POEMS.

Half our sorrows, half our troubles, Making head and heart to ache, Are the fruit of blowing bubbles, Bright to view, but quick to break. All have played the child imbecile, Breathing hard to swell the sides Of a shining, fluid vessel, Frailer than the air it rides. From the infant’s cradle rising, All the bubble mania show, Oft our richest wealth comprising In the bubbles that we blow. Brilliant, buoyant, upward going, Pleased, we mark them in their flight, Every hue of iris showing, As they glance along the light. Little castles, high and airy, With their crystal walls so thin, Each presents the wicked fairy, Vanity, enthroned within! But when two have struck together, What of either do we find? Not so much as one gay feather Flying Hope has left behind! Still the world are busy, blowing, Every one, some empty ball; So the seeds of mischief sowing, Where, to burst, the bubbles fall. Nor for self alone to gather, Is our evil harvest found; Oft, with pipe and cup, we rather Step upon our neighbor’s ground. Thus, amusing one another, While the glistening playthings rise, We may doom a friend or brother To a life of care and sighs. Do you doubt my simple story? I can point a thousand ways Where this bubble-making glory Has in darkness hid its rays! Yet we ’ll spare a slight confusion Caused the world by giving names; Since a right to some delusion Every one from nature claims!

Radiant with his spirit’s light Was the little beauteous child, Sporting round a fountain bright, Playing through the flowerets wild. Where they grow he lightly stepped, Cautious not a leaf to crush; Then about the fount he leaped, Shouting at its merry gush. While the sparkling waters welled, Laughing as they bubbled up, In his lily hands he held, Closely clasped, a silver cup. Now he put it forth to fill; Then he bore it to the flowers, Through his fingers there to spill What it held, in mimic showers. “Open, pretty buds,” said he, “Open to the air and sun; So, to-morrow I may see What my rain to-day has done. “Yes, you will, you will, I know, For the drink I give you now, Burst your little cups, and blow, When I’m gone, and can’t tell how! “Oh! I wish I could but see How God’s finger touches you, When your sides unclasp, and free, Let your leaves and odors through. “I would watch you all the night, Nor in darkness be afraid, Only once to see aright How a beauteous flower is made. “Now remember! I shall come In the morning from my bed, Here to find among you some With your brightest colors spread!” To his buds he hastened out, At the dewy morning hour, Crying, with a joyous shout, “God has made of each a flower!” Precious must the ready faith Of the little children be, In the sight of Him, who saith, “Suffer them to come to me.” Answered, by the smile of heaven, Is the infant’s offering found, Though “a cup of water given,” Even to the thirsty ground.

The figure before you is Miss Patty Proud: Her feelings are lowery, her frown like a cloud; Because proud Miss Patty can hardly endure To come near the lowly abode of the poor. She fears the plain floor of the humble will spoil Her silk shoes and hose, and her skirt-bottom soil; And so she goes winching; and holds up her dress So high, it were well if her heels would show less. But when she walks through the fine streets of the town, She puts on fine airs, and displays her rich gown; Till some, whom she passes, will think of the bird Renowned for gay feathers, whose name you have heard. In thought she is trifling—in manner as vain As that silly fowl, taking pride in his train; And none, who have marked her, will need to be told That she has a heart hard, and haughty, and cold. I saw, when she met some poor children one day, Who asked her for alms, she turned frowning away; And told them, “Poor people must work, to be fed, And not trouble ladies, to help them to bread.” And just as the sad little mendicants said, Their mother was dying, their father was dead, She entered a store, with a smooth, smiling face, To lay out her purse in gay ribbons and lace. I saw her curl up her sour lip in disdain, Because Ellen Pitiful picked up the cane, A feeble old man had let fall in the sand, And placed it again in his tremulous hand. But little does haughty Miss Patty suppose, Of all, whom she visits, that any one knows How stern she can look, when she ’s out of their sight, And fret at the servants, if all is not right. At home, she ’s unyielding, and sullen, and cross: Her friends, when she ’s absent, esteem it no loss; And some, where she visits, in secret confess, That they love her no more, though they dread her much less. The truth is, Miss Patty, when young, never tried To govern her temper, or conquer her pride. The passions, unchecked in the heart of the child, Like weeds in a garden neglected, ran wild. They grew with her growth, with her strength became strong: Her head, not then righted, has ever been wrong; And so she would never submit to be told Of faults, by long habit made stubborn and bold. And now, among all my young friends, is there one,— A fair little girl is there under the sun, Who ’d rise to a woman, and have it allowed That she is a likeness of Miss Patty Proud?

I caught a bird: She flitted by, So near my window lifted high, She softly ventured in, to spy What I might be about: And then, a little wildered thing, Like many a one without a wing, She fluttered, struck, and seemed to sing, “Alas! I can’t get out.” She saw her kindred on the tree Before her, sporting light and free; But felt a power, she could not see, Repel and hold her back. In vain her beak, and breast, and feet Against the crystal pane were beat: She could not break the clear deceit, Nor find her airy track. The pretty wanderer then I took; And felt her frame with terror shook: She gave the sad and piteous look Of helplessness and fear; Till quick I spread my hand, to show, I caught her but to let her go; And I, perhaps, may never know A dearer moment here. She piped a short and sweet adieu, As, humming on the air, she threw Her brilliant, buoyant wing, and flew Away from fear and me: But, ere the hour of setting sun, That little constant, grateful one, Returning, had her hymn begun In our old rustling tree. Now do not take the fatal aim, My tender bird to kill, or maim; Nor let the fatal shot proclaim Her anguish, or her fall! But, would you know the bird I mean, She is the first that will be seen— The last—and every one between: She represents them all!

I sought a meet gift, it might please thee to wear Among the soft locks of thy fine silken hair; And asked the two deeps for some treasure or gem, By nature first formed and imbosomed in them. The mine gave me threads of its fine silver ore; The ocean cast up its smooth shells to the shore: Of these I combined the free offering, that now I bring, and would set o’er thy fair, peaceful brow. The shells, thou wilt see, are unsullied and white; The silver is modest, and precious, and bright,— A type! thy quick fancy will readily see, Yet thou ’lt not confess what its meaning may be. And let the gift sometimes recall to thy mind The friend, by whose hand its pure parts were combined; But, oftener, that Friend, in whose hand was the skill The earth and the seas with their treasures to fill!

O tell me the form of the soft summer air, That tosses so gently the curls of my hair! It breathes on my lip, and it fans my warm cheek, But gives me no answer, though often I speak: I feel it play o’er me, refreshing and light, And yet cannot touch it, because I ’ve no sight! And music—what is it? and where does it dwell? I sink, and I mount, with its cadence and swell, While thrilled to my heart, with its deep-going strain, Till pleasure excessive seems turning to pain. Now, what the bright colors of music may be, Will any one tell me? for I cannot see. The odors of flowers, that are hovering nigh— What are they?—on what kind of wings do they fly? Are not they sweet angels, who come to delight A poor little boy, that knows nothing of sight? The sun, moon and stars never enter my mind. O tell me what light is, because I am blind!

There stood upon the broad high-road, That o’er a moorland lay, A widow’s low and lone abode, And close beside the way. Upon its face the dwelling bore The signs of times within, That seemed to say but little more Than, “Better days have been!” Behind it was the sedgy fen, With alder, brake, and brush; And less to serve the wants of men, Than of the jay and thrush. And these would sometimes come, and cheer The widow with a song, To let her feel a neighbor near, And wing an hour along. A pond, supplied by hidden springs, With lilies bordered round, Was found among the richest things, That blessed the widow’s ground. She had, besides, a gentle brook, That wound the meadow through, Which from the pond its being took, And had its treasures too. Her eldest orphan was a son; For, children she had three; She called him, though a little one, Her hope for days to be. And well he might be reckoned so, If, from the tender shoot, We know the way the branch will grow; Or, by the flower, the fruit. His tongue was true, his mind was bright; His temper smooth and mild: He was—the parent’s chief delight— A good and pleasant child. He ’d gather chips and sticks of wood, The winter fire to make; And help his mother dress their food, Or tend the baking cake. In summer time he ’d kindly lead His little sisters out, To pick wild berries on the mead, And fish the brook for trout. He stirred his thoughts for ways to earn Some little gain; and hence, Contrived the silver pond to turn, In part, to silver pence. He found the lilies blooming there So spicy sweet to smell, And to the eye so pure and fair, He plucked them up to sell. He could not to the market go: He had too young a head, The distant city’s ways to know; The route he could not tread. But, when the coming coach-wheels rolled, To pass his humble cot, His bunch of lilies to be sold Was ready on the spot. He ’d stand beside the way, and hold His treasures up to show, That looked like yellow stars of gold Just set in leaves of snow. “O buy my lilies!” he would say; “You ’ll find them new and sweet: So fresh from out the pond are they, I have n’t dried my feet!” And then he showed the dust that clung Upon his garment’s hem, Where late the water-drops had hung, When he had gathered them. And while the carriage checked its pace, To take the lilies in, His artless orphan tongue and face Some bright return would win. For many a noble stranger’s hand, With open purse, was seen, To cast a coin upon the sand, Or on the sloping green. And many a smiling lady threw The child a silver piece; And thus, as fast as lilies grew, He saw his wealth increase. While little more—and little more, Was gathered by their sale, His widowed mother’s frugal store Would never wholly fail. For He, who made, and feeds the bird, Her little children fed. He knew her trust: her cry he heard; And answered it with bread. And thus, protected by the Power, Who made the lily fair, Her orphans, like the meadow flower, Grew up in beauty there. Her son, the good and prudent boy, Who wisely thus began, Was long the aged widow’s joy; And lived an honored man. He had a ship, for which he chose “The Lily” as a name, To keep in memory whence he rose, And how his fortune came. He had a lily carved and set, Her emblem, on her stem; And she was called, by all she met, A beauteous ocean gem. She bore sweet spices, treasures bright; And, on the waters wide, Her sails, as lily-leaves, were white: Her name was well applied. Her feeling owner never spurned The faces of the poor; And found that all he gave returned In blessing rich and sure. The God, who, by the lily-pond, Had drawn his heart above, In after life preserved the bond Of grateful, holy love.

