 | Three hours ; or, the vigil of love : and other poems |  |
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THE FIRST SWALLOW.
“One swallow does not make a summer.”—
Old Proverb.
Old Proverb.
Out on the wisdom frozen
By ice-cold doubts and fears!
Why should life's path be chosen
Through sorrow's vale of tears?
A child, how I detested
The “ifs” and “buts” to hear,
When, with Hope's charm invested,
Some promised joy was near—
Still in my heart is shining
The light divine, which lends
Each cloud a silver lining,
O'er storms a rainbow bends.
By ice-cold doubts and fears!
Why should life's path be chosen
Through sorrow's vale of tears?
A child, how I detested
The “ifs” and “buts” to hear,
When, with Hope's charm invested,
Some promised joy was near—
Still in my heart is shining
The light divine, which lends
Each cloud a silver lining,
O'er storms a rainbow bends.
Then welcome little swallow,
Thou'lt bring the summer fair—
With pleasant thoughts I follow
Thy waltzing through the air;
What though bright flowers have faded,
That once my pathway blessed,
What though green bowers are shaded,
Where sunshine used to rest,—
Yet still my soul rejoices,
And every shadow flies,
When Nature's thousand voices,
In summer gladness rise.
Thou'lt bring the summer fair—
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Thy waltzing through the air;
What though bright flowers have faded,
That once my pathway blessed,
What though green bowers are shaded,
Where sunshine used to rest,—
Yet still my soul rejoices,
And every shadow flies,
When Nature's thousand voices,
In summer gladness rise.
There 's not a plant that springeth,
But bears some good to earth,—
There 's not a life but bringeth
Its store of harmless mirth—
The dusty way-side clover
Has honey in its cells,
The wild bee, humming over,
Her tale of pleasure tells:
The osiers, o'er the fountain,
Keep cool the water's breast,
And on the roughest mountain
The softest moss is pressed.
But bears some good to earth,—
There 's not a life but bringeth
Its store of harmless mirth—
The dusty way-side clover
Has honey in its cells,
The wild bee, humming over,
Her tale of pleasure tells:
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Keep cool the water's breast,
And on the roughest mountain
The softest moss is pressed.
Thus holy Wisdom teaches
The worth of blessings small,
That Love pervades, and reaches,
And forms the bliss of all;
The trusting eye, joy-seeking,
Some Eden finds or makes,
The glad voice, kindly speaking,
Some kindred tone awakes—
Nor need we power or splendor,
Wide hall or lordly dome;
The good, the true, the tender,
These form the wealth of home.
The worth of blessings small,
That Love pervades, and reaches,
And forms the bliss of all;
The trusting eye, joy-seeking,
Some Eden finds or makes,
The glad voice, kindly speaking,
Some kindred tone awakes—
Nor need we power or splendor,
Wide hall or lordly dome;
The good, the true, the tender,
These form the wealth of home.
The pilgrim swallow cometh
To her forsaken nest—
So must the heart that roameth
Return, to find its rest,
Where Love sheds summer's lustre,—
And wheresoe'er 't is found,
There sweetest flowers will cluster,
And dearest joys abound;
Thus Heaven to all doth render
The prize of happiness;
The good, the true, the tender,
Earth's lowliest lot may bless.
To her forsaken nest—
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Return, to find its rest,
Where Love sheds summer's lustre,—
And wheresoe'er 't is found,
There sweetest flowers will cluster,
And dearest joys abound;
Thus Heaven to all doth render
The prize of happiness;
The good, the true, the tender,
Earth's lowliest lot may bless.
| Three hours ; or, the vigil of love : and other poems | |