my sire. 
 
 To hear thee bless thy son. 
 
Ill 
 
 " Speak to me ! mighty grief 
 
 Ere now the dust hath stirred ! 
 Hear me, but hear me ! father, chief ! 
 
 My king ! I must be heard. 
 Hushed, hushed ; — how is it that I call, 
 
 And that thou answerest not ? 
 When was it thus ? — woe, woe for all 
 
 The love my soul forgot ! 
 
 " Thy silver hairs I see, 
 
 So still, so sadly bright ! 
 And, father ! father ! but for me 
 
 They had not been so white ! 
 I bore thee down, high heart ! at last, 
 
 No longer couldst thou strive ; 
 ! for one moment of the past 
 
 To kneel and say, — ' Forgive ! ' " 
 
 " Thou wert the noblest king 
 
 On royal throne e'er seen ; 
 And thou didst wear, in knightly ring, 
 
 Of all the stateliest mien ; 
 And thou didst prove, where spears are proved 
 
 In war, the bravest heart — 
 Oh ! ever the renowned and loved 
 
 Thou wert ; — and there thou art ! 
 
 " Thou, that my boyhood's guide 
 Didst take fond joy to be ! — 
 The times I've sported by thy side. 
 And climbed the parent-knee ! 
 
112 
 
 And there before the blessed shrine, 
 
 My sire ! I see thee lie ; 
 How will that still, sad face of thine 
 
 Look on me till I die ! " 
 
 Mrs. He mans. 
 
 HELLVELLYN. 
 
 I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, 
 Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and 
 wide ; 
 All was still, save, bj fits, when the eagle was yelling, 
 
 And starting around me the echoes replied. 
 On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was 
 
 bending, 
 And Catchedicam its left verge was defending. 
 One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, 
 When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer 
 had died. 
 
 Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain- 
 heather. 
 
 Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay, 
 Like tKe corpse of an outcast, abandoned to weather, 
 
 Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay. 
 Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, 
 For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, 
 The much-loved remains of her master defended, 
 
 And chased the hill fox and the raven away. 
 
113 
 
 How long didst thou think that his silence was 
 slumber ? 
 When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst 
 thou start ? 
 IIow many long days and long weeks didst thou 
 number, 
 Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? 
 And, oh ! was it meet that, no requiem read o'er him, 
 No mother to weep and no friend to deplore him, 
 And thou, little Guardian, alone stretched before him, 
 Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart ! 
 
 "When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded. 
 The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; 
 
 With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded. 
 And pages stand mute by the canopied pall ; 
 
 Through the courts at deep midnight, the torches are 
 
 gleaming ; 
 In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are 
 
 beaming ; 
 Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, 
 Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. 
 
 But meeter for thee, gentle Lover of Nature, 
 To lay dow-n thy head — like the meek mountain 
 lamb. 
 When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in 
 stature. 
 And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. 
 
 And more stately this couch by this desert lake lying, 
 Thy obsequies sung by the gay plover flying, 
 With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying 
 In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam. 
 
 Scott. 
 10* 
 
114 
 
 THE LADY JANE GREY.^ j 
 
 There is an old and costly room of state, 
 
 With roof deep-groined of blazoned shields and flowers; 
 
 And arras, rich with gold and silver weight. 
 
 Hangs round the walls, and shows green forest bowers. 
 
 And figures blent of giant, dwarf, and knight, 
 Of lady fair and palfrey, hawk and hound. 
 Amid those leafy cells the gaze invite, . 
 Invite, yet mock, for leaves half close them round. 
 
 In order set are works of regal price, 
 Quaint carven chair and table, chest and lute ; 
 And web of scarlet, black, and gold device, 
 Spread o'er the floor, makes every footstep mute. 
 
 The windows' shafts, and loops of branching stone,. 
 Are gemmed with panes of each imperial hue. 
 Where saint and angel, from the stars new flown, 
 With streams of crystal splendor flood the view. 
 
 They fall with fondest brightness o'er the form 
 Of her who sits the chamber's lovely dame ; 
 And her pale forehead in the light looks warm, 
 And all those colors round her whiteness flame. 
 
 Young is she, scarcely passed from childhood's years. 
 With grave, soft face, where smiles and thoughts 
 
 may play, 
 And, unalarmed by guilty aims or fears. 
 Serene as meadow flowers may meet the day. 
 
115 
 
 "No guilty pang slie knows, though many a dread 
 Hangs threatening o'er her in the conscious air, 
 And, 'mid the beams from that bright casement shed, 
 A twinkling crown foreshows a near despair. 
 
 But Jane regards not auguries of ill, 
 Nor even that sovran vision draws her eyes, 
 Which, bent in contemplation smooth and still, 
 Drink dews that make the heart devoutly wise. 
 
 She reads in Plato's page, and, sphered with him, 
 Sees dark Hymettus, sees Ilyssus flow ; 
 Through many an age's shadow, broad and dim, 
 Lives back to where Athena's olives grow. 
 
 Not long she knew this quiet. Loud the shout 
 Of tumult thickening on in heady strain, 
 And murmured march ; and, echoed all about. 
 Breaks forth the dizzy cry, " Long live Queen Jane ! " 
 
 Back fall the chamber doors ; and lo ! a crowd 
 Of judge and counsellor, prelate, knight and peer ; 
 Swords, plumes and jewels ; fronts, with victory proud, 
 And snow-white heads are bent her will to hear. 
 
 Some tears she shed, she trembles, turns away. 
 Then yields her presence at her sire's command j 
 The volume falls abandoned where it lay, 
 A moment past, in her attentive hand. 
 
 The Queen, in robes of state and royal halls. 
 Glides shiiddering back with memory's swift career, 
 With inward voice upon the past she calls. 
 And wondering feels that she must learn to fear ; 
 
116 
 
 But felt her life, a trembling, earthly spark, 
 Was mounting up to shine a star above. 
 And lucid thoughts came rippling through the dark, 
 In one wild flow of Faith, and Hope, and Love. 
 
 " Methinks, Sage I a nobler lore than thine. 
 More steadfast comfort gives and holier peace ; 
 And I am fed by wisdom more divine 
 Than e'er inspired melodious tongues of Greece. 
 
 On other shores, beneath more Eastern skies. 
 Thy faith was once proclaimed from age to age, 
 Not sealed, a treasure for the proudly wise, ! 
 
 But spread a people's common heritage ; !| 
 
 And all that Athens breathed of high and true, j 
 
 With finely-moulded, keenly-uttered speech, '] 
 
 In our dear Lord to Act and Being grew, } 
 
 Whose Life was more than words could ever teach. I 
 
 A Heart that beat for every human woe, 
 
 A Choice in holiest purpose, pure and strong, i 
 
 A Truth, the morning light of all below, * 
 
 A Love triumphant over deadliest wrong." i 
 
 Quick changed the darkening hour ; the reign was done j 
 The princely crowds were shrunk away or dead j 
 The prison closed in gloom, and hid the sun ; 
 And sank in dust, the fair, the youthful head. 
 
 Sterlin&. 1 
 
il7 
 
 THE MARINER'S DREAM. 
 
 In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay, 
 
 His' hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind^ 
 
 But watch-worn and weary his eares flew away, 
 And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. 
 