A stranded soldier’s epaulet, The waters cast ashore, A little winged rover met, And eyed it o’er and o’er. The silver bright so pleased her sight, On that lone, idle vest, She knew not why she should deny Herself a silver nest. The shining wire she pecked and twirled; Then bore it to her bough, Where, on a flowery twig ’t was curled— The bird can show you how:— But, when enough of that bright stuff The cunning builder bore Her house to make, she would not take, Nor did she covet more. And when the little artisan, While neither pride nor guilt Had entered in her pretty plan, Her resting-place had built; With here and there a plume to spare, About her own light form, Of these, inlaid with skill, she made A lining soft and warm. But, do you think the tender brood She fondled there, and fed, Were prouder, when they understood The sheen about their bed? Do you suppose they ever rose Of higher powers possessed, Because they knew they peeped and grew Within a silver nest?

I have a little Quaker flower, That hath a kind of spirit power To hold me captive, hour by hour, In pleasant musing lost; ’T was plucked for me in distant land, And by another’s friendly hand, From turf where I may never stand; Then yon wild ocean crossed. A modest foreigner it came, Bearing a sweet, but humble name; Yet worthy of a glorious fame Among the sons of men; For O the pretty stranger grew: It drank the ether and the dew, And from light received its hue Upon the grave of Penn! It sprang from out that hallowed ground, Unclosed its eye, and smiled around, Upon the verdure of the mound, Where William’s ashes rest; Where low the dust in quiet lies Of him, among the good and wise On earth, so meek, and in the skies So high among the blest. And had my flower a living root, Or seed wherefrom a germ might shoot For one young plant to be the fruit Of that small vital part, Fair Penn-Sylvania, it should be, My friendly offering made to thee— Set, to thy father’s memory, On thy kind Quaker heart. But, ah! my precious flower is dead: The snow-white sheet beneath its head, And on its tender bosom spread, Shows that its life is o’er: And though each floweret of the gem, And every leaf, is on the stem, I cannot spare thee one of them, Because there ’ll grow no more. I therefore bid my fancy weave This simple wreath, which thou ’lt receive In lieu thereof; and thence believe My fervent wish to be That Heaven, to overflowing still, With purest bliss thy cup may fill, And guard thee safe from every ill, Whilst thou rememberest me!

On light little wings, as the humming-birds fly, With plumes many-hued as the bow of the sky, Suspended in ether, they shine in the light, As jewels of nature, high-finished and bright. Their delicate forms are so buoyant and small, They hang o’er the flowers, as too airy to fall, Upborne on their beautiful pinions, that seem Like glittering vapor, or parts of a dream. The humming-bird feeds upon honey, and so, Of course, ’t is a sweet little creature, you know: But sweet little creatures have sometimes, they say, A great deal that ’s bitter or sour to betray. And often the humming-bird’s delicate breast Is found of a very high temper possessed: Such essence of anger within it is pent, ’T would burst, did no safety-valve give it a vent. Displeased, it will seem a bright vial of wrath, Uncorked by its heat the offender to scath; And taking occasion to let off its ire, ’T is startling to witness how high it will fire. A humming-bird once o’er a trumpet-flower hung, And darted that sharp little member, the tongue, At once through the tube to its cell for the sweet It felt, at the bottom, most certain to meet. But, finding that some other child of the air, To rifle the store, had already been there, And no drop of honey for her to draw up, Her vengeance was poured on the destitute cup. She flew in a passion that heightened her power, And, cuffing and shaking the innocent flower, Its tender corolla in shred after shred She hastily stripped, then she snapped off its head. A delicate ruin on earth as it lay, That bright little fury went humming away, With gossamer softness, and fair to the eye, Like some living brilliant just dropped from the sky. And since, when that curious bird I behold Arrayed in rich colors, and dusted with gold, I cannot but think of the wrath and the spite, She has in reserve, though they ’re kept out of sight. These two-footed, beautiful, passionate things, If plumeless or plumy, without or with wings, Should go to the glass, or the painter, and sit When anger is just at the height of its fit.

Day of days, the dearest, best, Hallowed by Jehovah’s rest! When his six-days’ work was done, Holy rose the seventh sun. When creation’s pillars stood, And the Lord pronounced them good, Morning stars together sang— Heaven with Sabbath praises rang. Earth in pristine beauty shone, Like a gem, before his throne, While he marked thee, as his claim— And he sealed thee with his name. Choice of God, thou blessed day! At thy dawn the grave gave way To the power of him within, Who had, sinless, bled for sin. Thine the radiance to illume First, for man, the dismal tomb, When its bars their weakness owned, There revealing death dethroned. Then the Sun of righteousness Rose, a darkened world to bless, Bringing up from mortal night, Immortality and light. Day of glory! day of power! Sacred be thine ev’ry hour! Emblem, earnest of the rest That remaineth for the blest! When at last it shall appear How they loved and kept thee here, To a temple in the skies, Fair, eternal, they shall rise. Not a sigh of grief or care Shall mingle with their praises there; Then their sweet reward shall be An eternity of thee.

Hush! let the sigh in escaping be stopped: Be the dim chamber all silently trod! Let not the tear, that is rounded, be dropt! Oh! ’t is a spirit returning to God! Angels are softly untwining the strings, Loosing its ties to the beautiful clay; Lo! they have lifted their hovering wings: Joyous they waft her in triumph away! Sorrow not now, o’er the spiritless form, While on its features death’s lilies unfold: Break not the heart for another so warm, Stopt in its pulse by a finger so cold. Time ne’er shall whiten a lock of that hair, Silken and full, round the forehead, that shines. Age shall not come, nor the finger of care, Marking that brow with their deep-going lines. Ne’er will those lips be unsealed by the sigh: Anguish will never that bosom invade: Tears roll no more from that calm sleeping eye: Peace o’er the clay her smooth mantle has laid. Plant a young flower, in beauty to spread, Tender and pure, where the dust shall repose. Look then from earth, whence the bright spirit fled, Up, where to gladness and glory it rose.

Spare, ruthless fowler, spare That harmless robin’s breast! Its downy vesture do not tear; But leave the life-blood circling there, Again to warm her nest; For she is hastening home with food Provided for her callow brood. Her tender offspring see, Were now thy shot to fly, Left, as thy helpless babes would be, ’Reft of their mother and of thee, To moan, and pine, and die. Then let her pass unhurt along; And she will thank thee with a song.

Thou, whose power assumes the form, Now, of this wild wintry storm, Let it still in mercy be Shown upon the raging sea! O! for him, who tosses there, Father, hear this midnight prayer! Solemn darkness shrouds the world; While, with mighty wings unfurled, Thus the winds in fury sweep O’er the land, and o’er the deep, Thou, whose thought from death can save, Guard the life that ’s on the wave! Cold and dreary is the night; Snow-clouds wrap the beacon-light; Rocks and ices, like a host Armed for battle, bar the coast; For the coming bark appear! Guide her! save her! Father, hear!

I ’m bound to the house of my Father; O draw not my feet from the way; Nor stop me these wild flowers to gather! They droop at my touch, and decay. I think of the flowers, that are blooming In beauty unfading above, The wings of the angels perfuming, Who fly down on errands of love. Of earth’s shallow waters the drinking Is powerless my thirst to allay; Their taste is of tears, while we ’re sinking Beside them, where quicksands betray. I long, from that fount ever-living, That flows by my Father’s own door, With waters so sweet and life-giving, To drink, and to thirst never more. The gold of his bright, happy dwelling Makes all lower gold to look dim; Its treasures, all treasures excelling, Shine forth to allure me to Him. The pearls of this world while I ’m treading In dust, where as pebbles they lie, I seek the rich pearl, that is shedding Its lustre so pure from on high. For pains my torn spirit is feeling, No balsam from earth it receives: I go to the tree, that hath healing To drop on my wounds from its leaves. A child that is weary with roaming, Returning in gladness to see A home and a parent, I ’m coming— My Father, I hasten to thee!

