 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
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JUVENILE RHYMES.
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ADDRESS TO MY JUVENILE READERS.
But few fleeting years have passed over my head,
Since I too was playing in Youth's sunny bowers,
And oh! with as free and as careless a tread,
As ever chased butterfly over wild flowers!
Since I too was playing in Youth's sunny bowers,
And oh! with as free and as careless a tread,
As ever chased butterfly over wild flowers!
Reluctant was I the sweet limit to leave,
That parts merry childhood from woman's sad lot;
And now, half in sorrow, yet smiling, I weave
A wreath from those scenes that are never forgot.
That parts merry childhood from woman's sad lot;
And now, half in sorrow, yet smiling, I weave
A wreath from those scenes that are never forgot.
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Dear children, while chasing with soul-lighted smile
The butterfly—Fancy—my posies amid,
Remember some sweet little moral the while,
In the heart of each blossom, like honey, is hid!
The butterfly—Fancy—my posies amid,
Remember some sweet little moral the while,
In the heart of each blossom, like honey, is hid!
Then take the light garland,—'twas woven for you;
And say, while you cherish each simple “wild flower,”—
When critics more stern its construction would view,—
“Oh! breathe on it softly! it dies in an hour!”
And say, while you cherish each simple “wild flower,”—
When critics more stern its construction would view,—
“Oh! breathe on it softly! it dies in an hour!”
CHILDHOOD.
Ah! well may sages bow to thee,
Dear, loving, guileless Infancy!
And sigh beside their lofty lore
For one untaught delight of thine,
And feel they'd give their Learning's store
To know again thy truth divine.
Dear, loving, guileless Infancy!
And sigh beside their lofty lore
For one untaught delight of thine,
And feel they'd give their Learning's store
To know again thy truth divine.
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Ah! well may pampered Luxury,
Aweary of his wasted wealth,
Thy dearer treasures sigh to see,—
Thy careless glee,—thy blooming health,—
Thy frolic footstep, light and free,—
Thy glowing smile, that far outshines
The rosiest jewel of his mines!
Aweary of his wasted wealth,
Thy dearer treasures sigh to see,—
Thy careless glee,—thy blooming health,—
Thy frolic footstep, light and free,—
Thy glowing smile, that far outshines
The rosiest jewel of his mines!
And well may eagle-Power look down,
And scorn his eyrie and his crown!
What though his gifted speech have stirred
Some stoic's heart with eloquent prayer?
From infant Innocence—a word
Will win its way as surely there,
And the same fount of feeling, struck
By his mind's magic from the rock,
Will yield with willing flow, the while,
To Childhood's voice and Childhood's smile!
And scorn his eyrie and his crown!
What though his gifted speech have stirred
Some stoic's heart with eloquent prayer?
From infant Innocence—a word
Will win its way as surely there,
And the same fount of feeling, struck
By his mind's magic from the rock,
Will yield with willing flow, the while,
To Childhood's voice and Childhood's smile!
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JACK FROST.
A bright, little rogue jumped out of bed,
With his cheek flushed warm,—and his moist, brown hair
Curling and floating all over his head,
As if Slumber had only been frolicking there.
He sprang to the window in wild surprise,
And a smile stole up to his deep blue eyes;
For the glass was all wrought into landscapes white,
As if formed of feathers of fleecy light!
Willy knew by the tracery, strange and fair,
That a queer little artist, called Frost, had been there,
And he cried out, ('twas naughty to swear so!) “by Jindo!
I know who it is that's been painting my window!”
He thought he spied him outside of the pane—
That funny old man—when he looked again;
With his twinkling eyes, keen, cold, and bright,
His pallet of pearl, and pencil of light,
His snow-feather pinions with moonbeams inlaid,
And his three-cornered cap of a diamond made.
He looked hard at Willy, as much as to say,
“I would give my best icicle, only to play
With your wild, bright hair, or your cheek's warm rose,
Or to bite but the tip of your dear little nose!”
And Will caught the meaning that lurk'd in his eye,
And shook his rich curls, as he laughed in reply,—
“No, no! Mr. Frost! you may peep, if you please,
Over the mountains and through the trees;
You may float in the clouds, through the deep midnight,
And play with your jewels of rainbow light;
You may dance on the lake with your twinkling feet,
Till it harden beneath them—a silver sheet;
You may wave your wings o'er the woodland bloom,
And sprinkle their sparkles amid the gloom,
Till the whole wide forest, from giant-pine
To baby-bush, with your snow-plumes shine!
You may look on the rivulet murmuring by,
Till you charm it to sleep with your clear, cold eye,
And bid it forget its flowing;
You may do what you will, and I shall not fear,—
For I am determined you shan't come here;—
Mother! how cold it is growing!—
No, no! Mr. Frost! you may bite, if you please,
The poor, little, shivering buds on the trees;
You may dig, with the point of your cap, in the earth,
Till you come to the place where the flowers have birth,
And tell them they mustn't come up,—if they do,
You'll pinch them all, till they're black and blue,—
You may frighten the lilies and roses;
You may bite the bush—the vine—the tree;
But, Mr. Jack Frost! if you dare to bite me!—
Mother! how cold my nose is!—
No, no! Mr. Frost! you may eat the grass;
You may try your teeth upon window glass,
Since you must do some mischief or other;
You may swallow the stream; and the deep, full sea,
You thirsty old fellow, your drink may be!
But, Jonathan Frost! you shall not eat me!
Oh! give me my breakfast, mother!”
With his cheek flushed warm,—and his moist, brown hair
Curling and floating all over his head,
As if Slumber had only been frolicking there.
He sprang to the window in wild surprise,
And a smile stole up to his deep blue eyes;
For the glass was all wrought into landscapes white,
As if formed of feathers of fleecy light!
Willy knew by the tracery, strange and fair,
That a queer little artist, called Frost, had been there,
And he cried out, ('twas naughty to swear so!) “by Jindo!
I know who it is that's been painting my window!”
He thought he spied him outside of the pane—
That funny old man—when he looked again;
With his twinkling eyes, keen, cold, and bright,
His pallet of pearl, and pencil of light,
His snow-feather pinions with moonbeams inlaid,
And his three-cornered cap of a diamond made.
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“I would give my best icicle, only to play
With your wild, bright hair, or your cheek's warm rose,
Or to bite but the tip of your dear little nose!”