 He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers. 
 And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; 
 
 While memory each scene gaily covered with flowers, 
 And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. 
 
 Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide, 
 And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ; 
 
 JSTow far, far behind him the green waters glide, 
 And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 
 
 The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch. 
 And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the 
 wall ; 
 
 All trembling with transport, he raises the iaXck, 
 And the voices of loved ones reply to the call. 
 
 A father bends o'er him with looks of delight ; 
 
 His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear ; 
 And the lips of the boy in a love kiss unite 
 
 With the lips of the maid whom, his bosom holds 
 dear ! 
 
 The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breas-t, 
 Joy quickens his pulses, his hardships seem o'er ; 
 
118 
 
 And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest ; — 
 " God ! thou hast blessed me ; I ask for no more." 
 
 Ah ! whence is that flame which'now bursts on his eye ? 
 
 Ah ! what is that sound which now 'larums his ears ? 
 
 'Tis the lightning's red glare, flashing far o'er the sky ! 
 
 'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the 
 spheres ! 
 
 He springs from his hammock, — he flies to the deck, — 
 Amazement confronts him with images dire ; — 
 
 Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck ; — 
 The masts fly in splinters, — the shrouds are on fire ! 
 
 Like mountains the billows tremendously swell ; 
 
 In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ; 
 Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, 
 
 And the Death- Angel flaps his broad wing o'er the j 
 wave. J 
 
 O sailor boy ! wo to thy dream of delight ! I 
 
 In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. ] 
 
 Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, ! 
 
 Thy parents' fond presence, and love's honied kiss ? 
 
 1 
 sailor boy ! sailor boy ! never again 
 
 Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay ; 
 Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main | 
 
 Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay. , 
 
 No tomb shall e'er plead in remembrance for thee, 
 Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge ; 
 
 / 
 
119 
 
 But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, 
 And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge. 
 
 On a bed of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid ; 
 
 Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; 
 Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, 
 
 And every part suit to thy mansion below. 
 
 Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away. 
 And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; 
 
 Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye ; — 
 O sailor boy ! sailor boy ! peace to thy soul ! 
 
 DiMOND. 
 
 BRUCE AT THE SOURCE OF THE NILE. 
 
 In sunset's light o'er Afric thrown, 
 
 A wanderer proudly stood 
 Beside the well-spring, deep and lone, 
 
 Of Egypt's awful flood ; 
 The cradle of that mighty birth, 
 So long a hidden thing to earth. 
 
 He heard its life's first murmuring sound, 
 
 A low, mysterious tone ; 
 A music sought, but never found 
 
 By kings and warriors gone ; 
 He listened, — and his heart beat high ; — 
 That was the song of victory ! 
 
120 
 
 Thie rapture of a conqueror's mood 
 Eushed burning through his frame, 
 
 The depths of that green solitude 
 Its torrents could not tame, 
 
 Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile. 
 
 Round those calm fountains of the Nile. 
 
 Night came with stars ;— across his soul 
 
 There swept a sudden change. 
 Even" at the pilgrim's glorious goal, 
 
 A shadow dark and strange. 
 Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall 
 O'er triumph's hour ; — And is this all ? 
 
 No more than this ! what seemed it now . 
 
 First by that spring to stand ?. 
 A thousand streams of lovelier flow 
 
 Bathed his own mountain land ; 
 Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track,. 
 Their wild, sweet voices called him back.. 
 
 They called him back to many a glade. 
 
 His childhood's haunt of play. 
 Where brightly, through the beechen shade^ 
 
 Their waters glanced away ; 
 They called him with their sounding waves 
 Back to his father's hills and graves. 
 
 But, darkly mingling with the thought 
 
 Of each familiar scene. 
 Rose up a fearful vision, fraught 
 
121 
 
 "With £lll that lay between ; 
 The Arab's lance, the desert's gloomy- 
 The whirling sands, the red simoom. 
 
 Where was the glow of power and pride" f 
 
 The spirit born to roam ? 
 His weary heart within him died, 
 
 With yearnings for his home ; 
 All vainly struggling to repress 
 That gush of painful tenderness.' 
 
 He wept; — the stars cf Afric's heaven 
 
 Beheld his bursting tears. 
 Even on that spot, where fate had giveri 
 
 The meed of toiling years. 
 ^ — O Happiness ! how far we flee 
 Thine own sweet paths, in search of tHee 1 
 
 Mrs. Hemans\" 
 
 TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN^ 
 
 Slave of the dai-lt and dirty mine I 
 
 ■What vanity hath brought thee here f 
 How can I love to see thee shine 
 
 So bright, whom I have bought so dear? 
 The tent-rope's flapping lone I hear. 
 For twiliglit converse, arm in arm j 
 11 
 
122 
 
 The jackall's shrieks burst on my ear, 
 Where mirth and music wont to charm. 
 
 By Cherical's dark, wandering stream, 
 
 Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, 
 Sweet visions haunt my waking dream 
 
 Of Teviot, loved while still a child ; 
 Of castled rocks, stupendous piled 
 
 By Eske or Eden's classic wave, 
 Where loves of youth and friendship smiled 
 
 Unchecked by thee, vile yellow slave I 
 
 Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light 
 
 Gleams baleful as the tomb-fires drear. 
 A gentle vision comes by night, 
 
 My lonely, widowed heart to cheer; 
 Her eyes are dim with many a tear. 
 
 That ance were guiding stars to mine ; 
 Her fond heart throbs with many a fear; — 
 
 I cannot bear to see thee shine ! 
 
 For thee,^ for thee, vile yellow slave I 
 
 I left a heart that loved me true ; 
 I crossed the tedious ocean wave, 
 
 To roam in climes unkind and new; 
 The cold wind of the stranger blew 
 
 Chill on my withered heart; the grave,. 
 Dark and untimely, met my view, — 
 
 And all for thee, vile yellow slave I 
 
123 
 
 Ha ! com'st thou now, so late, to mock 
 
 A wanderer's banished heart forlorn, 
 Now that his frame the lightning shock 
 
 Of sun-rays, tipt with death, has borne, 
 From love, from friendship, country, torn, 
 
 To memory's fond regrets the prey ? 
 Vile slave ! thy yellow dross I scorn ; — 
 
 Go, mix thee with thy kindred clay ! 
 
 Leyden. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 Where burns the loved hearth brightest, 
 
 Cheering the social breast ? 
 Where beats the fond heart lightest, 
 
 Its humble hopes possessed ? 
 Where is the smile of sadness. 
 
 Of meek-eyed patience born, 
 Worth more than those of gladness, 
 
 Which mirth's bright cheek adorn ? 
 Pleasure is marked by fleetness 
 
 To those who ever roam ; 
 While even grief has sweetness 
 
 At Home ! dear Home ! 
 
 There blend the ties that strengthen 
 Our hearts in hours of grief; 
 
 The silver links that lengthen 
 Joy's visit, when most brief; 
 
124 
 
 There eyes, in all their splendor, 
 
 Are vocal to the heart, 
 
 And glances, gay or tender, '! 
 
 Fresh eloquence impart. ^ 
 
 Then, dost thou sigh for pleasure ? j 
 
 do not widely roam, . | 
 
 But seek that hidden treasure f 
 
 At Home ! dear Home ! : 
 
 Does pure religion charm thee 
 
 Far more than aught below ; ! 
 