Rise in thy solemn grandeur, calm and slow, As well befits thy purpose and thy place: Great Speaker! rise, not suddenly, to show The earth forever sacred at thy base. Strong as the rocky frame-work of the globe, Proportioned fair, in altitude sublime, With freedom’s glory round thee as a robe, Rise gently—then defy the power of time. To future ages, from thy lofty site, Speak in thy mighty eloquence, and tell That where thou art, on Bunker’s hallowed height, Our Warren and his valiant brethren fell. Say, it was here the vital current flowed, Purpling the turf, amid the mortal strife For man’s great birthright, from the breasts, that glowed With love of country, more than love of life. Thou hast thy growth of blood, that, gushing warm From patriot bosoms, set their spirits free: All, who behold, shall venerate thy form, And bow before thy genius, Liberty. Here fell the hero and his brave compeers, Who fought and died to break a people’s chain: The place is sacred to Columbia’s tears. Poured o’er the victims for a nation slain. Yet from her starry brow a glory streams, Turning to gems those holy drops of grief, As after evening showers, the morn’s clear beams Show diamonds hung on grass, and flower and leaf. Upright and firm, as were the patriot souls, That from thy native spot arose to God, Stand thou and hold, long as our planet rolls, This last high place by Freedom’s martyrs trod. Let thy majestic shadow walk the ground, Calm as the sun, and constant as his light; And by the moon, amid the dews, be found The sentinel, who guards it through the night. And may the air around thee ever be To heaven-born Liberty as vital breath; But, like the breeze that sweeps the Upas tree, To Bondage and Oppression certain death! A beauteous prospect spreads for thy survey; City and dome, and spire look up to thee: The solemn forest and the mountains gray Stand distant to salute thy majesty. And ocean, in his numbers deep and strong, While the bright shore beneath thy ken he laves, Will sing to thee an everlasting song Of freedom, with his never-conquered waves. Rise then, and stand unshaken, till the skies Above thee are about to pass away; But, when the dead around thee are to rise, Melt in the burning splendors of the day! For then will He, “whose right it is to reign,” Who hath on earth a kingdom pure to save, Come with his angels, calling up the slain To freedom, and annihilate the grave.

Alone I walked the ocean strand; A pearly shell was in my hand: I stooped, and wrote upon the sand My name—the year—the day. As onward from the spot I passed, One lingering look behind I cast: A wave came rolling high and fast, And washed my lines away. And so, methought, ’t will shortly be With every mark on earth from me; A wave of dark oblivion’s sea Will sweep across the place, Where I have trod the sandy shore Of time, and been to be no more, Of me—my day—the name I bore, To leave nor track, nor trace. And yet, with Him, who counts the sands, And holds the waters in his hands, I know a lasting record stands, Inscribed against my name, Of all, this mortal part has wrought; Of all, this thinking soul has thought; And from these fleeting moments caught For glory, or for shame.

To grief the night-hours keeping, A mournful mother lay Upon her pillow, weeping— Her babe had passed away. When she had clasped her treasure A year and yet a day, Of time ’t was all its measure— ’T was gone, like morning’s ray! The jewel, Heaven had shown her, Of worth surpassing gold, Was lent her, by its Owner— ’T was never earth’s to hold. Then, fondly hovering o’er her, A bright young angel hung; And warm the love it bore her, And sweet the song it sung: “O mother, why this weeping? Let all thy sorrow cease: My infant form is sleeping, Where nought can break its peace. “And he, who once was blessing Such little children here, My spirit now possessing, Will hold me ever dear. “I never knew the dreading Of death’s all-conquering blow; My mortal raiment shedding, I rose above the foe. “Where sickness cannot pain me— Where comes nor grief nor night— Where sin shall never stain me, I dwell, a child of light. “While many a pilgrim hoary Treads long earth’s weary way, I have eternal glory For one short year and day.” Yet that sweet angel singing Its mother could not hear, For grief her heart was wringing— She ’d but a mortal ear. She could not see the beaming Of his celestial crown; For fast her tears were streaming; Her soul to dust bowed down. A voice from heaven then falling In soothing tones to her, As of a Father, calling, Revealed the Comforter. And, lifting up her lowly And sorrow-laden eye, She saw the King all holy Upon the throne Most High. Where shining hosts were pouring Their praises forth to Him, She saw her child adoring, Amid the Seraphim.

Not to the mount, where fire and smoke Jehovah’s face concealed, When loud to wandering man he spoke, To make his law revealed— Not to the awful splendor there Can turn my fearful eye: To hear its thunderings, and to dare Its lightnings, were to die. Not on the mount where Moses stood, The promised land to see Across the waves of Jordan’s flood, Is yet the place for me. My spirit could not bear to take That fair and glorious view, Nor dare her wondrous launch to make, To try the waters through. Not to the mount where Christ appeared At once so heavenly bright; While they, who heard the Father, feared, And fell before the light— Not there, my Saviour ever nigh, Do I his footsteps trace: His closer followers far, than I, Attain that higher place. But, to the mount without a name, Where Jesus sat and taught, I daily would assert my claim, To share the bread he brought. His words before that multitude Dropt to his chosen few, Are manna for my morning food, My soul’s sweet evening dew. If to Temptation’s mount I go, That mount exceeding high, My Lord, again rebuke our foe, And bid the tempter fly. No kingdom may I seek, but thine; And let my glory be A light, reflected pure from thine— My portion, life with thee! Oft to the mount of midnight shade, Of solitude and prayer, Ascend, my soul, be not afraid Thy Guide to follow there. The height and stillness of the scene, When thou that path hast trod, Forbids this world to rush between A spirit and her God. The mount whereon my Saviour stood, And o’er the city wept— Where fell his wo-wrung drops of blood, While his disciples slept— There may I go, yet not to sleep Till Jesus be betrayed; But, as he went, to pray and weep O’er sufferings sin hath made. And to the solemn, shuddering mount, Where Christ received the cup Of death, to offer us a fount Of life, must I go up. And I must look upon his wo, On that empurpled tree, To learn how vast a debt I owe, By what he paid for me. Thence to the mount of Galilee May I the way pursue, With joy my risen Lord to see, Ere he ascends from view. For lo! the heavens their gates unfold To take their coming King: His angels harp on strings of gold, And “Hallelujah!” sing. Now on Mount Zion may I seek My shield—my strong, high tower; And thence, though here so dark and weak, Be clothed with light and power. Then at that holy mountain’s top, My soul, no more to roam, Unfurl thy wings—thine ashes drop; And gain thy glorious home.

A solemn night is o’er Jerusalem; Nature astonished, shrouds herself in gloom; For he, who was the babe of Bethlehem, Is now a victim slain, and in the tomb! The blood, which started with the agony That in the garden forced his swelling veins, In crimson streams has poured on Calvary; A rocky cavern holds his pale remains. He walked with men, serene in holiness, The meek, the merciful, through taunts and strife; The front of pride he met with lowliness, And bowed to death to lift his foes to life. Fast as their sins grew bold and multiplied, His bitter cup was filling to the brim. Here doth he lie, the pale, the crucified, With damps and shadows gathered over him. The dismal night moves on but heavily, While they, who came the sepulchre to keep With bristling spears, the Roman soldiery, Would fain resign their glittering arms for sleep. Yet they must wake or die; the sentinel Must keep his constant vigils round the spot Where he shall find the watch of Israel: The life, the spirit moves, and heeds him not. Within the grave, that power victorious O’er death and darkness, far from mortal sight, Hath wrought the body bright and glorious For resurrection by the morning light. And lo! the shades of night are vanishing; The guard behold, as comes the dawning day, Her dubious gloom and dimness banishing, The stone that barred the tomb is rolled away. But, where ’s the form that in the drapery, Which wraps the dead, lay, spiritless and cold, Within the vault so still and shadowy, That, as a prison-guard, they came to hold? That form is gone; its cast-off covering, The sad habiliments of death, are here, With burial odors round them hovering, And white-robed angels calmly sitting near. But, see the garden, fair and flowering, Where new-born lilies worship from their stalks; And boughs with blossoms bend, embowering The dewy pathway! there the Saviour walks. The guilty city still is slumbering, While he is risen from the broken tomb; As one his vines and fruit trees numbering, He breathes the incense of their opening bloom. The moon, now fading in the occident, Is not so mild, so heavenly fair as he. The sun, just rising in the orient, Hath less of glory than in him we see. Nature, that, for his death and burial, Hath put on darkness, as a mourning weed, Arrayed in light as for a festival, Proclaims afar, “The Lord is risen indeed!”

May I in thy likeness, my Saviour, awake, And rise, a fair image of thee; Then I shall be satisfied, when I can break This prison of clay, and be free. Can I but come forth to eternity’s light, With thy perfect features to shine, In raiment unsullied from time’s dreary night, What honor and joy will be mine! Yes, I shall be satisfied then to have cast The shadows of nature all by— When, darkness and dust from the dull eyelid past, My soul sees with full-opened eye. How fain would I know the great morn drawing near, When earth’s dreamy visions shall fade, If I in thy semblance indeed may appear, And stand in thy beauty arrayed! To see thee in glory, O Lord, as thou art, From this mortal, perishing clay My spirit immortal, in peace would depart, And, joyous, mount up her bright way. When on thine own image in me thou hast smiled, In thy holy mansion, and when Thy fatherly arms have encircled thy child, O I shall be satisfied then!

Thou trembling, pure, and holy thing! What skill from ocean’s depths can bring, Or toil from out the mine— What monarch in his diadem, Or glittering garb, produce a gem, Whose brightness equals thine? Thy source is deeper than the caves Of riven rock, or opening waves, Invisible as air: And, though the angel throng above Behold thee with delight and love, They ne’er can have thee there. Nor change, nor age thy sheen can dim; Thou ’rt now unstained as when with him, Who dared, in olden time, Thrice his dear, suffering Lord deny; Then, melted at the Saviour’s eye, And paid thee for his crime. Called from the treasures of the soul By power divine, when thou dost roll Forth from the mourner’s eye, Thy wearer thou dost then proclaim The heir of life, who has his name Writ in the Book on high. Thou art a pearl, that all may own, And when thy matchless worth is known To those, who wear thee here, They will be changed, and shall behold The shining gates of heaven unfold, Bright Penitential Tear!