And Will caught the meaning that lurk'd in his eye,
And shook his rich curls, as he laughed in reply,—
“No, no! Mr. Frost! you may peep, if you please,
Over the mountains and through the trees;
You may float in the clouds, through the deep midnight,
And play with your jewels of rainbow light;
You may dance on the lake with your twinkling feet,
Till it harden beneath them—a silver sheet;
You may wave your wings o'er the woodland bloom,
And sprinkle their sparkles amid the gloom,
Till the whole wide forest, from giant-pine
To baby-bush, with your snow-plumes shine!
You may look on the rivulet murmuring by,
Till you charm it to sleep with your clear, cold eye,
And bid it forget its flowing;
You may do what you will, and I shall not fear,—
For I am determined you shan't come here;—
Mother! how cold it is growing!—
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The poor, little, shivering buds on the trees;
You may dig, with the point of your cap, in the earth,
Till you come to the place where the flowers have birth,
And tell them they mustn't come up,—if they do,
You'll pinch them all, till they're black and blue,—
You may frighten the lilies and roses;
You may bite the bush—the vine—the tree;
But, Mr. Jack Frost! if you dare to bite me!—
Mother! how cold my nose is!—
No, no! Mr. Frost! you may eat the grass;
You may try your teeth upon window glass,
Since you must do some mischief or other;
You may swallow the stream; and the deep, full sea,
You thirsty old fellow, your drink may be!
But, Jonathan Frost! you shall not eat me!
Oh! give me my breakfast, mother!”
The milk was lifted for Willy to sip;
But he felt just then, on his soft, warm lip,
A tiny touch from a hand of ice,—
And he put it away from his mouth in a trice.
What do you think he found in his cup?
Shining and shivering, icy and bony,—
The pert, little iceman, himself, peeped up,—
Mr. Jonathan Frost, “in propria personæ!”
Willy lifted the bowl,—one draught he drew,—
“And pray, Mr. Jack Frost! where are you?
You needn't go diving and glancing about,
As if you expected to slide yourself out!”
Ah! Willy! he drained the sweet cup with delight!
But when he had finished, he stared in affright!—
He thought he should find him all snugly curl'd up,
The poor little painter, within the deep cup;
But no!—he had vanished!—no trace was there!
And Willy looked, vainly, to earth and to air;—
“He jumped from it while I was drinking, I know;
Mother, dear mother, did you see him go?
You're a coward, Jack Frost! and the next time I meet you,
If you dare touch my breakfast,—you see'f I dont eat you!”
But he felt just then, on his soft, warm lip,
A tiny touch from a hand of ice,—
And he put it away from his mouth in a trice.
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Shining and shivering, icy and bony,—
The pert, little iceman, himself, peeped up,—
Mr. Jonathan Frost, “in propria personæ!”
Willy lifted the bowl,—one draught he drew,—
“And pray, Mr. Jack Frost! where are you?
You needn't go diving and glancing about,
As if you expected to slide yourself out!”
Ah! Willy! he drained the sweet cup with delight!
But when he had finished, he stared in affright!—
He thought he should find him all snugly curl'd up,
The poor little painter, within the deep cup;
But no!—he had vanished!—no trace was there!
And Willy looked, vainly, to earth and to air;—
“He jumped from it while I was drinking, I know;
Mother, dear mother, did you see him go?
You're a coward, Jack Frost! and the next time I meet you,
If you dare touch my breakfast,—you see'f I dont eat you!”
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THE LITTLE HAND.
We wandered sadly round the room,—
We missed the voice's play,
That warbled through our hours of gloom,
And charmed the cloud away;—
We missed the voice's play,
That warbled through our hours of gloom,
And charmed the cloud away;—
We missed the footstep, loved and light,—
The tiny, twining hand,—
The quick, arch smile, so wildly bright,—
The brow, with beauty bland!
The tiny, twining hand,—
The quick, arch smile, so wildly bright,—
The brow, with beauty bland!
We wandered sadly round the room,—
No relic could we find,
No toy of hers, to soothe our gloom,—
She left not one behind!
No relic could we find,
No toy of hers, to soothe our gloom,—
She left not one behind!
But look! there is a misty trace,
Faint, undefined and broken,
Of fingers, on the mirror's face,—
A dear, though simple token!
Faint, undefined and broken,
Of fingers, on the mirror's face,—
A dear, though simple token!
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A cherub hand!—the child we loved
Had left its impress there,
When first, by young Ambition moved,
She climbed the easy-chair;—
Had left its impress there,
When first, by young Ambition moved,
She climbed the easy-chair;—
She saw her own sweet self, and tried
To touch what seemed to be
So near, so beautiful! and cried,—
“Why! there's another me!”
To touch what seemed to be
So near, so beautiful! and cried,—
“Why! there's another me!”
Dear hand! though from the mirror's face
Thy form did soon depart,
I wore its welcome, tender trace,
Long after, in my heart!
Thy form did soon depart,
I wore its welcome, tender trace,
Long after, in my heart!
HOPE'S RAINBOW.
Fair Hope, with light and buoyant form,Came smiling through the clouds of Care,
Glanced bright defiance on the storm,
And hung her bow of promise there!
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THE STAR OF PROMISE.
When kneeling sages saw, of yore,
Their star of promise rise for them,
How Learning's lamp grew dim before
The heaven-born light of Bethlehem!
Their star of promise rise for them,
How Learning's lamp grew dim before
The heaven-born light of Bethlehem!
How faltered Wisdom's haughty tone,
When, led by God's exulting choir,
His radiant herald glided on—
The darkling heathen's beacon-fire!
When, led by God's exulting choir,
His radiant herald glided on—
The darkling heathen's beacon-fire!
When sweet, from many an angel voice,
While rang the viewless harps of Heaven,
He heard their song of love—“Rejoice,
For peace on earth, and sin forgiven!”
While rang the viewless harps of Heaven,
He heard their song of love—“Rejoice,
For peace on earth, and sin forgiven!”
The Chaldean flung his scroll aside,
The Arab left his desert-tent,
Their hope—their trust—that beaming guide,
Till low at Mary's feet they bent!—
The Arab left his desert-tent,
Their hope—their trust—that beaming guide,
Till low at Mary's feet they bent!—
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Ay! Asia's wisest knelt around,
Forgetting Fame's too earthly dream;
While bright, upon the hallowed ground,
Their golden gifts—a mockery—gleam.
Forgetting Fame's too earthly dream;
While bright, upon the hallowed ground,
Their golden gifts—a mockery—gleam.