 Wouldst thou that she should arm thee 
 
 Against the hour of woe ? I 
 
 Think not she dweUeth only 
 
 In temples built for prayer, 
 For Home itself is lonely 
 
 Unless her smiles be there; 
 The devotee may falter. 
 
 The bigot blindly roam. 
 If worshipless her altar 
 
 At Home J dear Home ! 
 
 Love over it presideth 
 
 With meek and watchful a\Ye, 
 Its daily service guideth. 
 
 And shows its perfect law ; 
 If there thy faith shall fail thee, 
 
 If there no shrine be found, 
 "^V^hat will thy prayers avail thee 
 
 With kneeling crowds around ? 
 
 i 
 
125 
 
 « 
 
 Go ! leave thy gift unoffered 
 Beneath religion's dome, 
 
 And be her first fruits proffered 
 At Home ! dear Home ! 
 
 Barton. 
 
 TO DUTY.=^ 
 
 — Oh Duty ! thou dost wear 
 The godhead's most benignant grace ; 
 Nor know we any thing so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face : 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, 
 And fragrance on thy footing treads ; 
 Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong, 
 And the most ancient heavens through thee 
 are fresh and strong. 
 
 I call thee ! — I myself commend 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
 O let my weakness have an end ! 
 Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
 The spirit of self sacrifice ; 
 The confidence of reason give, 
 Andjin the light of truth, thy bondman let me live. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 11* 
 
126 
 
 TIRED OF PLAY.=^ 
 
 Tired of play ! tired of play ! 
 
 What hast tho.u done this livelong day ? 
 
 The bird is hushed, and so is the bee, I 
 
 The sun is creeping up steeple and tree ; 
 
 The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, 
 
 And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves ; 
 
 Twilight gathers, and day is done; — 
 
 How hast thou spent it, beautiful one ? "^ 
 
 Playing ; — But what hast thou done beside, i 
 
 To tell thy mother at eventide ? 
 
 What promise of morn is left unbroken ? 
 
 What kind word to thy playmates spoken ? 'j 
 
 Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?' 
 
 How with thy faults has duty striven ? ' 
 
 What hast thou learned by field and hill, 
 
 By greenwood path and singing rill ? 
 
 There will come an eve to a longer day, 
 That will find thee tired, — but not of play. 
 
 Well for thee then, if thy lip can tell I 
 
 A tale like this of a day spent well. "; 
 
 If thine open hand hath relieved distress, ; 
 
 If thy pity hath sprung at wretchedness, ,i 
 
127 
 
 If thou hast forgiven the sore offence, 
 And humbled thy heart with penitence, 
 If nature's voices have spoken to thee 
 With their holy meaning eloquently, 
 If every creature hath won thy love, 
 From the creeping worm to the brooding dovOji 
 And never a sad, low-spoken word 
 Hath plead with thy human heart unheard, — ■. 
 Then, when the night steals on as now. 
 It will bring relief to thine aching brow, 
 And with joy and peace at the thought of rest, 
 Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast. 
 
 Willis. 
 
 THE ICICLE. 
 
 ^' Oh, mother ! mother ! only look," 
 Exclaimed a laughing little boy, 
 His face all radiant with joy, 
 As he displayed his new-found toy ; 
 
 " This pretty shining stick I took 
 From off the earden-wall : 
 So icy 'twas, I feared to fall, . 
 But up I climbed, and got it all 
 
 Out of its little hiding nook." 
 
 Then nearer to the fire he drew, 
 Holding the shining, thing to view,^ 
 
128 
 
 And laughed, and sang, and capered round, 
 Frisking with many an antic bound, 
 And utterance of joyous sound ; — 
 
 One moment he had turned his head, — 
 " Oh ! where's my icicle," he cries, 
 While tear-drops gush into his eyes, 
 On finding that his pretty prize. 
 
 In his warm grasp had all melted. 
 
 Alas, my boy ! not many a sun 
 
 O'er thy fair head its course shall run. 
 Not many a season fill its measure, 
 Ere thou shalt find each trifling pleasure, 
 On which thy heart hath set its treasure, 
 
 Thus melting, in thy grasp, away ; 
 
 Like ice-drops sparkling, high and bright. 
 Union of dew, and frost, and light. 
 
 As fleeting and as cold as they. 
 
 When unto thee the world proves fickle, 
 When nothing to thee shall remain. 
 Of all thou'st hoped and joyed to gain, 
 Except the chilling sense of pain. 
 
 Remember then the icicle, — 
 
 And learn no trust need e'er be given 
 To joys less pure than make a heaven. 
 
129 
 
 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT, 
 
 She was a phantom of delight 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
 A lovely apparition, sent 
 To be a moment's ornament ; 
 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, 
 Like twilight's too her dusky hair ; 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 From May-time and the cheerful dawn \ 
 A dancing shape, an image gay, 
 To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. 
 
 I saw her upon nearer view, 
 
 A spirit, yet a woman too ; 
 
 Her household motions light and free, 
 
 And steps of virgin liberty ; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
 
 A creature not too bright or good 
 
 For human nature's daily food ; 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. 
 
 And now I see, with eye serene, 
 The very pulse of the machine ; 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A traveller betwixt life and death ; 
 
130 
 
 The reason firm, the temperate will, 
 Endurance, foresight, strength and skill ; 
 A perfect woman, nobly planned 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 And yet a spirit still, and bright 
 With something of an angel light. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 MERCY. 
 
 'i 
 
 The quality of mercy is not strained ; 
 It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 'i 
 
 Upon the place beneath ; it is twice blessed ; i 
 It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes. : 
 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes ^ 
 
 The throned monarch better than his crown. 
 His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 1 
 The attribute to awe and majesty, i 
 
 Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 
 But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 
 It is enthroned in the heart of kings ; 
 It is an attribute to God himself ; ' 
 
 And earthly power doth then show likest God's, 
 When mercy seasons justice. 
 
 Shakspere. 
 
131 
 
 LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 The breaking waves dashed high 
 
 On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
 And the woods, against a stormy sky, 
 
 Their giant branches tost. 
 
 And the heavy night hung dark 
 
 The hills and waters o'er, 
 When a band of exiles moored their bark 
 
 On the wild New England shore. 
 
 Not as the conqueror comes, 
 
 They, the true-hearted, came. 
 Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 
 
 And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 
 
 Not as the flying come. 
 
 In silence and in fear ; 
 They shook the depths of the desert's glooms 
 
 With their hymns of lofty cheer. 
 
 Amidst the storms they sang, 
 
 And the stars heard and the sea ! 
 And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang" 
 
 To the voices of the free ! 
 
 The ocean eagle soared 
 
 From his nest by the white wave's foam, 
 
132 
 
 And the rocking- pines of the forest roared ; 
 This was their welcome home. 
 
 There were men with hoary hair 
 
 Amid that pilgrim band ; — 
 Why had they come to wither there, 
 
 Away from their childhood's land ? 
 
 There was woman's fearless eye, 
 
 Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
 There was manhood's brow, serenely high,- 
 
 And the fiery heart of yonth. 
 
 What sought they thus afar ? 
 