He reigns on high, a glorious King, In ocean, earth, and air; He moves and governs every thing, For God is every where. The waters at his bidding flow, The mountain and its flower Their majesty and beauty show, As traces of his power. The lilies by the meadow rills Are leaning on his hand; And so the cedar of the hills, The palm and olive stand. He formed the birds, that sport along On light and brilliant wing; And tuned them with the voice of song And joy his praise to sing. This earth is ours, so rich and fair From him, who made it thus— Who sends his angels down with care To minister to us. The rainbow, with its beauteous dies, A pledge to man, is lent By him, who spreads the shining skies Around him, “as a tent.” The heavens, my child, are full of him! Yon radiant sun above Is but an image, cold and dim, Of his great power and love. He placed that glorious orb on high, In splendor there to roll, To warm the world, to light the eye; He lights and warms the soul. And lest the night with sable shade That azure vault should mar, He moved his finger there, and made, At every touch, a star. With these the moon, his beaming gift, Here lets her lustre fall, Our thoughts to win, our hearts to lift To him, who gave them all. And he is ours—that Holy One, Our Father, Guide, and Friend; In ways untravelled by the sun, In love that ne’er shall end. ’T is sweet to worship him below, With his approving eye To mark the way, our spirits go To seek his face on high.

Awake, O ye nations, and, shaking The slumber of death from your eyes, Behold the fair morn in its breaking, The Sun of all glory arise. He comes, mist and dimness dispelling; The shadows and clouds flee away: Ho! all, that in darkness are dwelling, Spring up, and rejoice in the day! Ye dying, life’s waters revealing, He ’ll show you to fountain and streams: Ye wounded, for you he brings healing; Come out and repose in his beams. Come, all ye disconsolate, hailing Your King in his beauty and might; His raiment mount Ebal is veiling; Mount Gerizim shines with his light. O praise him, ye weary, in wonder To feel your hard burdens unbound! Ye captives, your bars fall asunder; With shoutings leap forth at the sound. Your names on his breastplate he ’s wearing; They ’re set as the seal of his ring; Ye nations, your highways preparing, Receive, and be glad in your King!

Come, let ’s go back, my brother, And, by our father’s well, Sit down beside each other, Life’s little dreams to tell. For there we played together, In childhood’s sunny hours; Before life’s stormy weather Had killed its morning flowers. And since no draught we ’ve tasted, Its weary journey through, As we so far have hasted, Like that our father drew; I feel, as at a mountain, I cannot pass nor climb, Till from that distant fountain I drink, as in my prime. My spirit’s longing, thirsting, No waters else can quell; My heart seems near to bursting To reach that good old well. Though all be changed around it, And though so changed are we, Just where our father found it, That pure well spring will be. In earth, when deeply going, He reached and smote the rock; He set its fount to flowing— It opened at his knock. The way, he smoothed and stoned it, A close, round, shadowy cell; Whoever since has owned it, It is our father’s well! His prattling son and daughter, With each an infant’s cup, We waited for the water, His steady hand drew up. When we had paused and listened, Till down the bucket dashed, O how it, rising, glistened, And to the sunlight flashed! And since that moment, never Has that cool deep been dry; Its fount is living ever, While man and seasons die. Around its mouth is growing The moss of many a year; But from its heart is flowing The water sweet and clear. Fond memory near it lingers, And, like a happy child, She plucks, with busy fingers, And wreathes the roses wild. Yet many a lip, whose burning Its limpid drops allayed, Has since, to ashes turning, Been veiled in silent shade. Still we are here, and telling About our infant play; Where that free spring is welling, So true, and far away. But O! the change, my brother! Our father’s head is hoar; The tender name of mother Is ours to call no more. And now, around thee gather Such little ones as we Were then, beside our father, And look to theirs in thee. While fast our years are wasting, Their numbers none can tell; So let us hence be hasting To find our Father’s well. Come, we will speed us thither, And from its mossy brink, To flowers that ne’er shall wither Look up to heaven and drink. They spring beside the waters, Our Father there will give To all his sons and daughters, Where they shall drink and live.

Methought, once more to my wishful eye My beautiful boy had come: My sorrow was gone, my cheek was dry, And gladness around my home. I saw the form of my dear, lost child! All kindled with life he came; And he spake in his own sweet voice, and smiled, As soon as I called his name. The garb he wore looked heavenly white, As the feathery snow comes down, And warm, as it shone in the softened light That fell from his dazzling crown. His eye was bright with a joy serene, His cheek with a deathless bloom, That only the eye of my soul hath seen, When looking beyond the tomb. The odors of flowers, from the thornless land Where we deem that our blest ones are, Seemed borne in his skirts; and his soft right hand Was holding a radiant star. His feet, unshod, looked tender and fair, As the lily’s opening bell, Half veiled in a cloud of glory, as there Around him, in folds, it fell. I asked him how he was clothed anew— Who circled his head with light— And whence he returned to meet my view So calm and heavenly bright. I asked him where he had been so long Away from his mother’s care— Again to sing me his infant song, And to kneel by my side in prayer. He said, “Sweet mother, the song I sing Is not for an earthly ear: I touch the harp with a golden string, For the hosts of heaven to hear. “It was but a gently fleeting breath, That severed thy child from thee! The fearful shadow, in time, called Death, Hath ministered life to me. “My voice in an angel choir I lift; And high are the notes we raise: I hold the sign of a priceless gift, And the Giver, who hath our praise. “‘The bright and the morning star’ is he, Who bringeth eternal day! And, mother, he giveth himself to thee, To lighten thine earthly way. “The race is short to a peaceful goal, And He is never afar, Who saith of the wise, untiring soul, ‘I will give him the morning star!’ “Thy measure of care for me was filled, And pure to its crystal top; For Faith, with a steady eye, distilled And numbered every drop. “While thou wast teaching my lips to move, And my heart to rise in prayer, I learned the way to a world above; The home of thy child is there! “The secret prayers, thou didst make for me, That only thy God hath known, Arose, like sweet incense, holy and free, And gathered around his throne. “My robe was filled with the perfume sweet To shed upon this world’s air, As I joyful knelt, at my Saviour’s feet, For the glorious crown I wear. “In that bright, blissful world of ours, The waters of life I drink: Behold my feet, as they ’ve pressed the flowers, That grow by the fountain’s brink! “No thorn is hidden to wound me there; There ’s nothing of chill, or blight, Or sighing to blend with the balmy air— No sorrow—no pain—no night!” “No parting?” I asked, with a burst of joy; And the lovely illusion broke! My rapture had banished my beauteous boy— To a shadowy void I spoke. But, O! that STAR of the morn still beams With light to direct my feet Where, when I have done with my earthly dreams, The mother and child may meet.

The sun walked the skies in the splendor of June, O’er earth full of promise, and air full of tune; The broad azure streams calmly rolled to the deep, Whose waves on its breast stirred like babes in their sleep. The turf heaved its green to the white vestured flock, That fed, or reposed in the shade of the rock; The birds sang their songs by their nests in the bowers; And the bee hummed with sweets from the fresh opened flowers. The humming-bird glittered, and whirred o’er the cell, Where her nectar was stored, from the hill to the dell; ’Mid the bloom and the perfume, that passed on the breeze, From the rose, and the vine, and the fruit-bearing trees. It seemed like a gala, when Nature, arrayed In festival robes, with her treasures displayed, Reflected the smile of her Maker above, And offered up hymns of her thanksgiving love. And yet, in the bosom of man there were fires Fierce, quenchless and fearful—consuming desires For right unpossessed, and for lawless domain, That burned to the soul, and that flamed to the brain. In the streets there was clanging and gleaming of arms; In the dwellings, resolve, preparation, alarms; In the eye of the wife, mother, sister, a tear; In the face of their soldier, no semblance of fear. The patriot chieftain had marked out his ground, To hold, or to fall, if his foe passed the bound: And now was the hero to close in the strife, For death as a bondman, or freedom with life. The war-spirit hovered, and frowned on the height, His eye flashing lightning—his wings shedding night! From his wide fiery nostrils rolled volumes of smoke, And the rocks roared afar, as in thunder he spoke. At his dread shock of nature, the lamb from its play, The bee and the bird, in affright fled away; The branch, flower, and grass, felt the crush and the scath, And the winds passing by, snuffed the heat of his wrath. With blood, that, in torrents, he poured down like rain, He drenched the green turf, that he strewed with the slain, Till the eminence groaned with the carnage it bore, And its heart heaved and shuddered at drinking the gore. While the breath of the war-spirit scented the air, The rivers looked wild in reflecting his glare; And ocean’s cold bosom was torn, as he gave The flap of his pinion to trouble its wave. The village besieged, wrapped in flames from his breath, Looked up to the hill, where he revelled with death, And swelled with the essence of life he had shed, To sweeten their cup, and the banquet to spread. O War-spirit! War-spirit, when didst thou bring Such trophies of beauty before the pale king, Since walking on Gilboa’s height, in thy power, Of Israel’s valiant to mow down the flower? Mourn, wail, O ye people! and spread wide the pall, Whose deep sable fringe down the hill-sides shall fall! Your brethren’s warm blood cries aloud from the ground, That hosts, like Philistia’s, in triumph surround. The lovely, the pleasant have perished! Alas! Where they fell may there hence be no dew on the grass! Let a monument there, towards the heavens rear its head, From a base, that shall cover the spot where they bled! Ah, War-spirit! War-spirit, deep was the gloom, Though heaven was unclouded, and earth all in bloom, When thou, at the onset, that young summer’s day, Didst strike so much valor to darkness away! And yet, by that thunder, the land is awake: ’T was the crack of her yoke when beginning to break! And out of that gloom is her glory to spread; Her living be franchised, immortal her dead. For up from that summit an eagle shall rise, To breast the thick clouds, till he sails the blue skies; And drop, while he bathes at the fountain of light, A plume from his pinion their story to write. It shall fall where they fell, on the still purple sward, Full and warm with the sunbeams their deeds to record; And move o’er the scroll in the hand of the free, While the wing where it grew spans the earth and the sea.