There vainly too their censers breathed,—
Oh! what were incense, gems, to Him,
Around whose brow a glory wreathed,
That made their day-star's splendour dim?
Oh! what were incense, gems, to Him,
Around whose brow a glory wreathed,
That made their day-star's splendour dim?
To Him, o'er whose blest spirit came
The fragrance of celestial flowers,
Who saw the countless plumes of flame
That play'd thro' Heaven's resplendent bowers?
The fragrance of celestial flowers,
Who saw the countless plumes of flame
That play'd thro' Heaven's resplendent bowers?
To kneeling Faith's devoted eye
It shines—that Star of Promise—now,
Fair, as when far, in Asia's sky,
It lit her sage's lifted brow!
It shines—that Star of Promise—now,
Fair, as when far, in Asia's sky,
It lit her sage's lifted brow!
No sparkling treasure we may bring,
Nor “gift of gold,” nor jewel-stone;
The censer's sweets we may not fling,
In incense, round our Saviour's throne;—
Nor “gift of gold,” nor jewel-stone;
The censer's sweets we may not fling,
In incense, round our Saviour's throne;—
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But when, o'er Sorrow's clouded view,
That planet rises to our prayer,
We, where it leads, may follow too,
And lay—a contrite spirit there!
That planet rises to our prayer,
We, where it leads, may follow too,
And lay—a contrite spirit there!
LITTLE ANNA'S PICTURE.
'Tis but a pencil-sketch,—yet lovely still,And true as lovely! the rich mouth is there,
The simple parting of the sun-brown hair,
The large and lustrous eyes, all eloquent
With their unchildlike, earnest look of thought,
And the transparent fairness of the forehead!
It is all Anna,—save the faint rose-shade
That trembles on her cheek, but in her lips
Deepens to crimson,—and the tinge of gold,
Revelling like a sunbeam 'mid her hair,
While in those eyes, which wear the selfsame hue
Of glossy brown, it melts to tender smiles!
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For in their contrast, half her beauty lies;—
The chestnut richness of her drooping lash,
Lying like silk upon that dimpled cheek,
Makes the warm rose-tint softer with its shade.
I would this little sketch those colours wore;
But I've another portrait of the child,
Wrought by a hand more powerful and true,—
A portrait that will never fade, a hand
Whose angel-skill is perfect and undying;
There the brown hair on blue-veined temples rests,
Just as it did on Anna's; the sweet lips
Are as like hers, as hers are like a rose-bud;
And the clear, beaming eyes, the colour wear
With which her own are radiant!—It is true,—
For long ago, before our darling left us,
Love drew her picture “in my heart of heart,”
And Memory preserves it beautiful!
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THE BOY-PAINTER.
“My mother's kiss made me a painter!”
Life of Sir Benjamin West.
Life of Sir Benjamin West.
A little heart, where slept the germ, as yet in night concealed,
Of power and glory since to be (how radiantly!) revealed,
Alone, beside a cradle bed, was beating fast and warm,
Where, beautiful in slumber, lay a baby's dimpled form!
Of power and glory since to be (how radiantly!) revealed,
Alone, beside a cradle bed, was beating fast and warm,
Where, beautiful in slumber, lay a baby's dimpled form!
The infant smiled in sleep, and lo! a little, ardent hand,
Ere fled the smile, had snatched a pen and paper from the stand,
And traced the cradle and the babe, as if by magic spell,—
How soft, beneath that tiny touch, the fairy features fell!
Ere fled the smile, had snatched a pen and paper from the stand,
And traced the cradle and the babe, as if by magic spell,—
How soft, beneath that tiny touch, the fairy features fell!
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How fondly o'er the playful sketch he bends—the enraptured boy!
Unmindful of his precious charge, so deep his dream of joy;
'Tis broken by a stealing step,—his mother caught the prize,
And kissed away the cloud of doubt that filled his timid eyes!
Unmindful of his precious charge, so deep his dream of joy;
'Tis broken by a stealing step,—his mother caught the prize,
And kissed away the cloud of doubt that filled his timid eyes!
O blessed Love! how mighty thou to sway the human heart!
A subtle, yet a holy king and conqueror thou art!
His sister's smile awoke the germ,—his mother's kiss, the flower,—
And a world's tears, the fruit, embalm, in many a classic bower!
A subtle, yet a holy king and conqueror thou art!
His sister's smile awoke the germ,—his mother's kiss, the flower,—
And a world's tears, the fruit, embalm, in many a classic bower!
THE TIME TO PRAY.
“What is the lady doing there?”
Louise, before a picture, cried;
“The lady kneels in holy prayer,”
Her sister, Bell, replied.
Louise, before a picture, cried;
“The lady kneels in holy prayer,”
Her sister, Bell, replied.
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Louisa's eyes in musing fell,—
“You say the lady kneels in prayer,—
To-day, you know, is Friday, Bell,
And is it Sunday there?”
“You say the lady kneels in prayer,—
To-day, you know, is Friday, Bell,
And is it Sunday there?”
“Ah! dear Louise, can no one pray
At any other time as well?
Must Sunday be the only day?”
Said thoughtful Isabel.
At any other time as well?
Must Sunday be the only day?”
Said thoughtful Isabel.
“I should be very sad, if I,
Who sorrow almost every day
For something wrong, must wait and sigh,
Till Sunday comes, to pray.
Who sorrow almost every day
For something wrong, must wait and sigh,
Till Sunday comes, to pray.
“When I have erred, in deed or word,
And tears arise, and blind my eye,
My heart and lips with prayer are stirred,
Till I forget to cry.
And tears arise, and blind my eye,
My heart and lips with prayer are stirred,
Till I forget to cry.
“When lightly on my downy bed
I wake and find the morning there,
I think, whose smile the morning made,
And speak to God in prayer.
I wake and find the morning there,
I think, whose smile the morning made,
And speak to God in prayer.
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“When day's bright door is shut, I know
Whose viewless hand forbids her beam,
And dare not to my slumber go,
Till I have prayed to Him!
Whose viewless hand forbids her beam,
And dare not to my slumber go,
Till I have prayed to Him!
“Ah! dear Louise! no matter where,
No matter what the hour or day,
The solemn eve—the morning fair—
'Tis always good to pray.”
No matter what the hour or day,
The solemn eve—the morning fair—
'Tis always good to pray.”
And young Louise said meekly then,—
“If kneeling lady any where
I see, I will not ask again,
If it is Sunday there.”