 Bright jewels of the mine ? 
 The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? 
 
 — They sought a faith's pure shrine ! % 
 
 Ay, call it holy ground. 
 
 The soil where first they trod ; 
 They have left unstained what there! they foiind, — : 
 Freedom to worship God ! 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. i 
 
 T^OREST SCENE IN THE DAYS OF WICELIFF. 
 
 A LITTLE child, she read a book, J 
 
 Beside an open door ; ] 
 
 And, as she read page after page, j 
 
 She wondered more and more. I 
 
133 
 
 Her little finger, carefully, 
 Went pointing out the place ; 
 
 Her golden locks hung drooping down^ 
 And shadowed half her face. 
 
 The dpen book lay on her knee,— 
 
 Her eyes on it were bent ; 
 And as she read page after page, 
 
 Her color came and went.- 
 
 She sat upon a mossy stone, 
 
 An open door beside ; 
 And round, for miles on every side, 
 
 Stretched out a forest wide. 
 
 The summer sun shone on the trees, — ^ 
 The deer lay in the shade ; 
 
 And overhead the sinoing- birds 
 Their pleasant clamor made. 
 
 There was no garden round the house^ 
 
 And it was low and small ; 
 The forest sward grew to the door, 
 
 The lichens on the wall. 
 
 There was no garden round about,' 
 Yet flowers were growing free ; 
 
 The cowslip and the daffodil 
 Upon the forest lea. 
 
 The butterfly went flitting by ; 
 
 The bees were in the flowers j 
 12 
 
134 
 
 But the little child sat steadfastly, 
 As she had sat for hours. 
 
 " Why sit ye here, my little maid ? " 
 
 An aged pilgrim spake ; — 
 The child looked upward from her hook 
 
 Like one but first awake. 
 
 Back fell her locks of golden hair. 
 
 And solemn was her look ; 
 And thus she answered, witlessly, 
 
 " O sir, I read this book !" 
 
 "" And what is there within that book 
 
 To win a child like thee ? 
 Up ! join thy mates, the singing birds. 
 
 And frolic with the bee." 
 
 " Nay, sir, I cannot leave this book, 
 
 I love it more than play ; 
 I 've read all legends, but this oiie 
 
 Ne'er saw I till this day. 
 
 " And there is something in this book 
 
 That makes all care begone ; 
 And yet I weep, I know not why. 
 
 As I go reading on." 
 
 " Who art thou, child, that thou shouldst read 
 
 A book with mickle heed ? 
 Books are for clerks ; — the king himself 
 
 Hath much ado — to read." 
 
135 
 
 " My father is a forester, 
 
 A bowman keen and good ; 
 He keeps the deer within their bounds, 
 
 And worketh in the wood. 
 
 " My mother died at Candlemas ; — 
 The flowers were all in blow 
 
 Upon her grave, at Allenby, 
 Down in the vale below." 
 
 This said, unto her book she turned, 
 
 As steadfast as before ; — 
 " Nay," said the pilgrim, " nay, not yet, 
 
 And you must tell me more, 
 
 " Who was it taught you thus to read ? " 
 " Ah,, sir ! it was my mother ; 
 
 She ta,ught me both to read and spell. 
 And so she taught my brother. 
 
 " My brother dwelt at Allenby, 
 With the good monk alway ; 
 
 And this new book he brought for me. 
 But only for one day. 
 
 " O sir, it is a wond'rous book. 
 
 Better than Charlemagne ; 
 And be you pleased to leave me now, 
 
 I '11 read in it again." 
 
 " Nay, read to me," the pilgrim said, 
 • And the little child went on 
 
136 
 
 To read of Christ, as is set forth 
 In the Gospel of St. John. 
 
 On, on she read, and gentle tears 
 Adown her cheeks did slide; — 
 
 The pilgrim sat with bended head. 
 And he wept by her side. 
 
 ^' I 've heard," said he, " the archbishop,— 
 I 've heard the pope, at Rome, 
 
 But never did their spoken words 
 Thus to my spirit come. 
 
 " The book, it is a blessed book, 
 
 Its name, what may it be ? " 
 Said she, " they are the words of Christ 
 
 That I have read to thee, 
 Now done into the English tongue, 
 
 For folks unlearned as me." 
 
 *' Give me the book, and let me read. 
 My soul is strangely stirred ; 
 
 They are such words of love and truth 
 As I ne'er before have heard." 
 
 The little girl gave up the book, 
 And the pilgrim, old and brown, 
 
 With reverend lips did kiss the page, 
 Then on the stone sat down. 
 
137 
 
 And aye he read page after page, 
 
 Page after page he turned ; 
 And as he read their blessed words, 
 
 His heart within him burned. 
 
 Still, still the book the old man read, 
 As he would ne'er have done ; 
 
 From the hour of noon he read the book 
 Until the set of sun. 
 
 The little child she brought him out 
 
 A cake of wheaten bread ; 
 And it lay unbroken at eventide. 
 
 Nor did he raise his head. 
 
 Then came the sturdy forester 
 
 Along the homeward track. 
 Whistling aloud a hunting tune. 
 
 With a slain deer on his back. 
 
 Loud greeting gave the forester 
 
 Unto the pilgrim poor, — 
 The old man rose, with thoughtful brow, 
 
 And entered at the door. 
 
 They two, they sat them down to meat, 
 
 And the pilgrim 'gan to tell 
 How he had eaten on Olivet, 
 
 And drank at Jacob's well. 
 
 And then he told him he had knelt 
 
 Where'er our Lord had prayed, 
 12* . 
 
138 
 
 How he had in the Garden been, 
 And the Tomb where he was laid. 
 
 And then he turned unto the book, 
 And read in English plain. 
 
 How Christ had died on Calvary, 
 How he had risen ag-ain. 
 
 *"&" 
 
 As water to the parched soil, 
 
 As to the hungry, bread ; 
 So fell upon the woodman's soul, , 
 
 Each word the pilgrim read. 
 
 a 
 
 Thus, through the midnight did they read, ^ 
 
 Until the dawn of day ; 
 
 And then came in the woodman's son, . 
 
 To fetch the book away. !| 
 
 I 
 All quick and troubled was his speech,-^ i 
 
 His face was pale with dread ; 'j 
 
 For he said the king had made a law, J 
 
 That the book should not be read ; 
 For it was such fearful heresy. 
 
 The holy Abbot said. 
 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
139 
 
 SWEET AUBURN. 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
 Where health and plenty cheered the laboring 
 
 swain, 
 Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
 And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed ; 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 
 How often have I loitered o'er thy green. 
 Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 
 How often have I paused on every charm, 
 The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
 The decent church, that topt the neighboring hill, 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 
 How often have I blessed the coming day, 
 When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play, 
 And all the village train, from labor free, 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 The young contending, as the old surveyed; 
 And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went 
 
 round ; 
 
140 
 
 And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired. 
 The dancing pair, that simply sought renown, 
 By holding out to tire each other down ; 
 The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face. 
 While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 
 The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 
 The matron's glance that would those looks re- 
 prove. 
 
 These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports 
 like these. 
 
 With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please. 
 
 Sweet was the sound when oft, at evening's 
 close. 
 
 Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
 
 There, as I passed, with careless steps and slow, 
 
 The minolino: notes came softened from below : 
 
 The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung. 
 