While others lie composed in sleep, Close wrapped in shade and silence deep, And starry hosts and angels keep Their vigils o’er the night, I have a curious work to do, A secret door to venture through, A wondrous being then to view; If I can stand the sight. I now take up the sacred key, Unlock my breast, and pass to see The inmost, true, essential ME: And lo! I here have found, Enclosed within its shrine, the heart, Myself, my thinking, reasoning part: But say, my spirit, what thou art, And whence, and whither bound! ’T is but with wonder, reverence, fear And shrinking, that I thus draw near The majesty, that meets me here, My soul, unveiled, in thee! I cannot give thy form, or hue, Or measure, or proportions true; But feel myself myself subdue, Thou deepening mystery. Not all the earth, nor air, nor sea Could furnish food to nourish thee; Nor welling founts, nor rivers free, The spirit’s thirst allay: Nor silver web, nor cloth of gold, Nor stuffs, that time can e’er unfold, Nor pearls, nor gems this world may hold, Compose thee an array. Yet all the fibres of my frame Own that from thee their feeling came; And, at the slightest touch, will claim Thy closest sympathy. Thou art their life, their light, their spring, Informing them in every thing, But how they are allied, and cling, My nobler self, to thee. And do I thus the power survey, Whom all my meaner powers obey? Hand, foot and tongue and eye—are they The servants of thy will? And when they pause, repose to take, Dost thou, untiring and awake, Thy pinions spread, and swiftly make Thy wide excursions still? What art thou, never slumbering soul, To stretch thy wings from pole to pole— To span the globe—to mark its roll— Its elements to see, Conspiring thus, to prophesy Its end to come before thine eye, Whilst thou canst fire and flood defy, Nor ever cease to be? And, swifter than an eagle flies, Or arrows dart, dost thou arise Through air and space, and scale the skies, ’Mid shining spheres to roam: And with thy conscious rank elate, Dost stand and watch at heaven’s bright gate, For glimpses of that rich estate Where thou may’st claim thy home. Thence, near the pit dost thou go down, To spy the difference ’twixt the crown Of life, and that dread withering frown, Which blights a spirit there. Then, on eternity’s dark brink, Between them dost thou pause, and think, And ask, if thou shalt soar or sink— To joy or wo the heir. Too blind to trace thy being’s plan, Too small my nobler part to span, I end my quest where it began, And from myself retire. I hence must own within my breast A power of unknown powers possessed— A flame, not long to be repressed, Of clear immortal fire.

Time, with thy kind and never-wearying powers, Giving whate’er we fondly count as ours; Life, love, hope, faith, the sun, the stars and flowers; All that to man is dear to thee we owe! Yet does he call thee, slayer, robber, thief, And stern, as of his foes thou wert the chief, Filling his path with ruins, pain and grief, Without one tender blessing to bestow! Nature we laud, when thou, paternal Time, Hast given maturity, as well as prime, To all her works, in every age and clime, Since the first floweret on her bosom grew. Light from the darkness doth thy hand unfold: Beauty from dust we in thy deeds behold: The frail, the dimmed, the withered, worn and old Thy breath dissolves, that they may shine anew. The city flames, and melts the tottering wall; Again she rises fairer for the fall. Thou beckonest back the flood! and at thy call, From crust-capped mounts, volcanic splendors pour. The absent sun his way to morning bends; The waning star to thy command attends, Fills out and burns; and man to dust descends, In hope to live, when thou shalt be no more. The leaves are scattered, yet the waiting tree Shall have them brought, in verdure, back by thee; The flower has vanished, but the trusting bee Will find her cell again with sweetness stored. The seed may perish, yet the germ will rise; The grain is ripened while its sheathing dies. The fruits of earth, the glories of the skies Forth by thy bounteous hand to man are poured. We owe thee still for gifts far more divine— The key to joys it never can be thine To give or take; and heavenly light to shine When we must enter that dark, shadowy vale, Where nought of earth the pathway can illume, Or lend one ray to shoot across the gloom, That gathers round the threshold of the tomb, When thou must there, first and forever, fail. Then, why does man so oft forget that he Owes all he is, and all he hopes to be, When thou and he are severed, but to thee? Why does he slay thee piecemeal, day by day? Shut out in exile from thine empire, there, In that unknown, dread, boundless country, where Is no retreat, no inn, how will he bear To have thy spectre haunt the endless way? Man’s wisest study is to know thy worth And his relations to thee from his birth; To bring his course o’er this uneven earth, In a clear sunset, to a quiet close. Then, as a weary traveller is undressed, While gently thou the spirit may’st divest Of her worn garment, there remains a rest, And she goes franchised to that blest repose. And now, O Time, as one more hasty year Of thine is gone, thou hast another here! Grateful we hail it, though the bitter tear May have put out the light of joy that shone On many a face; though tender, sundered ties Have changed to chords that vibrate but with sighs, In many a stricken breast where sorrow lies, Draining the life-stream, while that year has flown. Countless the blessings showered in its flight; And seeming evils, turned and viewed aright, May prove but passing clouds, and lined with light. Our trust, deceived in earthly things, may teach The restless, eager spirit to forego Her crushing grasp on hollow hopes, that grow Like fragile reeds, to mock her hold below; And after higher, holier joys to reach. Time, then our nobler aspirations raise! Since few, and short, and fleeting are our days; And since, so peaceful are her pleasant ways, Teach us to wisdom to apply the heart: So that, when thou hast safely led us through Thy kingdom, with a brighter land in view, Calm at thy bourn, and with a kind adieu, We may, as friends, shake hands with thee and part.

My head! my head! the day is come I never, never thought to see; When all, with fingers and a thumb, May to thy chambers have a key! That is, if thou wouldst but submit To come beneath the learned touch, And let the judge in judgment sit Upon thy bumps, that prove so much. I used to think our heads might let Their own contents, at will, be shown; I never thought mankind could get An outward way to make them known. But now the sapient hand has cut The matter short, and all may tell Thy value, as they ’d prize a nut, And know the kernel by the shell. If half the light, that has been thrown On heads, were only poured within, Thou wouldst not thus be left to own The darkness that is now thy sin. But, while the world is in a blaze Of purely phrenologic light, Thou, wildered thing, art in a maze, And destitute of faith and sight. They use a thousand meaning words Thou couldst not utter or define, Of which, to tell the truth, three thirds Were gravel, in a mouth like thine. They hold me out an empty skull, To show the powers of living brains: ’T is just like feeling of the hull, To tell what goods the ship contains. And, whether nature or mishap Have raised the bump, ’t is all the same; The sage’s crown, or dunce’s cap Must be awarded as its claim. This hobby, that so many sit, And manage with such ease and grace, I dare not try with rein or bit, It seems so of the donkey race. And yet, my head, no doubt, ’t is all A fault of thine, a want of sight, That so much said by Combe and Gall And Spurzheim cannot turn thee right. I know not what thy case may be,— If thou art hollow, or opaque; I only know thou canst not see, And faith declines one step to take. This burst of light has turned thee numb, Depriving thee of every sense; So now, if tried, thou must be dumb, Nor say one word in self-defence!

Field of wheat, so full and fair, Shining, with thy sunny hair Lightly waving either way, Graceful as the breezes play— Looking like a summer sea; How I love to gaze at thee! Pleasant art thou to the sight; And to thought a rich delight. Then, thy voice is music sweet, Softly sighing field of wheat. Pointing upward to the sky, Rising straight, and aiming high, Every stalk is seen to shoot As an arrow, from the root. Like a well-trained company, All in uniform agree, From the footing to the ear; All in order strict appear. Marshalled by a skilful hand, All together bow, or stand Still, within the proper bound: None o’ersteps the given ground, With its tribute held to pay, At his nod whom they obey, Each the gems, that stud its crown, Will ere long, for man, lay down. Thou with promise art replete Of the precious sheaves of wheat. How thy strength in weakness lies! Not a robber bird, that flies, Finds support whereby to put On a stalk her lawless foot. Not a predatory beak Plunges down, thy stores to seek, Where the guard of silver spears Keeps the fruit, and decks the ears. No vain insect, that could do Harm to thee, dares venture through Such an armory, or eat Off the sheath to take the wheat. What a study do we find Opened here for eye and mind! In it who can offer less, Than to wonder, and confess, That on this high-favored ground, Faith is blest, and hope is crowned. Charity her arms may spread Wide from it, with gifts of bread. Wisdom, power, and goodness meet In the bounteous field of wheat.