“If kneeling lady any where
I see, I will not ask again,
If it is Sunday there.”
ON SEEING AN ENGRAVING OF A SHIPWRECK.
Ah me! I never see a scene like this,But o'er my heart a sudden shadow goes,
A faint, but fearful vision of the storm,
That wreck'd the darling of our household hearth—
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I was a child when he was lost at sea,
And hardly knew the loss, or him remembered;
But often since, in my lone hours of thought,
I've had dim dreamings of a blue-eyed boy,
Who watched and sometimes shared my pleasant play;
And when swift gleams went by of waving hair,
And brow of girlish softness, and a smile,
Rich with heart-tenderness, and truth, and joy,
I've felt that such were his, and blessed my dream.
Then I recall his parting gift—a book,—
It would be worth all others to me now!—
Alas! 'twas lost before a week had flown;
Yet with his last caress he bade me keep it,
Till he should come,—he never came again!
Returning, and almost in sight of home,
Already seen in Fancy,—his young cheek
Yet blest and warm with Love's imagined kiss,
And his pure heart o'erflowing with sweet hopes,
The ship went down—a shattered wreck,—and he!—
That night his welcome-home was breathed in Heaven!
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REPLY TO A LETTER FROM AN ABSENT SISTER.
Dear sister, if the world has aught,
That wakens envy in my thought,
It is the picture of myself,
That hangs above your “little shelf.”
That wakens envy in my thought,
It is the picture of myself,
That hangs above your “little shelf.”
You say it does not sympathize,—
Alas! the cold and painted phiz,
With silent lips and soulless eyes,—
It does not know how blest it is!
Alas! the cold and painted phiz,
With silent lips and soulless eyes,—
It does not know how blest it is!
Unmoved it hears, what I would hear
With beating heart and raptured ear;
Untouched it sees, what I would see
With loving looks and answering glee!
It hears your blessed child address
Its form with cherub tenderness;
And, all unchanged, is callous too
To words of sister-love from you!
It hears her warbling voice prolong
The notes of some impromptu song,—
A merry bird, untaught by art,
Singing the music in her heart;
It hears the laughter, wild and soft,
With which she cheers your sorrow oft;
The prayer, that rises from her lips
Like incense from the tender rose,
Before her happy spirit slips
Into its mantle of repose!
It sees, her pretty, fairy feet,
Glide in and out, with motion fleet,
Or take, by true and graceful rule,
The steps they learn at dancing-school!
It sees her soft and serious eyes,
Dilating into bright surprise,
When some dear gift from grandpapa
Reminds her of the friends afar!
It sees—ah! how much more than these,
That dull, but favoured picture sees,
Which I would give the world could be.
One moment visible to me!
With beating heart and raptured ear;
Untouched it sees, what I would see
With loving looks and answering glee!
It hears your blessed child address
Its form with cherub tenderness;
And, all unchanged, is callous too
To words of sister-love from you!
It hears her warbling voice prolong
The notes of some impromptu song,—
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Singing the music in her heart;
It hears the laughter, wild and soft,
With which she cheers your sorrow oft;
The prayer, that rises from her lips
Like incense from the tender rose,
Before her happy spirit slips
Into its mantle of repose!
It sees, her pretty, fairy feet,
Glide in and out, with motion fleet,
Or take, by true and graceful rule,
The steps they learn at dancing-school!
It sees her soft and serious eyes,
Dilating into bright surprise,
When some dear gift from grandpapa
Reminds her of the friends afar!
It sees—ah! how much more than these,
That dull, but favoured picture sees,
Which I would give the world could be.
One moment visible to me!
Yes, sister, I do think of you,
With tender sympathy and true,
And almost wish my very self
Could hang above that “little shelf.”
With tender sympathy and true,
And almost wish my very self
Could hang above that “little shelf.”
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THE CHILD'S DOUBT.
“You know you told me, mother dear,
(How can I think it true?)
That God can always see and hear
Whate'er I say and do.
(How can I think it true?)
That God can always see and hear
Whate'er I say and do.
“I listen, mother, for His voice,
I look, His form to see;
I see Him not—I hear Him not,
Then how can He see me?”
I look, His form to see;
I see Him not—I hear Him not,
Then how can He see me?”
“My child, you often tremble when
The clouds are talking loud,
And are you not afraid to hear
His voice, who made the cloud?
The clouds are talking loud,
And are you not afraid to hear
His voice, who made the cloud?
“And see! the sun is in the skies!
Look up, with steadfast gaze,—
You cannot—no! it hurts your eyes,
Too strong the wondrous blaze;—
Look up, with steadfast gaze,—
You cannot—no! it hurts your eyes,
Too strong the wondrous blaze;—
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“Yet faint before the face of Him,
That glory is a shade,
Or at the best, a moment's gleam,
His pitying glance has made!”
That glory is a shade,
Or at the best, a moment's gleam,
His pitying glance has made!”
“But, mother, when the day is dark,
When shadows dim the air,
By radiant breakings through the cloud,
I know the sun is there.”
When shadows dim the air,
By radiant breakings through the cloud,
I know the sun is there.”
“My child, the heavens, and earth, and air,
Are darkness to His day,
And all the glow of glory there,
His love's attempered ray.
Are darkness to His day,
And all the glow of glory there,
His love's attempered ray.
“In mercy to our senses weak,
He shades His presence bright,
In Nature's music veils His voice,
And in her smile His light!”
He shades His presence bright,
In Nature's music veils His voice,
And in her smile His light!”
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TO SEE THEE SMILE AGAIN.
Dear Lizzie, when, in childhood's hour,
Whate'er my laws, you would rebel,
And I, who fancied age was power,
Would feel my little bosom swell
With anger infantine, because
My mimic frown unheeded was,
Our tiny tongues went very fast,
And mine—mine always went the last!
But when at length some childish jest
Upon my pouting lip would rise,
And wound my darling sister's breast,
And fill with tears her dear, dark eyes,—
Ashamed to own my fault to thee,
Yet grieved in heart thy grief to see,—
Rememberest thou how many a wile
I tried, thy sorrow to beguile?
Ah! even then I felt that Joy
Must flee my spirit, thine in pain,
And thought I'd give my prettiest toy
To see thee smile again!
Whate'er my laws, you would rebel,
And I, who fancied age was power,
Would feel my little bosom swell
With anger infantine, because
My mimic frown unheeded was,
Our tiny tongues went very fast,
And mine—mine always went the last!