 The sober herd that lowed to meet their young ; 
 
 The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool ; 
 
 The playful children just let loose from school ; 
 
 The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whisper- 
 ing wind. 
 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; 
 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
 
 And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
 
 Goldsmith. 
 
141 
 
 THE VILLAGE CLERGYMAN. 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden 
 
 smiled, 
 And still where many a garden flower grows 
 
 wild, 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his 
 
 place ; 
 
 Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power 
 
 By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 
 
 Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 
 
 More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train, 
 
 He chid their wanderings, but relieved their 
 pain ; 
 
 The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 
 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
 
 The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud. 
 
 Claimed kindred there, and had his claim 
 allowed ; 
 
142 
 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
 Sat by his fire, and talked the night away ; 
 Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
 Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields 
 
 were won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learned 
 
 to glow, 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
 His pity gave ere charity began. . 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. 
 And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side ; 
 But in his duty prompt at every call, 
 He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
 To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 
 Beside the bed where -parting life was laid, 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, 
 The reverend champion stood. At his control, 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to 
 raise. 
 
 And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 
 
143 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
 His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
 Truth, from his lips, prevailed with double sway, 
 And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 
 The service past, ar.ound the pious man, 
 With steady zeal each honest rustic ran ; 
 E'en children followed, with endearing wile^ 
 And plucked his gown to share the good man*a 
 
 smile. 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed, 
 Their welfare pleased him and their cares dis- 
 tressed ; 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven* 
 As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the 
 storm, 
 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are 
 
 spread, 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 Goldsmith. 
 
144 
 
 THE DYING SWAN. 
 
 The plain was grassy, wild and bare', 
 Wide, wild, and open to the air, 
 Which had built up everywhere 
 
 An under-roof of doleful gray. 
 With an inner voice the river ran, 
 Adown it floated a dying swan, 
 
 Which loudly did lament. 
 It was the middle of the day, 
 Ever the weary wind went on. 
 
 And took the reed-tops as it went.' 
 
 Some blue peaks in the distance rose. 
 And white, against the cold, white sky, 
 Shown out their crowning snows. 
 
 One willow over the river wept, 
 And shook the wave as the w^ind did sigh ;• 
 Above in the wind was the swallow, 
 Chasing itself at its own wild will, 
 And far through the marish green, and still, 
 
 The tangled water-courses slept, 
 Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. 
 
145 
 
 The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul 
 Of that waste place, with joy 
 Hidden in sorrow ; at first to the ear 
 The warble was low, and full, and clear ; 
 And, floating about the under sky, 
 Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole 
 Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear ; 
 But anon her awful, jubilant voice, 
 With a music strange and manifold. 
 Flowed forth on a carol free and bold : 
 As when a mighty people rejoice 
 With shawms and with cymbals and harps of gold,- 
 And the tumult of their acclaim is rolled 
 Through the open gates of the city afar. 
 To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. 
 And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds, 
 
 And the willow-branches, hoar and dank, 
 
 And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds,. 
 
 And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, 
 
 And the silvery marish-flowers, that throng 
 
 The desolate creeks and pools among, 
 
 Were flooded over with eddying song. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson* 
 
 la 
 
146 
 
 THE MINSTREL. 
 
 In days of yoie how fortunately fared 
 
 The Minstrel ! wandering on from hall to hall, 
 
 Baronial court or royal ; cheered with gifts 
 
 Munificent, and love, and ladies' praise j 
 
 Now meeting on his road an armed knight^ 
 
 Now resting with a pilgrim by the side 
 
 Of a clear brook ; beneath an abbey's roof 
 
 One evening sumptuously lodged ; the next 
 
 Humbly, in a religious hospital ; 
 
 Or with some merry outlaws of the wood ; 
 
 Or haply shrouded in a hermit's cell. 
 
 Him, sleeping or awake, the robber spared ; 
 
 He walked — protected from the sword of war 
 
 By virtue of that sacred instrument, 
 
 His harp, suspended at the traveller's side ; 
 
 His dear companion wheresoever he went, 
 
 Opening, from land to land, an easy way, 
 
 By melody, and by the charm of verse. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
147 
 
 INDIAN DEATH SONG. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. 
 
 On the mat he 's sitting there ; 
 
 See ! he sits upright, 
 With the same look that he ware 
 
 When he saw the light. 
 
 But where now the hand's clinched weight ? 
 
 Where the breath he drew, ' 
 That to the Great Spirit late 
 
 Forth the pipe smoke blew ? 
 
 Where the eyes that, falcon-keen. 
 
 Marked the rein-deer pass, 
 By the dew upon the green. 
 
 By the waving grass ? 
 
 These the limbs that, unconfined, 
 
 Bounded through the snow, 
 Like the stag that's twenty-tyned. 
 
 Like the mountain roe I 
 
 These the arms, that, stout and tense, 
 
 Did the bow-string twang ! 
 See, the life is parted hence ! 
 
 See, how loose they hang ! 
 
 Well for him ! he's gone his ways, 
 Where are no more snows ; 
 
148 
 
 Where the fields are decked with maize, 
 That unplanted grows ; — 
 
 Where with beasts of chase each wood, 
 
 Where with birds each tree, 
 Where with fish is every flood, 
 
 Stocked full pleasantly. 
 
 He above with spirits feeds ;— =• 
 
 We, alone and dim, 
 Left to celebrate his deeds. 
 
 And to bury him. 
 
 Bring the last sad offerings hither ! 
 
 Chant the death lament ! 
 All inter with him together. 
 
 That can him content. 
 
 'Neath his head the hatchet hide, 
 
 That he swung so strong ; 
 And the bear's ham set beside,— 
 
 For the way is long ; 
 
 Then the knife, — sharp let it be,^ 
 
 That, from foeman's crown, 
 Quick, with dexterous cuts but three, 
 
 Skin and tuft brought down ; — 
 
 Paint, to smear his frame about. 
 
 Set within his hand. 
 That he redly may shine out 
 
 In the Spirit's land. 
 
 N. L. Frothingham. 
 
149 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 Her giant form 
 O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm, 
 Majestically calm, would go, 
 'Mid the deep darkness, white as snow ! 
 
 But gentler now the small waves glide, 
 Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side. 
 So stately her bearing, so proud her array, 
 The main she will traverse for ever and aye. • 
 Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast ! 
 — Hush ! hush ! thou vain dreamer, this hour 
 is her last ! 
 
 Five hundred souls, in one instant of dread. 
 
 Are hurried o'er the deck ; 
 And fast the miserable ship 
 
 Becomes a lifeless wreck. 
 
 Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock. 
 
 Her planks are torn asunder. 
 And down come her masts, with a reeling shock, 
 
 And a hideous crash like thunder. 
 
 Her sails are draggled in the brine 
 
 That gladdened late the skies, 
 And her pennant, that kissed the fair moorishine, 
 
 Down many a fathom lies. 
 13^ 
 
150 
 
 Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues 
 
 Gleamed softly from below, 
 And flung a warm and sunny flush 
 
 O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow, 
 To the coral rocks are hurrying down. 
 To sleep amid colors as bright as their own. 
 