I am the tiniest child of earth, But still, I would like to be known to fame, Though next to nothing I had my birth, And lowest of all is my lowly name. Yet, if so humble my native place, I this can say, in family pride, That I ’m of the world’s most numerous race, And made by the Maker of all beside. Although I ’m so poor, I have nought to lose; Still I ’m so little I can’t be lost: I journey about wherever I choose, And those, who carry me, bear the cost. The most forgiving of earthly things, I often cling to my deadly foe; And, spite of the cruelest flirts and flings, Arise by the force that has cast me low. When beauty has trodden me under foot, I ’ve quietly risen her face to seek, Embraced her forehead, or calmly put Myself to rest in her dimpled cheek. I ’ve ridden to war on the soldier’s plume; But startled, and sprung at the wild affray, The sights of horror, of fire and fume, And fled on the wing of the winds away. I ’ve visited courts, and been ushered in By the proudest guest of the stately scene; I ’ve touched his majesty’s bosom-pin, And the nuptial ring of his lofty queen. At the royal board, in the grand parade, I ’ve oft been one familiar and free: The fairest lady has smiled, and laid Her delicate, gloveless hand on me. Philosopher, poet, the learned, the sage, Never declines a call from me; And all, of every rank and age, Admit me into their coterie. I visit the lions of every where, If human, or brute, and can testify To what they do, to what they wear, To wonders none ever beheld but I! And now, reviewing the things I ’ve done, Forgetting my name, my rank and birth, I begin to think I am number one Of the great and manifold things of earth. I ’ve still much more, that I yet might tell, Which modesty bids me here withhold; For fear with my travels I seem to swell, grow, for an ATOM OF DUST, too bold!

Ah, thou unfortunate! Poor, silly fly, Caught in the spider’s web, Hung there to die! What could have tempted thee? What led thee there, For thy foe, thus to throw Around thee the snare? Struggling and crying so Ne’er can unweave From thee the silken threads, Laid to deceive. Sorrow for wandering Comes now in vain; And, with one thus undone, Grief adds to pain. Yet, I will rescue thee, Unwary thing! Thou may’st again be off, High on the wing, If thou wilt promise me, Hence to be found Never more, as before, On evil ground. Trust not the flatterer Skilled to ensnare: He is a wily one; Think, and beware. Down to his dusky ways No more descend! Little fly, thou and I Both want a friend. Man hath an enemy, Whose snare is laid Softly and silently, Deep in the shade. Light, by the tempter shunned, Only can show Where, secure, free, and pure, Our feet may go.

Come here! come here! cousin Mary, and see What fair, ripe peaches there are on the tree— On the very same bough that was given to me By father, one day last spring. When it looked so beautiful, all in the blow, And I wanted to pluck it, he told me, you know, I might, but that waiting a few months would show The fruit, that patience might bring. And as I perceived, by the sound of his voice, And the look of his eye, it was clearly his choice That it should not be touched, I have now to rejoice That I told him we ’d let it remain; For, had it been gathered when full in the flower, Its blossoms had withered, perhaps, in an hour, And nothing on earth could have given the power That would make them flourish again. But now, of a fruit so delicious and sweet I ’ve enough for myself and my playmates a treat; And they tell me, besides, that the kernels secrete What, if planted, will make other trees: For the shell will come open to let down the root; A sprout will spring up, whence the branches will shoot; There ’ll be buds, leaves, and blossoms; and then comes the fruit— Such beautiful peaches as these! And Nature, they say, like a mighty machine, Has a wheel in a wheel, which, if aught comes between, It ruins her work, as it might have been seen, Had it not given patience this trial. From this, I ’ll be careful to keep it in mind, When the blossoms I love, that there lingers behind A better reward, that the trusting shall find For a trifling self-denial.

Come here, little Willie: Why, what is the trouble? “I ’ve broke my new pipe, ma’— I can’t make a bubble!” Well, do n’t weep for that, child, But brighten your face, And tell how the grievous Disaster took place. “Why, Puss came along; And, said I, ‘Now she ’ll think That white, frothy water Is milk she may drink.’ “So I set it before her, And plunged her mouth in, When up came both paws, And clung fast to my chin. “Then I gave her a blow With my pipe; and it flew At once into pieces! O what shall I do? “I can’t make a bubble! I wish naughty Kit Had been a mile off: See! there ’s blood on me yet!” I ’m sorry, my boy; yet Your loss is but just; You first deceived Pussy, And trifled with trust. In this, when you failed, You compelled her; and thence The wound on your face, From poor Kit’s self-defence. Then, when you grew cruel And beat her, you know Your pipe and yourself Fared the worst for the blow. Let this lesson teach you, Hence never to stoop To make man, or brute, That may trust you, a dupe. And when you have power, It should not be abused, Oppressing the weaker, Nor strength be misused. For, often, unkindness Returns whence it came; And ever deceit must Be followed by shame. Remember this, William, And here end your sorrow; I ’ll buy you a pipe, To blow bubbles, to-morrow.

Miss Vain was all given to dress— Too fond of gay clothing; and so, She ’d gad about town Just to show a new gown, As a train-band their color to show. Her head being empty and light, Whene’er she obtained a new hat, With pride in her air, She ’d go round, here and there, For all whom she knew to see that. Her folly was chiefly in this: More highly she valued fine looks, Than virtue, or truth, Or devoting her youth To usefulness, friendship, or books. Her passion for show was unchecked; And therefore, it happened one day, Arrayed in bright hues, And with new hat and shoes, Miss Vain walked abroad for display. She took the most populous streets, To cause but aversion in those, Who saw how she ’d prinked, And to bystanders winked, While the boys cried, “Halloo! there she goes!” It chanced, that, in passing one way, She came near a pool, and a green With fence close and high; And, as Vivy drew nigh, A donkey stood near it unseen. He put his mouth over its top, The moment she came by his place; And gave a loud bray In her ear, when, away She sprang, shrieked, and fell on her face. She thought she was swallowed alive, Awhile upon earth lying flat; And the terrible sound Seemed to furrow the ground, She embraced in her fine gown and hat. She gathered herself up, and ran, Yet heeded not whither or whence, To flee from the roar, That continued to pour Behind her, from over the fence. In passing a slope near the pool, She slipped and rolled down to its brim; The geese gave a shout, And at length hissed her out Of the bounds, where they ’d gathered to swim. In turning a corner, she met Abruptly, the horns of a cow That mooed, while the cur, At her heels, turned from her, And aimed at Miss Vain his “bow-wow.” Then Vivy’s bright ribbons and skirt, As she flew, flirted high on the wind; The children at play, Paused to see one so gay, And all in a flutter behind. A group of glad schoolboys came by: Said they, “So it seems, that to-day, Miss Vain carries marks At which the dog barks, And that make sober Long-Ears to bray.” And when, all bedraggled and pale, Poor Vivy approached her own door, She went, swift and straight As a dart, through the gate, Abhorring the gay gear she wore. She sat down, and thought of the scene With humiliation and tears: The words, and the noise Of the brutes and the boys Were echoing still in her ears. She reasoned, and came at the cause, Resolving that cause to remove; And thence, her desire Was for modest attire, And her heart and her mind to improve. And soon, all who knew her before Remarked on the change and the gain In mind, and in mien, And in dress, that were seen In the once flashy Miss Vivy Vain.

A Mocking Bird was he, In a bushy, blooming tree, Imbosomed by the foliage and flower. And there he sat and sang, Till all around him rang, With sounds, from out the merry mimic’s bower. The little satirist Piped, chattered, shrieked, and hissed; He then would moan, and whistle, quack, and caw; Then, carol, drawl, and croak, As if he ’d pass a joke On every other winged one he saw. Together he would catch A gay and plaintive snatch, And mingle notes of half the feathered throng. For well the mocker knew, Of every thing that flew, To imitate the manner and the song. The other birds drew near, And paused awhile to hear How well he gave their voices and their airs. And some became amused; While some, disturbed, refused To own the sounds that others said were theirs. The sensitive were shocked, To find their honors mocked By one so pert and voluble as he; They knew not if ’t was done In earnest or in fun; And fluttered off in silence from the tree. The silliest grew vain, To think a song or strain Of theirs, however weak, or loud, or hoarse, Was worthy to be heard Repeated by the bird; For of his wit they could not feel the force. The charitable said, “Poor fellow! if his head Is turned, or cracked, or has no talent left; But feels the want of powers, And plumes itself from ours, Why, we shall not be losers by the theft.” The haughty said, “He thus, It seems, would mimic us, And steal our songs, to pass them for his own! But if he only quotes In honor of our notes, We then were quite as honored, let alone.” The wisest said, “If foe, Or friend, we still may know By him, wherein our greatest failing lies. So, let us not be moved, Since first to be improved By every thing, becomes the truly wise.”

O where is thy home, sweet bird, With the song, and the bright, glossy plume? “I ’ll tell thee where I rest, If thou wilt not rob my nest;— I built among the sweet apple bloom.” But what ’s in thy nest, bright bird? What ’s there, in the snug, downy cell? “If thou wilt not rob the tree; Nor go too near, to see My quiet little home, I will tell.” O! I will not thy trust betray, But closely thy secret I will keep. “I ’ve three little tender things, That have never used their wings! I left them there, at home, fast asleep.” Then, why art thou here, my bird, Away from thy young, helpless brood? “To pay thee with a song, Just to let me pass along, Nor harm me, as I look for their food!”

