 | Poems |  |
344
VIOLETS.
“Under the green hedges, after the snow,
There do the dear little violets grow;
Hiding their modest and beautiful heads
Under the hawthorn in soft mossy beds.”
There do the dear little violets grow;
Hiding their modest and beautiful heads
Under the hawthorn in soft mossy beds.”
“Sweet as the roses, and blue as the sky,
Down there do the dear little violets lie;
Hiding their heads where they scarce may be seen,
By the leaves you may know where the violet hath been.”
Down there do the dear little violets lie;
Hiding their heads where they scarce may be seen,
By the leaves you may know where the violet hath been.”
Such thy first notes, as of music from heaven,
Child of my heart, when thy years were eleven;
Still, at thirteen, my delight and my pride,
Violet-hearted, forget-me-not-eyed.
Child of my heart, when thy years were eleven;
Still, at thirteen, my delight and my pride,
Violet-hearted, forget-me-not-eyed.
Blest be thy birth-day!—more bountiful none
Hath in our family calendar shone;
Never was born to us child who hath proved
Sweetlier-gifted, more dearly beloved.
Hath in our family calendar shone;
Never was born to us child who hath proved
Sweetlier-gifted, more dearly beloved.
Pale is thy forehead, and paler thy cheek,
Weak was thy infancy, still thou art weak;
Fragile of body and feeble of limb,—
But thine eyes in the spring-dew of phantasy swim.
Weak was thy infancy, still thou art weak;
Fragile of body and feeble of limb,—
But thine eyes in the spring-dew of phantasy swim.
345
Deep in the cells of thy spirit are wrought
Exquisite textures of feeling and thought;
Forth from the depths of thy sensitive heart,
Tears to thine eyelids will bubble and start.
Exquisite textures of feeling and thought;
Forth from the depths of thy sensitive heart,
Tears to thine eyelids will bubble and start.
Oft, as thy fingers sweep over the keys,
Melody stirs in thy soul like a breeze;
Till the strong impulse evoke from the chords
Fairy-like music, to fairy-like words.
Melody stirs in thy soul like a breeze;
Till the strong impulse evoke from the chords
Fairy-like music, to fairy-like words.
Oft, as thou walkest in meadow or wood,
Over its treasure thy spirit will brood;
Yearnings of nature, which nought can controul,
Blossom and bud in thine innocent soul.
Over its treasure thy spirit will brood;
Yearnings of nature, which nought can controul,
Blossom and bud in thine innocent soul.
Then, as thou fixest thine eyes on the ground,
Heedless of all that is passing around,
Deaf to their greetings, though cordial and kind,—
Country-folk ask—“Is she right in her mind?”
Heedless of all that is passing around,
Deaf to their greetings, though cordial and kind,—
Country-folk ask—“Is she right in her mind?”
Right in thy mind?—ay! and right in thy heart,
Loving, and gentle, and pious thou art;
Never hath dearer, more dutiful child,
Grief from the heart of a parent beguiled.
Loving, and gentle, and pious thou art;
Never hath dearer, more dutiful child,
Grief from the heart of a parent beguiled.
Tenderness, faithfulness, sweetness profound,
Compass and clasp thee about and around;
Others by magic of intellect move,
Thine is the genius of goodness and love.
Compass and clasp thee about and around;
Others by magic of intellect move,
Thine is the genius of goodness and love.
Use, but abuse not, the blessing of song,
Which from thy tuneful heart dances along;
Force it not—curb it not—free let it flow
Whither the breezes of Nature shall blow.
Which from thy tuneful heart dances along;
Force it not—curb it not—free let it flow
Whither the breezes of Nature shall blow.
346
Seek not, and shun not, the garland of fame,
Keep thyself scatheless from praise and from blame;
Care not what outwardly fancy may win,
Fully content with her blessing within.
Keep thyself scatheless from praise and from blame;
Care not what outwardly fancy may win,
Fully content with her blessing within.
Only be innocent, artless and good,
Loving of spirit, and gentle of mood;
Fear and serve God with devotion of heart,
So shall He glorify all that thou art.
Loving of spirit, and gentle of mood;
Fear and serve God with devotion of heart,
So shall He glorify all that thou art.
So, whether vocal or silent thou be,
Song shall be living in, welling from thee;
If not the meed of the poetess thine,
Thou shalt thyself be a poem. divine.
Song shall be living in, welling from thee;
If not the meed of the poetess thine,
Thou shalt thyself be a poem. divine.
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