 Oh ! many a dream was in the ship 
 
 An hour before her death. 
 And sights of home with sighs disturbed 
 
 The sleeper's long-drawn breath. 
 
 Instead of the murmur of the sea, 
 The sailor heard the humming tree, 
 
 Alive through all its leaves. 
 The hum of the spreading sycamore 
 That grows before his cottage-door. 
 
 And the swallow's song in the eaves. 
 
 His arms enclosed a blooming boy. 
 
 Who listened, with tears of sorrow and joy, 
 
 To the dangers his father had passed ; 
 And his wife — by turns she wept and smiled, 
 As she looked on the father of her child. 
 
 Returned to her heart at last. 
 
 — He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll, 
 
 And the rush of waters is in his soul. i 
 
 Astounded the reeling deck he paces, 
 
 'Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces ; 
 
 t 
 
151 
 
 The whole ship's crew are there. 
 Wailings around and overhead, 
 Brave spirits stupified or dead, 
 
 And madness and despair. 
 
 Now is the ocean's hosom bare, 
 
 Unbroken as the floating air ; 
 
 The ship hath melted quite away. 
 
 Like a struggling dream at break of day. 
 
 No image meets my wandering eye, 
 
 But the new-risen sun and the sunny sky. 
 
 Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapor 
 
 dull 
 Bedims the waves so beautiful ; 
 While a low and melancholy moan 
 Mourns for the glory that hath flown. 
 
 Wilson. 
 
 REST. 
 
 Sweet is the pleasure 
 Itself cannot spoil ; 
 Is not true leisure 
 One with true toil ? 
 
 Thou that wouldst taste it, 
 Still do thy best ; 
 
152 
 
 Use it, — not waste it, 
 Else 't is no rest. 
 
 Would'st behold beauty 
 Near thee, — all round? 
 Only hath Duty 
 Such a sig-ht found. 
 
 'o 
 
 Rest is not quitting 
 The busy career : 
 Rest is the fitting 
 Of self to its sphere. 
 
 'Tis the brook's motion, 
 Clear, without strife, 
 Flowing to ocean 
 After its life. 
 
 Deeper devotion 
 Nowhere hath knelt, 
 Fuller emotion 
 Heart never felt. 
 
 'Tis loving and serving 
 The Highest and Best ; 
 'Tis onwards, unswerving, 
 And that is true Rest. 
 
 J. S. DwiGHT. 
 
153 
 
 WHY DOST THOU TALK OF DEATH, LADDIE. 
 
 Why dost thou talk of death, laddie ? 
 
 Why dost thou long to go ? 
 The Master, that has placed thee here, 
 
 Hath work for thee to do. 
 
 Why dost thou talk of heaven, laddie ? 
 
 What would'st thou say in heaven. 
 When the Master asks, " What hast thou done 
 
 With the talents I have given ? 
 
 ^' I gave thee wealth and power. 
 
 And the poor around thee spread ; — 
 
 Where are the sheep and lambs of mine 
 That thou hast reared and fed ? 
 
 " I gave thee wit and eloquence 
 
 Thy brethren to persuade ; — 
 Where are the thousands by thy word 
 
 More wise and holy made ? 
 
 " I placed thee in a land of light, 
 
 Where the Gospel round thee shone ; — 
 
 Where is the heavenly-mindedness 
 I find in all my own ? 
 
 *' And last I sent thee chastisement 
 
 That thou mighte>st be my son ; — 
 
 Where is the trusting faith which says, 
 
 * Father, Thy will be done ? ' " 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
154 
 
 FROM " THE SEXTON'S DAUGHTER." 
 
 Still hope ! still act ! Be sure that life, 
 The source and strength of every good, 
 
 Wastes down in feeling's empty strife, 
 And dies in dreaming's sickly mood. 
 
 To toil in tasks, however mean. 
 
 For all we know of right and true, — 
 
 In this alone our worth is seen ; 
 'Tis this we were ordained to do. 
 
 So shalt thou find in work and thought 
 The peace that sorrow cannot give ; 
 
 Though griefs worst pangs to thee be taught, 
 By thee let others noblier live. 
 
 O wail not in the darksome forest. 
 Where thou must needs be left alone ! 
 
 But, e'en when memory is sorest. 
 Seek out a path, and journey on. 
 
 Thou wilt have angels near above, 
 
 By whom invisible aid is given ; 
 They journey still on tasks of love, 
 
 And never rest, except in heaven. ^ 
 
 Sterling. 
 
 it 
 
155 
 
 THE CLOUD VOICE. 
 
 Mortal ! on our azure pathway 
 Speed we where our errand lies ; 
 
 Each our urn of treasures bearing-, 
 Freshening earth with glad supplies* 
 
 By no will of ours we rose here, 
 By no choice of ours we live ; 
 
 Powers, far, far above our scanning, 
 Laws inevitable give. 
 
 Our snowy forms, in mid-day air, 
 
 Our sunset tints of fire. 
 Our lightning-flash, our thunder-roar, 
 
 Obey a mandate higher. 
 
 Our sky-course run, our mission wTought, 
 Wasted forms we sink to earth, 
 
 Till that same great power recalls us 
 To another new air-birth. 
 
 Thus far onward we together ; — 
 For the forms of good and ill. 
 
 The events which cluster round thee, 
 These exist not through thy will. 
 
 Yet within thy human bosom 
 Dwells a force creative too ; 
 
156 
 
 Outward circumstance it fashions, 
 All invests with its life-hue. 
 
 And thy glory lies in using, 
 
 Right and true, this wondrous strength J 
 Soaring where thy chains permit thee^ 
 
 Not murmurinsr for more leng-th. 
 
 In the pride of human reason 
 
 Thou hast spurned a finite power. 
 
 And sought the Eternal Cause of all' 
 To grasp in life's short hour. 
 
 Not to scan thy Father's counsels, 
 But perform them, is thy task ; 
 
 Duty finished — then the ivhy 
 Of thy being thou'lt not ask. 
 
 Puzzle thee the paths of duty 
 As their varied course they run ? 
 
 O linger not in wilds of doubt ! 
 Strike into the nearest one. 
 
 'Twill lead thee to some fairer height. 
 
 Radiant with celestial glow. 
 Where the prospect all before thee 
 
 Brighter, clearer, still shall grow. 
 
 Then whilst thou art upward hastening. 
 New visions from new heights to gain,, 
 
 No more shall how onioard vex thee ; — 
 Duty done, life's path is plain. 
 
157 
 
 THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 
 
 How dear to my heart are the scenes of my 
 childhood, 
 "When fond recollection presents them to view ! 
 The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild- 
 wood. 
 And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; 
 The wide spreading pond, and the mill which 
 stood by it, 
 The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; 
 The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it, 
 
 And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well ; 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
 The moss-covered bucket which hang in the well. 
 
 That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ; 
 
 For often, at noon, when returned from the field, 
 I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure. 
 
 The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
 
 How ardent I seized it with hands that were 
 
 glowing. 
 
 And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; 
 14 
 
158 
 
 Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 
 And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well ; 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, ■ 
 The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. ; 
 
 How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it,' 
 
 As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 
 Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 
 
 Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
 And now far removed from the loved situation, 
 
 The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 
 As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. 
 