She opened the cage, and away there flew A bright little bird, as a short adieu It hastily whistled, and passed the door, And felt that its sorrowful hours were o’er. An anthem of freedom it seemed to sing; To utter its joy for an outspread wing,— That now it could sport in the boundless air, And might go any and every where. And Anna rejoiced in her bird’s delight; But her eye was wet, as she marked its flight; Till, this was the song that she seemed to hear; And, merrily warbled, it dried the tear: “I had a mistress, and she was kind, In all, but keeping her bird confined; She ministered food and drink to me, But, O I was pining for liberty! “My fluttering bosom she loved to smooth; While the heart within it, she could not soothe: I sickened and longed for the wildwood breeze, My feathery kindred, and fresh green trees. “A prisoner there, with a useless wing, I looked with sorrow on every thing; I lost my voice, and forgot my song, And mourned in silence, the whole day long. “But I will go back, with a mellower pipe, And sing, when the cherries are round and ripe; On the topmost bough, as I lock my feet, To help myself, in my leafy seat. “My merriest notes shall there be heard, To draw her eye to her franchised bird; The burden, then, of my song shall be, ‘Earth for the wingless! but air for me!’”

Dame Biddy abode in a coop, Because it so chanced, that dame Biddy Had round her a family group Of chicks, young, and helpless and giddy. And when she had freedom to roam, She fancied the life of a ranger; And led off her brood, far from home, To fall into mischief or danger. She ’d trail through the grass to be mown, And call all her children to follow; And scratch up the seeds that were sown, Then, lie in their places and wallow. She ’d go where the corn in the hill, Its first little blade had been shooting, And try, by the strength of her bill, To learn if the kernel was rooting. And when she went out on a walk Of pleasure, through thicket and brambles, The covetous eye of a hawk Delighted in marking her rambles. “I spy,” to himself he would say, “A prize of which I ’ll be the winner!” So down would he pounce on his prey, And bear off a chicken for dinner. The poor frighted matron, that heard The cry of her youngling in dying, Would scream at the merciless bird, That high with his booty was flying. But shrieks could not ease her distress, Nor grief her lost darling recover. She now had a chicken the less, For acting the part of a rover. And there lay the feathers, all torn, And flying one way and another, That still her dear child might have worn, Had she been more wise as a mother. Her owner then thought he must teach Dame Biddy a little subjection; And cooped her up, out of the reach Of hawking, with time for reflection. And, throwing a net o’er a pile Of brush-wood that near her was lying, He hoped to its meshes to wile The fowler, that o’er her was flying. For Hawk, not forgetting his fare, And having a taste to renew it, Sailed round near the coop, high in air, With cruel intention, to view it. The owner then said, “Master Hawk, If you love my chickens so dearly, Come down to my yard for a walk, That you may address them more nearly.” But, “No,” thought the sharp-taloned foe Of Biddy, “my circuit is higher! If I to his premises go, ’T will be when I see he ’s not nigh her.” The Farmer strewed barley, and toled The chickens the brush to run under, And left them, while Hawk growing bold, Thus tempted, came near for his plunder. As closer and closer he drew, With appetite stronger and stronger, He found he ’d but one thing to do, And plunged, to defer it no longer. But now had he come to a pause, At once in the net-work entangled, While through it his head and his claws In hopeless vacuity dangled. The chicks saw him hang overhead, Where they for their barley had huddled; And all in a flutter they fled, And soon through the coop holes had scuddled. The farmer came out to his snare. He saw the bold captive was in it; And said, “If this play be unfair, Remember, I did not begin it!” He then put a cork on his beak, The airy assassin disarming, Unspurred him, and rendered him weak, By blunting each talent for harming. And into the coop he was thrown: The chickens hid under their mother, For he, by his feathers was known As he, who had murdered their brother. Dame Biddy, beholding his plight, Determined to show him no quarter, In action gave vent to her spite; As motherly tenderness taught her. She shouted, and blustered; and then Attacked the poor captive unfriended; And you, (who have witnessed a hen In anger,) may guess how it ended. She made him a touching address, If pecking and scratching could do it, Till, sinking in silent distress, He perished before she got through it. We would not, however, convey A thought like approving the fury, That gave, in this summary way, Punition, without judge or jury. Whenever thus given, it tends To lessen the angry bestower; The fowl that inflicts it, descends— The featherless biped, still lower.

A Lobster from the water came, And saw another, just the same In form and size; but gayly clad In scarlet clothing; while she had No other raiment to her back Than her old suit of greenish black. “So ho!” she cried, “’t is very fine! Your dress was yesterday like mine; And in the mud below the sea, You lived, a crawling thing, like me. But now, because you ’ve come ashore, You ’ve grown so proud, that what you wore— Your strong old suit of bottle-green, You think improper to be seen. To tell the truth, I don ’t see why You should be better dressed than I. And I should like a suit of red As bright as yours, from feet to head. I think I’ m quite as good as you, And might be clothed in scarlet, too.” “Will you be boiled?” her owner said, “To be arrayed in glowing red? Come here, my discontented miss, And hear the scalding kettle hiss! Will you go in, and there be boiled, To have your dress, so old and soiled, Exchanged for one of scarlet hue?” “Yes,” cried the lobster, “that I ’ll do, And twice as much, if needs must be, To be as gayly clad as she.” Then, in she made a fatal dive, And never more was seen alive! Now, if you ever chance to know Of one as fond of dress and show As that vain lobster, and withal As envious, you ’ll perhaps recall To mind her folly, and the plight In which she reappeared to sight. She had obtained a bright array, But for it, thrown herself away! Her life and death were best untold, But for the moral they unfold!

A rose tree stood in the parlor, When kit came frolicking by; So up went her feet on the window-seat, To a rose, that had caught her eye. She gave it a cuff, and it trembled Beneath her ominous paw; And while it shook, with a threatening look She coveted what she saw. Thought she, “What a beautiful toss-ball, If I could but give it a snap, Now all are out, nor thinking about Their rose, or the least mishap!” She twisted the stem, and she twirled it; And, seizing the flower it bore With the timely aid of her teeth, she made A leap to the parlor floor. And over the carpet she tossed it, All fresh in its morning bloom, Till shattered and rent, its leaves were sent To every side of the room. At length, with her sport grown weary, She laid herself down to sun, Inclining to doze, forgetting the rose And the mischief she had done. By and by her young mistress entered, And uttered a piteous cry, When she saw the fate of what had so late Delighted her watchful eye. But where was the one, who had spoiled it, Concealing his guilty face? She had not a clue whereby to pursue The rogue to his lurking-place. Thought kit, “I ’ll keep still till ’t is over, And none will suspect it was I.” For the puss awoke, when her mistress spoke, And she well understood the cry. But, mewing at length for her dinner, Kit’s mouth confessed the whole truth: It opened so wide, that her mistress spied A rose-leaf pierced by her tooth. Then kit was expelled from the parlor All covered with shame. And those Inclined, like her, in secret to err, Should remember kit with the rose.

The storm in the forest is rending and sweeping; While tree after tree bows its stately green head; The flowerets beneath them are bending and weeping; And leaves, torn and trembling, all round them are spread. The bird that had roamed, till she thinks her benighted, Dismayed, hastens back to her home in the wood; And flags not a wing, till her bosom, affrighted, Has laid its warm down o’er her own little brood. And they, since that fond one so quickly has found them, To shelter their heads from the rain and the blast, Shall fearless repose, while the bolts burst around them; And lie calm and safe, till the darkness is past. Hast thou, too, not felt, when the tempest was drearest, And rending thy covert, or shaking thy rest, Thine own blessed angel that moment the nearest— Thy screen in his pinion—thy shield in his breast? When clouds frowned the darkest, and perils beset thee, Till each prop of earth seemed to bend, or to break, Did e’er thy good angel turn off, and forget thee? The mother her little ones, then, may forsake! Ah, no! thou shalt feel thy protector the surer— The sun, in returning, more cheering and warm; And all things around thee, seem fresher and purer, And touched with new glory, because of the storm!

Alas! alas! my good old tree, A fatal change is past on thee! And now thine aged form I see, All helpless, lying low: The rending tempest, in its flight ’Mid darkness of the wintry night, Hath struck thee, passing in its might, And felled thee at a blow. And never more the blooming spring Shall to thy boughs rich verdure bring, Or her gay birds, to flit and sing Where their first plumage grew; For thou, so long, so fondly made My eye’s delight, my summer shade, Here, as a lifeless king, art laid In state, for all to view. Thy noble trunk and reverend head, Defined on that cold, snow-white bed, And those old arms, so widely spread, Thy hopelessness declare: Thy roots, in earth concealed so long— That struck so deep, with hold so strong, Upturned with many a broken prong, Are quivering high in air. But yester-eve I saw thee stand, With lofty front, with aspect grand, Where thou hadst braved the ruthless hand Of time, and spread, and towered; And stood the rain, the hail, the blast, Till more than hundred years had passed: To fall so suddenly at last, Forever overpowered! Yet, while I sadly ponder o’er What now thou art, and wast before, Were sighs to rise, and tears to pour, Like summer winds and rain; Not all the sighs and drops of grief Could bring to thee one bud or leaf; Thou liest so like a stricken chief, By one swift arrow slain. But may’st thou prove an emblem true Of what the spoiler’s hand shall do With one, who pensive here would view A shadowy type in thee! Let not the conqueror piecemeal slay, With power by power in slow decay; But strike, and all in ashes lay! Farewell, my good old tree!