But when at length some childish jest
Upon my pouting lip would rise,
And wound my darling sister's breast,
And fill with tears her dear, dark eyes,—
Ashamed to own my fault to thee,
Yet grieved in heart thy grief to see,—
Rememberest thou how many a wile
I tried, thy sorrow to beguile?
Ah! even then I felt that Joy
Must flee my spirit, thine in pain,
And thought I'd give my prettiest toy
To see thee smile again!
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Dear Lizzie, in maturer years,
An angry word, or careless jest,
Too often now distils the tears
Of sorrow from thy gentle breast;
Yet, love, believe—thy sister's heart,
Whate'er its many errors be,
Would never lightly pain impart,
And least of all to thee!
An angry word, or careless jest,
Too often now distils the tears
Of sorrow from thy gentle breast;
Yet, love, believe—thy sister's heart,
Whate'er its many errors be,
Would never lightly pain impart,
And least of all to thee!
Oh! Passion's words are faithless things,
And Love disowns them ere they fall;
It is the reckless tongue that stings—
The tongue that knows not Reason's thrall.
Cold Satire's light and airy dart,
Its point, its poison, there receives;
And ere the weapon reach thy heart,
My own has felt the wound it gives!
And when I see thy dear lip curled,
And quivering with thy just disdain,
I sigh, and think I'd give the world
To see thee smile again!
And Love disowns them ere they fall;
It is the reckless tongue that stings—
The tongue that knows not Reason's thrall.
Cold Satire's light and airy dart,
Its point, its poison, there receives;
And ere the weapon reach thy heart,
My own has felt the wound it gives!
And when I see thy dear lip curled,
And quivering with thy just disdain,
I sigh, and think I'd give the world
To see thee smile again!
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EDWARD'S TRIAL.
A TRUE STORY.
A roguish elf is Ned, I ween,
Five blooming years the boy has seen,
Yet even now, his wily wit
Far older lips would well befit.
Five blooming years the boy has seen,
Yet even now, his wily wit
Far older lips would well befit.
One day, as by the door he stands,
He cries aloud, “My father comes!”
And clasps, in joy, his little hands;
“He's brought me home some sugar-plums!”
For dearly loves the petted boy
A sweetmeat, cake, or candied toy.
He cries aloud, “My father comes!”
And clasps, in joy, his little hands;
“He's brought me home some sugar-plums!”
For dearly loves the petted boy
A sweetmeat, cake, or candied toy.
The father entered,—put aside
His hat and coat with quiet care,
Then slow the packet's string untied,
And laid its tempting treasures bare;
With lips apart, th' impatient child,
Delighted, eyed the feast, and smiled!
His hat and coat with quiet care,
Then slow the packet's string untied,
And laid its tempting treasures bare;
With lips apart, th' impatient child,
Delighted, eyed the feast, and smiled!
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And now his sire selects a plum—
The largest there—with aspect bland;
On tiptoe, with expectance dumb,
Ned reached his ready, dimpled hand;
The largest there—with aspect bland;
On tiptoe, with expectance dumb,
Ned reached his ready, dimpled hand;
Mistaken boy!—slow rose the prize,
Till in his father's mouth it vanished!
And Ned beheld, with wondering eyes,
And felt his fond confiding banished.
Till in his father's mouth it vanished!
And Ned beheld, with wondering eyes,
And felt his fond confiding banished.
But wilder, wider still they grew—
Those cloudless eyes,—as one by one,
The sweets, in swift succession, flew
Where fled the first, till half were gone!
Those cloudless eyes,—as one by one,
The sweets, in swift succession, flew
Where fled the first, till half were gone!
Poor Ned had half a mind to cry,
And still another half to smile;
So, with a sweet philosophy,
He chose the happiest half the while,
And lifting up his pleasant eyes,
With glance demure, and sly, and wise,
And wrinkling his soft brow of snow,
Was not his self-command a virtue?)
Said, in a tone of comic woe,—
“Dear father! I'm afraid they'll hurt you!”
And still another half to smile;
So, with a sweet philosophy,
He chose the happiest half the while,
And lifting up his pleasant eyes,
With glance demure, and sly, and wise,
And wrinkling his soft brow of snow,
Was not his self-command a virtue?)
Said, in a tone of comic woe,—
“Dear father! I'm afraid they'll hurt you!”
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The father caught him to his breast,
And on his lips fond kisses prest,—
I'll warrant, Edward thought them sweet
As any plum he e'er did eat!
Yet whispered, with a smothered laugh,—
“Pray is it mine—the other half?”
“It is!”—'twas scarcely said before
The boy had seized the precious store,
And flew to find his sister Jane,
To share with her his well-earned gain.
And on his lips fond kisses prest,—
I'll warrant, Edward thought them sweet
As any plum he e'er did eat!
Yet whispered, with a smothered laugh,—
“Pray is it mine—the other half?”
“It is!”—'twas scarcely said before
The boy had seized the precious store,
And flew to find his sister Jane,
To share with her his well-earned gain.
Dear children, learn the moral,—Many a slip
May be between the sugar and the lip;
But he, the sugar never need to miss
Who bears his loss with temper sweet as this!
May be between the sugar and the lip;
But he, the sugar never need to miss
Who bears his loss with temper sweet as this!
LITTLE CHARLIE'S PARADISE.
Mamma, since Heaven's a place so fair,Why do we not our voyage begin?
But shall I gather violets there,
And will they let dear Rover in?
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ON A LITTLE OLD SHOE, SENT AS A MEASURE FOR A NEW PAIR.
The trunk had come,—we crowded round,
With joy received our toys;
The cap, “a gift for mother,” found,
And bonbons for the boys.
With joy received our toys;
The cap, “a gift for mother,” found,
And bonbons for the boys.
While father with a patient “hum”
The letters did unwrap,
Sly Lizzie stole a sugar-plum,
And mother kissed the cap!
The letters did unwrap,
Sly Lizzie stole a sugar-plum,
And mother kissed the cap!
But one thing, more than all the rest,
Did sweetly speak of you,
And in my very heart I blessed
Your little worn-out shoe!
Did sweetly speak of you,
And in my very heart I blessed
Your little worn-out shoe!
Was it your dancing shoe you sent,—
A victim to the Graces?
The very holes were eloquent,
They gaped before our faces,—
A victim to the Graces?
The very holes were eloquent,
They gaped before our faces,—
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And spoke of restless joy, and in
Our gladdened hearts we knew,
How busy the dear foot had been,
That wore that little shoe!