 And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;i 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, ! 
 The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well. ' 
 
 Samuel Woodworth. ;' 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 THE ROSE AND THE GAUNTLET. 
 
 Low spake the knight to the peasant girl, 
 " I tell thee sooth — I am belted earl ; 
 Fly with me from this garden small. 
 And thou shalt sit in my castle's hall. 
 
159 
 
 " Thou shalt have pomp, and wealth, and pleasure, 
 Joys beyond thy fancy's measure ; 
 Here with my sword and horse I stand, 
 To bear thee away to my distant land. 
 
 " Take, thou fairest, this full-blown rose, 
 
 A token of love that as ripely blows." 
 
 With his glove of steel he plucked the token, 
 
 But it fell from his gauntlet, crushed and broken. 
 
 The maiden exclaimed, " Thou seest. Sir Knight, 
 Thy fingers of iron can only smite ; 
 And, like the rose thou hast torn and scattered, 
 I in thy grasp should be wrecked and shattered." 
 
 She trembled and blushed, and her glances fell, 
 But she turned from the knight, and said, " Fare- 
 well ; "— 
 " Not so," he cried, " will I lose my prize ; 
 I heed not thy words, but I read thine eyes." 
 
 He lifted her up in his grasp of steel. 
 
 And he mounted, and spurred with furious heel ; 
 
 But her cry drew forth her hoary sire. 
 
 Who snatched his bow from above the fire. 
 
160 
 
 Swift from the valley the warrior fled, 
 Swifter the bolt of the cross-bow sped ; *^ 
 
 And the weight that pressed on the fleet-foot horse, 
 Was the living man, and the woman's corse. 
 
 That morning, the rose was bright of hue ; 
 That morning, the maiden was fair to view ; 
 But the evening sun its beauty shed 
 On the withered leaves, and the maiden dead. 
 
 Sterling. 
 
 THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. ^ 
 
 I LOVE it, I love it ! and who shall dare i 
 
 To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? ^ 
 
 I 've treasured it long as a sainted prize, i 
 I 've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with 
 
 sighs ; { 
 
 ^is bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; . 
 
 Not a tie will break, not a link will start. |i 
 Would ye learn the spell ? a mother sat there, 
 And a sacred thina: is that old arm-chair. 
 
 In childhood's hour, I lingered near 
 The hallowed seat with listening ear ; 
 
161 
 
 And gentle words that mother would give, 
 
 To fit me to die, and teach me to live ; 
 
 She told me shame would never betide, 
 
 With truth for my creed, and God for my guide ; 
 
 She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 
 
 As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 
 
 I sat and watched her many a day. 
 
 When her eyes grew dim, and her locks were 
 
 grey; 
 And I almost worshipped her when she smiled. 
 And turned from her Bible, to bless her child. 
 Years rolled on, but the last one sped, — 
 My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled ; 
 I learned how much a heart can bear, 
 When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 
 
 'Tis past ! 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now 
 With quivering breath and throbbing brow ; 
 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died ; 
 And memory flows with lava tide. 
 Say it is folly, and deem me weak. 
 While the scalding drops start down my cheek ; 
 But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear 
 My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 
 
 Eliza Cook. 
 14* 
 
162 
 
 THE BOY AND HIS ANGEL. 
 
 MOTHER, I 've been with an angel to-day ! 
 
 1 was out alone in the forest at play, 
 Chasing after the butterflies, watching the bees, 
 And hearing the wood-pecker tapping the trees ; 
 So I played, and I played, till so weary I grew, 
 I sate down to rest in the shade of a yew. 
 While the birds sang so sweetly high up on its top, 
 I held my breath, mother, for fear they would stop. 
 Thus a long while I sate, looking up to the sky, 
 And watching the clouds that went hurrying by, 
 When I heard a voice calling just over my head, 
 That sounded as if, ' Come, O brother ! ' it said ; 
 And there, right over the top of the tree, 
 
 O mother ! an angel w^as beckoning to me ! 
 
 And ' brother ! ' once more, ' come, brother ! ' 
 he cried, 
 
 And flew on light pinions close down by my side ; 
 
 And, mother, O never was being so bright. 
 
 As the one which then beamed on my wondering 
 sight ! 
 
 His face was as fair as the delicate shell, 
 
 His hair down his shoulders in fair ringlets fell, 
 
163 
 
 His eyes resting on me, so melting with love, 
 Were as soft and as mild as the eyes of a dove ! 
 And somehow, dear mother, I felt not afraid, 
 As his hand on my brow he caressingly laid, 
 And whispered so softly and gently to me, 
 ' Come, brother, the angels are waiting for thee.' 
 
 And then on my forehead he tenderly pressed 
 Such kisses ; — mother ! they thrilled through 
 
 my breast; 
 At last on my head a deep blessing he poured. 
 Then plumed his bright pinions, and upward he 
 
 soared. 
 And up, up he went, through the blue sky, so far, 
 He seemed to float there like a glittering star ; 
 Yet still my eyes followed his radiant flight, 
 Till, lost in the azure, he passed from my sight. 
 Then, O how I feared, as I caught the last gleam 
 Of his vanishing form, it was only a dream ! 
 When soft voices whispered once more from the 
 
 tree, 
 ' Come, brother, the angels are waiting for thee ! ' 
 
 how his young footsteps she watched, day 
 
 by day. 
 As his delicate form wasted slowly aAvay ; 
 
164 
 
 Till the soft light of heaven seemed shed o'er his 
 
 face, 
 And he crept up to die in her loving embrace ! 
 ' O clasp me, dear mother ! close, close to your 
 
 breast ; 
 On that gentle pillow again let me rest ! 
 Let me once more gaze up to that dear, loving eye. 
 And then, O methinks, I can willingly die ! 
 Now kiss me, dear mother ! O quickly ! for see. 
 The bright blessed angels are waiting for me ! 
 
 i 
 
 I see you not, mother ! for darkness and night 
 
 •I 
 Are hiding your dear, loving face from my sight, — '] 
 
 But I hear your low sobbings, — dear mother, good ! 
 
 bye! | 
 
 The angels are ready to bear me on high ! t 
 
 I will wait for you there, — but, O tarry not long, ^ 
 Lest grief at your absence should sadden my song ! | 
 He ceased, and his hands meekly clasped on his ! 
 
 breast. 
 While his sweet face sank down on its pillow of ; 
 
 rest ; \ 
 
 Then, closing his eyes, now all rayless and dim, | 
 Went up with the angels that waited for him. I 
 
 Miss Gould. ! 
 
165 
 
 SEASONS OF PRAYER. 
 
 To PRAYER ! to prayer ! — for the morning breaks, 
 
 And earth in her Maker's smile awakes ; 
 
 His light is on all below and above, 
 
 The light of gladness, and life, and love ; 
 
 O then, on the breath of this early air, 
 
 Send upward the incense of grateful prayer. 
 
 To prayer! — for the glorious sun is gone. 
 And the gathering darkness of night comes on ; 
 Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows. 
 To shade the couch where his children repose ; 
 Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright. 
 And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of 
 night. 
 
 There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes. 
 
 For her new-born infant beside her lies ; 
 
 hour of bliss, when the heart overflows 
 
 With rapture a mother only knows ! 
 
 Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer ; 
 
 .Xet it swell up to heaven for her precious care. 
 
166 
 
 There are smiles and tears in that gathering band, 
 Where the heart is pledged with the trembling 
 
 hand ; 
 What trying thoughts in her bosom swell, 
 As the bride bids parents and home farewell ! . 
 Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair, 
 And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer. 
 
 Kneel down at the couch of departing faith, 
 And hear the last words the believer saith. 
 He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends ; 
 There is peace in his eye that upward bends. 
 There is peace in his calm, confiding air, 
 For his last thoughts are God's, his last words 
 prayer. 
 
 The voice of prayer at the sable bier ! 
 
 A voice to sustain, to soothe and to cheer ; 
 
 It commends the spirit to God who gave ; 
 
 It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave ; 
 
 It points to the glory where he shall reign, 
 
 Who whispered, ' Thy brother shall rise again ! ' 
 
 The voice of prayer in the world of bliss ! 
 But gladder, purer, than rose from this ; 
 The ransomed shout to their glorious King, 
 Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing ; 
 
167 
 
 But a sinless and joyous song they raise, 
 And their voice of prayer is eternal praise. 
 
 Awake ! awake ! and gird up thy strength, 
 
 To join that holy band at length. 
 
 To Him who unceasing love displays, 
 
 Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise. 
 
 To Him thy heart and thy hours be given. 
 
 For a life of prayer is the life of heaven. 
 
 Henry Ware, jr. 
 
 THE SILENT EXPRESSION OF NATURE. 
 
 When, thoughtful, to the vault of heaven i 
 
 I lift my wondering eyes, ; 
 
 And see the clear and quiet even j 
 
 To night resign the skies, — | 
 
 The moon in silence rear her crest, 
 
 The stars in silence shine, — 
 A secret rapture fills my breast. 
 
 That speaks its birth divine. 
 
 i 
 Unheard, the dews around me fall, 
 
 And heavenly influence shed ; 
 And, silent, on this earthly ball. 
 
 Celestial footsteps tread ; j 
 
 Aerial music wakes the spheres, 
 
 Touched by harmonious powers ; 
 
168 
 
 With sounds, unheard by mortal ears, I 
 
 They charm the lingering hours. 
 
 Night reigns, in silence, o'er the pole, 
 
 And spreads her gems unheard ; ! 
 
 Her lessons penetrate the soul. 
 
 Yet borrow not a word. 
 Noiseless the sun emits his fire, 
 
 And pours his golden streams; 
 And silently the shades retire I 
 
 Before his rising beams. 
 
 The hand that moves, and regulates, 
 
 And guides the vast machine, 
 That governs wills, and times, and fates, 
 
 Retires and works unseen. ' 
 
 Angelic visitants forsake i 
 
 Their amaranthine bowers : ' 
 
 On silent wing their stations take, 
 
 And watch the allotted hours. 
 
 ! 
 
 Sick of the vanity of man, » 
 
 His noise, and pomp, and show, j 
 
 I '11 move upon great Nature's plan, ^ 
 
 And, silent, work below. 
 
 "With inward harmony of soul 'ii 
 
 I '11 wait the upper sphere ; i 
 
 Shining, I '11 mount above the pole, \ 
 And break my silence there. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
169 
 
 THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR. 
 
 Gather him to his grave again, 
 
 And solemnly and softly lay, 
 Beneath the verdure of the plain, 
 
 The warrior's scattered bones away. 
 Pay the deep reverence, taught of old. 
 
 The homage of man's heart to death; 
 Nor dare to trifle with the mould 
 
 Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath. 
 
 The soul hath quickened every part, — 
 
 That remnant of a martial brow, 
 Those ribs that held the mighty heart, 
 
 That strong arm, — strong no longer now. 
 Spare them, each mouldering relic spare, 
 
 Of God's own image ; let them rest, 
 Till not a trace shall speak of where 
 
 The awful likeness was imprest. 
 
 For he was fresher from the Hand 
 That formed of earth the human face, 
 
 And to the elements did stand 
 In nearer kindred than our race. 
 
 In many a flood to madness tost. 
 
 In many a storm has been his path ; 
 
 He hid him not from heat or frost, 
 
 But met them, and defied their wrath. 
 15 
 
170 
 
 Then they were kind, — the forest here, 
 
 Rivers, and stiller waters, paid 
 A tribute to the net and spear 
 
 Of the red ruler of the shade. 
 Fruits on the woodland branches lay, 
 
 Roots in the shaded soil below, 
 The stars looked forth to teach his way, 
 
 The still earth warned him of the foe. \ 
 
 A noble race ! but they are gone. 
 
 With their old forests wide and deep ; 
 And we have built our homes upon | 
 
 Fields where their generations sleep. 
 Their fountains slake our thirst at noon, | 
 
 Upon their fields our harvest waves, ( 
 
 Our lovers woo beneath their moon ; — 
 
 Ah, let us spare, at least, their graves ! 
 
 Bryant. ' 
 
 THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE. 
 
 " Begone, thou fond, presumptuous elf!" 
 
 Exclaimed a thundering voice, 
 " Nor dare to trust thy foolish self 
 
 Between me and my choice ! " 
 A small cascade, fresh swoln with snows, 
 Thus threatened a poor briar-rose, 
 
 That, all bespattered with his foam, 
 
171 
 
 And dancing high and dancing low, 
 Was living, as a child might know, 
 In an unhappy home. 
 
 " Dost thou presume my course to block ? 
 
 Off, off ! or, puny thing ! 
 I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock 
 
 To which thy fibres cling." 
 The flood was tyrannous and strong ; 
 The patient briar suffered long. 
 
 Nor did he utter groan or sigh. 
 Hoping the danger would be past ; 
 But, seeing no relief, at last 
 
 He ventured to reply. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the briar, " blame me not ; 
 
 Why should we dwell in strife ? 
 We, who in this sequestered spot, 
 
 Once lived a happy life ! 
 You stirred me on my rocky bed, — 
 What pleasure through my veins you spread I 
 
 The summer long, from day to day, 
 My leaves you freshened and bedewed ; 
 Nor was it common gratitude 
 
 That did your cares repay. 
 
 " When spring came on with bud and bell, 
 
 Among these rocks did I 
 Before you hang my wreaths, to tell 
 
 That gentle days were nigh ! 
 
172 
 
 And, in the sultry summer hours, j\ 
 
 I shehered you with leaves and flowers ; 
 
 And, in my leaves,^ — now shed and gone, 
 The linnet lodged, and for us two 
 Chanted his pretty songs, when you |i 
 
 Had little voice or none. | 
 
 " But now, proud thoughts are in your breast ;j 
 
 What grief is mine you see. 
 Ah ! would you think, even yet how blest 
 
 Together we might be ! ^ 
 
 Though of both leaf and flower bereft, < 
 
 Some ornaments to me are left, — | 
 
 Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, j 
 
 With which I, in my humble way, |i 
 
 Would deck you many a winter's day, i 
 
 A happy eglantine." \ 
 
 What more he said I cannot tell. 
 The torrent thundered down the dell, 
 
 With unabating haste ; 
 I listened, nor aught else could hear ; 
 The briar quaked, — and much I fear 
 
 Those accents were his last. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 I 
 
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