Through the clouds that veil the sky, Come, O sun, and sweetly smile! Show thy glory to mine eye, So my heart may beam the while. Come, and chase this day of night, For the world is sadly dim. To thy blessed face of light Let my spirit sing her hymn. Now, in silence and alone, I, to pass the heavy hour, Sit and fancy nature’s moan After thy reviving power. Blasts of wildered, wandering air, Asking where thy face can be, Chill and cheerless, every where, Sighing, wailing, seek for thee. Mourning o’er the earth is spread; Bud and flower look pale with grief. Sick, the plant has hung its head; Dulness weighs on every leaf. Not a bird is heard to sing. Reft of thine inspiring ray. As a lyre of every string, Each from sight is hid away. Sable clouds, that veil the blue Of the skies, their shadows throw Here, until their sombre hue Gives a cast to all below. Come, O sun, and through the gloom Let thy beaming vesture fall! Bringing music, joy and bloom, Spread thy mantle o’er us all. What were there on earth to love— What were beauteous, bright, or dear, Wert thou not so true above, And thy holy influence here?

Rose tree, O! my beauteous rose tree, Often have I longed to know How thy tender leaves were moulded— How thy buds are burst, and blow. I have watered, sunned, and trained thee, And have watched thee many an hour, Yet I never could discover How a bud becomes a flower. So, last night I thought about thee On my pillow, till, at last, I was gone in quiet slumber; And a dream before me passed. In it, I beheld my rose tree Stripped of flower, and bud and leaf; While thy naked stalk and branches Filled me with surprise and grief. Then, methought, I wept to see thee Spoiled of all that made thee dear, Till a band of smiling angels Mildly shining, hovered near. Gently as they gathered round thee, All in silence, one of them Laid his soft, fair fingers on thee, Pulling leaves from out the stem. One by one thy twigs he furnished With a dress of foliage green; While another angel followed, Bringing buds the leaves between. Then came one the buds to open; He their silken rolls unsheathed, While the one who tints the roses, Through their loosened foldings breathed. Then the angel of the odors Filled each golden-bottomed cell, Till, between the parting petals, Free on air the fragrance fell. Lifting then their shining pinions, Quick the angels passed from sight; Leaving, where aloft they vanished, But a stream of fading light. There I heard sweet strains of music, And their voices far above, Dying in the azure distance, Naming thee a gift of love. And, my rose tree stood before me, Finished thus by angel hands; Perfect in its bloom and fragrance, Beautiful, as now it stands. Hence, whenever I behold thee, I shall think of angels too; And the countless works of goodness They descend on earth to do. All unseen and silent, round us They their careful watches keep; Whether we may wake, or slumber, Guardian angels never sleep!

Child, amid the honeyed flowers Passing life’s bright morning hours— Playing in the silver rills, Where they bathe Judea’s hills— Looking, with an earnest eye, At the wild bird flitting by— Infant of the joyous heart, Canst thou tell me who thou art? Thou, whose little hand in play Hurls the clustered grapes away; While thou lov’st to watch the bee, Or to win a lamb to thee, And to see the fleecy flock Resting by the shadowy rock,— Know’st thou, tender, beauteous boy, What ’s thine errand—whence thy joy? ’T was thy name that Gabriel spoke, By the altar, while the smoke From thy father’s incense rolled, When thy being was foretold! Thou art come, the promised one, As the dayspring to the sun, Soon to usher in new light Through the realms of death and night! Heavenly innocence is now Marked upon thy peaceful brow: God’s own Spirit filleth thee, Sainted babe; for thou art he, Who before the Lamb shall go, Crying, that the world may know He hath life to give the dead, In the blood he comes to shed! Though, from nature wild and rude, Come thy raiment, rest, and food, Nightly o’er thy desert sleep, Angels shall their vigils keep; Through the wilderness by day, They will guard and lead the way; Till to Israel thou appear, Showing heaven’s mild kingdom near. High and glorious, then, the part For thine eye, and hand, and heart! When thy feet, on Jordan’s side, Feel the waters, as they glide, Thou the Son of God shalt see, Come to be baptized of thee— Hear him named, and see the Dove Resting on him from above!

O solitude, holy and calm! From tumult and crowds breaking free, I fly, sick and sad, for the balm I find given only by thee. Too oft from thy peace I depart, Kind guardian, friend of my soul,— And then bring an earth-wounded heart For thee to bind up and make whole. My spirit, now worn and oppressed, Her wings in thy bosom hath furled, To sink, as a bird in its nest, Away from a cold, faithless world! Alarmed at the shade and the chill, That o’er me its visions have cast, I here would lie lowly and still, Till sorrow’s dark night hours are past. And then, from the dust may I rise, To mount, as the lark from her sod; And sing, as the morn of my skies Appears in the smile of my God. O solitude, sacred and sweet; Whilst thus in thy bosom I lie, Earth’s baubles are under my feet— My heart and its treasure, on high.

I love to take this holy book, In summer’s balmy hours, To study it beside the brook, Or by the trees and flowers. For here I read about the God, Who made this world so fair, The skies—the stream—the grassy sod And bloom, that scents the air. The birds flit round, and sweetly sing Of him, who feeds them all,— Who lifts the towering eagle’s wing, And marks the sparrow’s fall. The violet, from its soft green bed, To speak his goodness too, Presents its tender, purple head Baptized with silvery dew. And here the busy bee I view, As she comes swiftly by, And seems to ask, if she should do More work, or good than I. Her waxen house betimes to build I see her wisely bent; And then, with bread and honey filled To have it, still intent. The bees I find their sweets supplied In wild Judea’s land, To feed the Baptist, when he cried, “Heaven’s kingdom is at hand.” And when our Saviour, from the grave, Had asked his friends for meat, He ate the honey-comb they gave; And showed his hands and feet. This volume of his will revealed I here can read within, “Behold the lilies of the field— They neither toil nor spin!” And yet the king “was not arrayed In glory, like to them;” Their Maker’s power is so displayed In flower and leaf and stem. And he sat on the mountain’s side, Who spake these blessed words, Before him flowery fields spread wide— Around were trees and birds. The fleecy flocks, that sport so free On hill and valley deep, I love to watch: and here I see ’T is written, “Feed my sheep.” For thus I seem to keep in view, And feel how near I am To that dear friend of children, who Has named himself the Lamb.

Aged man, with locks so hoary, High estate dost thou possess! They appear thy crown of glory, In the way of righteousness. Jewels, not of man’s preparing, Form the shining diadem, Thou art from thy Sovereign wearing: God’s own finger silvered them. Thine are honors, proved and heightened By the gift of lengthened years; In affliction’s furnace brightened, Tried by cares, and washed with tears. Like thy Master, meek and lowly, Thou a thorny earth hast trod; With thy breast a high and holy Temple of the living God. Aged saint, thy form is bending, Sere and withered, to the tomb; But thy spirit, upward tending, Budded for immortal bloom.

Sacred the hour when thou, my sainted father, Wast of thy worn-out, sinking clay undressed, Softly, by his pale hand, who comes to gather Time’s weary pilgrims home to joy and rest. Noiseless, and clear, and holiest of the seven, That day when thy last earthly sun went down: Thy Sabbath, closing here, began in heaven; Whilst thy meek brow changed ashes for a crown. Hush was the evening; not a zephyr swelling Heaved the tree-blossom, or the woodbine leaves; Silent the bird, that sang about our dwelling, Slept where she nestled, close beneath its eaves.[1] Cloudless the moon and stars above were shining, When time’s last ray to thy mild eye was shed; While death’s cold touch, life’s silver cord untwining, Brought his chill night-dew on thy reverend head. Ninety full years of pilgrimage completing, Here didst thou linger till one Sabbath more: ’T was holy time; thy pure heart stilled its beating; Pain, work, and warfare were forever o’er! Meet hour for one, obedient, meek, and lowly, Wont, by command of Heaven, the day to keep, Called, at its evening, to the High and Holy, Peaceful in Jesus thus to fall asleep! Sweetly thy form, that seemed a blissful dreamer, Told, by its features, how the spirit smiled, Through the dark, shadowy vale, by thy Redeemer Led to his mansion, like a little child. Nature’s full hand, that, on thy natal morning, Clothed earth to greet thee in the flowers of May, Brought them renewed; thy burial-spot adorning, When fourscore years and ten had rolled away. Now, while the robin, past the window flying, Leads off her young, forsaking here her nest, Constant the wild bird, where thy dust is lying, Sings her sweet hymn, a requiem to its rest. There has it joined the ashes of my mother, Faithful, rewedded to its only bride; And there thy latest-born, my younger brother, Thy fond heart’s care, sleeps closely by her side. Yet, angel father, over Jordan’s water Is it so far, that now thou canst not see Back to the shore, where lonely stands thy daughter, Sprinkling its rocks and thorns with tears for thee? Art thou so distant, visions of thy glory May not be granted to her mortal sight; When she so long watched o’er thy head so hoary, Smoothing its pillow, till that mournful night? Since here so oft, in pain, the path of duty Thy patient feet, with steady steps, have trod, Safe now they walk the golden streets in beauty; And, O! thy blessed eyes, in peace, see God!