Our gladdened hearts we knew,
How busy the dear foot had been,
That wore that little shoe!
They told of many an errand done,
To please a mother kind;
They told of childhood's “love of fun,”
They spoke an active mind.
To please a mother kind;
They told of childhood's “love of fun,”
They spoke an active mind.
I've worn the helm a hero wore,—
I've saved a sage's line,—
And precious fragments from the shore
Of glorious Greece are mine!—
I've saved a sage's line,—
And precious fragments from the shore
Of glorious Greece are mine!—
I've kissed the gems that decked the breast
Of Europe's saddest queen;
But ne'er was relic yet caressed,
Like our old shoe I ween!
Of Europe's saddest queen;
But ne'er was relic yet caressed,
Like our old shoe I ween!
The slipper Cinderella wore,
So worshipped by her wooers,
Was never prized or cherished more
Than this dear one of yours!
So worshipped by her wooers,
Was never prized or cherished more
Than this dear one of yours!
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And when I'd read the letter o'er,
And looked the papers through,
And praised the cap,—I turned once more
To kiss the little shoe!
And looked the papers through,
And praised the cap,—I turned once more
To kiss the little shoe!
A CHILD'S THOUGHT ABOUT THE MOON.
The child had seen the silver ring,
Fair Dian floats in, filled with light,
And tried to reach the radiant thing,
And loved its smile, so softly bright.
Fair Dian floats in, filled with light,
And tried to reach the radiant thing,
And loved its smile, so softly bright.
But now the wanderer, in her wane,
Grew faint within that graceful car;
And the child gazed on Heaven again,
And saw the crescent shine afar!
Grew faint within that graceful car;
And the child gazed on Heaven again,
And saw the crescent shine afar!
With plaintive voice, her thought was spoken,
“Oh dear! the pretty moon is broken!”
“Oh dear! the pretty moon is broken!”
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A MOTHER'S WISH.
“What shall I bring to thee, mother mine?
What shall I bring to thee?
Shall I bring thee jewels, that burn and shine
In the depths of the darkling sea?
What shall I bring to thee?
Shall I bring thee jewels, that burn and shine
In the depths of the darkling sea?
“Shall I bring the garland a hero wears,
By a wondering world entwined,
Whose leaves can cover a thousand cares,
And smile o'er a clouded mind?
By a wondering world entwined,
Whose leaves can cover a thousand cares,
And smile o'er a clouded mind?
“Shall I bring the deep and sacred stores
Of knowledge the high and free,
That thrills the heart on the hallowed shores
Of classic Italy?”
Of knowledge the high and free,
That thrills the heart on the hallowed shores
Of classic Italy?”
“What are jewels, my boy, to me?
Thou art the gem I prize!
And the richest spot in that fearful sea
Will be where thy vessel flies!
Thou art the gem I prize!
And the richest spot in that fearful sea
Will be where thy vessel flies!
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“The wreath the hero loves is won
By the life-blood of the brave!
And his brow must lose, ere it wear the crown,
The smile that Mercy gave!
By the life-blood of the brave!
And his brow must lose, ere it wear the crown,
The smile that Mercy gave!
“Dearly earned is the volume's wealth
That opes to the lamp of night,
While the purer ray of Hope and Health
Goes out by the sickly light!
That opes to the lamp of night,
While the purer ray of Hope and Health
Goes out by the sickly light!
“Bring me that innocent brow, my child,
Bring me that eloquent eye,
Bring me the tenderness, true and mild,
That breathes in thy last good bye!”
Bring me that eloquent eye,
Bring me the tenderness, true and mild,
That breathes in thy last good bye!”
TO LITTLE FANNY,—WITH A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.
I will not wish thy coming year
May pass unsullied by a tear;
For well I know, in baby-eyes,
Those pearly pleaders daily rise.
I dare not hope thy lip of rose,
May never curl with grief or scorn,
For well I know this life has woes,
Not e'en by babies to be borne.
Nor would I idly quell thy hopes,
Nor sing with raven note to thee;
But Destiny her volume opes,
And on the page thy name I see.
May pass unsullied by a tear;
For well I know, in baby-eyes,
Those pearly pleaders daily rise.
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May never curl with grief or scorn,
For well I know this life has woes,
Not e'en by babies to be borne.
Nor would I idly quell thy hopes,
Nor sing with raven note to thee;
But Destiny her volume opes,
And on the page thy name I see.
It tells—thy dearest toy will break!
It tells—thy prettiest dress will tear!
It tells, alas! that thou wilt take
A cold,—and cry for mother's care.
That oft thou'lt sob thyself to sleep,
No lullaby be nigh to soothe,
And oft wilt wake to watch and weep,
At parting day, or coming tooth.
That sometimes thou wilt vainly play
Thy Pat-a-cake,—or Peep-a-boo!
While mother,—sister,—turn away
Unheeding, from those eyes of blue.
It darkly hints thy tiny feet
That tottle proudly round the room,
Some wrinkle in the rug may meet,
And many a tumble be thy doom!
It tells—thy prettiest dress will tear!
It tells, alas! that thou wilt take
A cold,—and cry for mother's care.
That oft thou'lt sob thyself to sleep,
No lullaby be nigh to soothe,
And oft wilt wake to watch and weep,
At parting day, or coming tooth.
That sometimes thou wilt vainly play
Thy Pat-a-cake,—or Peep-a-boo!
While mother,—sister,—turn away
Unheeding, from those eyes of blue.
It darkly hints thy tiny feet
That tottle proudly round the room,
Some wrinkle in the rug may meet,
And many a tumble be thy doom!
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Yes, these are ills that all must bear,
And these are thine, devoted child!
Yet 'mid them, dearest, calmly wear
A stoic spirit, high and mild.
And should thy sister, or thy brother,
Cry o'er thy fall with mocking air;
That's right! jump up, and take another,—
Learn thou the martyr's lesson there,—
The tumble and the taunt to meet
With smile resigned, forbearing, sweet.
Life's smoothest path has wrinkles too;
And Pride, that deigns no downward look,
Too oft, and ah! too late, must rue
The fall it knows not how to brook!
And these are thine, devoted child!
Yet 'mid them, dearest, calmly wear
A stoic spirit, high and mild.
And should thy sister, or thy brother,
Cry o'er thy fall with mocking air;
That's right! jump up, and take another,—
Learn thou the martyr's lesson there,—
The tumble and the taunt to meet
With smile resigned, forbearing, sweet.
Life's smoothest path has wrinkles too;
And Pride, that deigns no downward look,
Too oft, and ah! too late, must rue
The fall it knows not how to brook!
And now, one simple prayer be mine,
To breathe for thee, my pretty pet!—
That smiles more oft than tears may shine
Beneath my gift—the silken net;
That all thy ways on earth may be
Soft as that fireside rug to thee.
As meekly gliding one by one,
Pale through the glowing clouds of even,
The stars peep forth at set of sun,
And smile with tranquil light in Heaven,—
So may thy little pearly teeth
With soft and painless motion come,
And starlike, smile, revealed beneath
Thy laughing lips and rosy gum.
As sweet in Persia's garden floats
The night-bird's voice of music low,
While soothed to slumber by his notes
His rose-bud bends her balmy brow,—
So may the voice most dear to thee,
Beside thy couch at evening be;
So lightly yielding to thy rest,
Like Iran's Rose, may'st thou be blest.
And oh! may rapture swell the notes,
When thine own spirit sings thee, love,
To thy last sleep, then warbling floats,
Like Persia's heaven-taught bird above;
And thus, although thy future years
May pass not “all undimmed by tears,”
Thou'lt wear that spirit high but mild,
Amid the fleeting clouds, fair child!
To breathe for thee, my pretty pet!—
That smiles more oft than tears may shine
Beneath my gift—the silken net;
That all thy ways on earth may be
Soft as that fireside rug to thee.
As meekly gliding one by one,
Pale through the glowing clouds of even,
The stars peep forth at set of sun,
And smile with tranquil light in Heaven,—
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With soft and painless motion come,
And starlike, smile, revealed beneath
Thy laughing lips and rosy gum.
As sweet in Persia's garden floats
The night-bird's voice of music low,
While soothed to slumber by his notes
His rose-bud bends her balmy brow,—
So may the voice most dear to thee,
Beside thy couch at evening be;
So lightly yielding to thy rest,
Like Iran's Rose, may'st thou be blest.
And oh! may rapture swell the notes,
When thine own spirit sings thee, love,
To thy last sleep, then warbling floats,
Like Persia's heaven-taught bird above;
And thus, although thy future years
May pass not “all undimmed by tears,”
Thou'lt wear that spirit high but mild,
Amid the fleeting clouds, fair child!
336
TO CAMILLE.
I will not wish that Rapture's beam,
May ever light that laughing eye;
But, dear Camille, should every gleam
Of youthful pleasure fade and die:
May Faith, with purer, holier power,
Lend thee her light in Sorrow's hour.
May ever light that laughing eye;
But, dear Camille, should every gleam
Of youthful pleasure fade and die:
May Faith, with purer, holier power,
Lend thee her light in Sorrow's hour.
I cannot pray the dimpling glow
Upon thy cheek may ever play:
The prayer were vain—for Care, I know,
Will chase each rosy smile away.
But I do pray, when fades its bloom,
That Love may light it to the tomb.
Upon thy cheek may ever play:
The prayer were vain—for Care, I know,
Will chase each rosy smile away.
But I do pray, when fades its bloom,
That Love may light it to the tomb.
I may not hope thy happy heart,
Will never know Affliction's blight,
But when its radiant dreams depart,
And Hope's fair wings unfurl for flight:
Oh! track the wanderer to the sky,
And rest that wearied heart on high.
Will never know Affliction's blight,
But when its radiant dreams depart,
And Hope's fair wings unfurl for flight:
Oh! track the wanderer to the sky,
And rest that wearied heart on high.
338
FANNY'S ERROR.
Fanny shuts her smiling eyes,
Then, because she cannot see;
Thoughtless simpleton! she cries,
“Ah! you can't see me!”
Then, because she cannot see;
Thoughtless simpleton! she cries,
“Ah! you can't see me!”
Fanny's like the sinner vain,
Who with spirit shut and dim,
Thinks because he sees not Heaven,
Heaven cannot see him!
Who with spirit shut and dim,
Thinks because he sees not Heaven,
Heaven cannot see him!
339
WILLY'S LAMENT FOR HIS NONPAREIL.
My bird! my beautiful and bright,
My present from the sunny South!
Dear Anna sent him laden light,
With kisses from her own sweet mouth.
I stole them from him in my play,
And has he, truly, flown away?
My present from the sunny South!
Dear Anna sent him laden light,
With kisses from her own sweet mouth.
I stole them from him in my play,
And has he, truly, flown away?
My bird! all brilliant colours lent
Their glory to his glossy wings,
And with a changeful lustre, blent
Around his throat in radiant rings.
I called him Rainbow in my play,
And, rainbow-like, he's flown away!
Their glory to his glossy wings,
And with a changeful lustre, blent
Around his throat in radiant rings.
I called him Rainbow in my play,
And, rainbow-like, he's flown away!
My bird! my own beloved bird!
His carol seemed more sweet and clear,
Than any I have ever heard,
Save her's who sent the warbler here.
I thought he loved my gentle play,
He did not—for he's flown away!
His carol seemed more sweet and clear,
Than any I have ever heard,
Save her's who sent the warbler here.
I thought he loved my gentle play,
He did not—for he's flown away!
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And Anna, when the tale she hears,
Her little heart will heave with woe,
Her large soft eyes will fill with tears,
And she will think I let him go:
I, who have mourned his loss all day,
And wept because he went away!
Her little heart will heave with woe,
Her large soft eyes will fill with tears,
And she will think I let him go:
I, who have mourned his loss all day,
And wept because he went away!
His cage was light, and large, I'm sure,
And all his seeds were good to eat;
And fresh the water was, and pure,
In which he washed his playful feet.
And then he seemed so fond and gay,
I can't think why he went away.
And all his seeds were good to eat;
And fresh the water was, and pure,
In which he washed his playful feet.
And then he seemed so fond and gay,
I can't think why he went away.
How much I miss his sunrise song,
His pretty bill, his glancing eye,
I think of them the whole day long,
And every time I speak, I sigh:
I do not love to laugh and play,
When faithless Rainbow's flown away.
His pretty bill, his glancing eye,
I think of them the whole day long,
And every time I speak, I sigh:
I do not love to laugh and play,
When faithless Rainbow's flown away.
341
THE CHILD'S GIFT.
A FACT.
A child beside a window stood,
A merry child, in smiling mood;
A little boy went slowly by,
A beggar boy, with pleading eye!
A merry child, in smiling mood;
A little boy went slowly by,
A beggar boy, with pleading eye!
Why did the sweet girl's sunny face
A sudden cloud of sorrow wear?
She marked the beggar's lingering pace,
Alas! those baby feet were bare!
A sudden cloud of sorrow wear?
She marked the beggar's lingering pace,
Alas! those baby feet were bare!
She glanced a moment at her own,—
Her pretty shoes were bright and new,—
A quick, glad thought, like sunlight, shone
The trembling tears of Pity through!
Her pretty shoes were bright and new,—
A quick, glad thought, like sunlight, shone
The trembling tears of Pity through!
'Twas done, as soon as thought,—she bent,
Her soul on her sweet task intent,
Drew off the shoes with eager joy,
And flung them to the beggar boy!
Her soul on her sweet task intent,
Drew off the shoes with eager joy,
And flung them to the beggar boy!
342
ORDINATION HYMN.
While peals, through Heaven's resplendent air,
The solemn and unfaltering hymn,
From blissful myriads meeting there,
Thy Cherubim and Seraphim!
The solemn and unfaltering hymn,
From blissful myriads meeting there,
Thy Cherubim and Seraphim!
On earth! oh God! a feebler strain,
Thy frailer children humbly raise;
Yet, blest as Heaven's, if Thou but deign
To hear the voice of prayer and praise!
Thy frailer children humbly raise;
Yet, blest as Heaven's, if Thou but deign
To hear the voice of prayer and praise!
The voice of praise,—thy hand divine,
A lamp, to guide our feet hath given;
The voice of prayer,—that it may shine,
Pure o'er the path to Thee and Heaven!
A lamp, to guide our feet hath given;
The voice of prayer,—that it may shine,
Pure o'er the path to Thee and Heaven!
And when its fires shall fail in death,
Oh! source of glory may it rise!
And, re-illumined by thy breath,
Shine forth,—a star,—beyond the skies!
Oh! source of glory may it rise!
And, re-illumined by thy breath,
Shine forth,—a star,—beyond the skies!
343
THE WARNING.
Affection my pathway with roses was wreathing,
They whispered—“To-morrow will banish their bloom;”
Fair Hope in my ear a sweet burden was breathing,
They said—“'Twill be hushed in Reality's gloom!”
They whispered—“To-morrow will banish their bloom;”
Fair Hope in my ear a sweet burden was breathing,
They said—“'Twill be hushed in Reality's gloom!”
A day-dream of joy in my young heart was glowing—
“Alas!” said the warner, “not long will it shine!”
Gay fairy-like Fancy, the future was showing,—
“The vision,” they murmured, “is false as divine!”
“Alas!” said the warner, “not long will it shine!”
Gay fairy-like Fancy, the future was showing,—
“The vision,” they murmured, “is false as divine!”
Ah! if love and life be but a dream, a delusion,
And the cold future bright but in Fancy's glad eye;
Still, still let me live in the blessed illusion,
And, trusting the falsehood, hope on till I die!
And the cold future bright but in Fancy's glad eye;
Still, still let me live in the blessed illusion,
And, trusting the falsehood, hope on till I die!
344
TO JESSIE, IN SCOTLAND.
Ah! Jessie! how I envy thee!
Thou dwellest 'mang the mountains,
'Mid breezes pure as thou canst be,
And lochs and laughing fountains!
Thou dwellest 'mang the mountains,
'Mid breezes pure as thou canst be,
And lochs and laughing fountains!
I would I were beside thee there,
My brow to free winds baring,
To scale dear Scotland's rocky heights,
Wi' foot o' fearless daring.
My brow to free winds baring,
To scale dear Scotland's rocky heights,
Wi' foot o' fearless daring.
I would I had a highland home,
Wi' simple comforts smiling,
Where those I luve alone could come,
The canny hours beguiling.
Wi' simple comforts smiling,
Where those I luve alone could come,
The canny hours beguiling.
The wimpling burn should lave my feet,
I'd seek the sunny brae;
I'd braid my hair wi' gowans sweet,
And bless the lee-lang day.
I'd seek the sunny brae;
I'd braid my hair wi' gowans sweet,
And bless the lee-lang day.
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Alas! condemned, wi' heart o' care,
To London's crowded street;
The thought o' highland sun and air,
Fu' oft will gar me greet!
To London's crowded street;
The thought o' highland sun and air,
Fu' oft will gar me greet!
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LITTLE MARY'S “RUSE DE GUERRE.”
“Oh! give it, give it to me, Jane!
It was a gift from mother!
I would not change my darling chain,
Oh! no—for any other!”
It was a gift from mother!
I would not change my darling chain,
Oh! no—for any other!”
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'Twas thus I heard our Mary say,—
A little, timid girl,—
When naughty Jane had snatched away
Her precious string of pearl.
A little, timid girl,—
When naughty Jane had snatched away
Her precious string of pearl.
The tyrant lifted high the chain,
Which Mary tiptoe tried,
And tired her tiny arm, in vain,
To reach, and Jane replied,—
“There, you shall have it, child, if you
Will say just what I tell you to.”
Which Mary tiptoe tried,
And tired her tiny arm, in vain,
To reach, and Jane replied,—
“There, you shall have it, child, if you
Will say just what I tell you to.”
And thoughtless Mary said, “I will!”
Too good herself to dream of ill;
“Will you?” cried Jane, exultingly,—
“Then say—you'll give the pearls to me!”
Too good herself to dream of ill;
“Will you?” cried Jane, exultingly,—
“Then say—you'll give the pearls to me!”
A moment, frightened and subdued,
The artless child in silence stood;
A shadow filled her guileless eyes,
And low her faltering voice replies,—
“I must not break my word, and yet—
I cannot—cannot part with it!”—
The artless child in silence stood;
A shadow filled her guileless eyes,
And low her faltering voice replies,—
“I must not break my word, and yet—
I cannot—cannot part with it!”—
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“Oh stop! I know!”—the shadow fled,
Our darling raised her pretty head,—
Shook from her temples, white and fair,
The careless curls that clustered there,—
Held out her dimpled hand, and said,
With smile and tone of roguish glee,
“Yes, Jane,—‘You'll give the pearls to me.’
Now let me have my necklace—do!—
I said just what you told me to!”
Our darling raised her pretty head,—
Shook from her temples, white and fair,
The careless curls that clustered there,—
Held out her dimpled hand, and said,
With smile and tone of roguish glee,
“Yes, Jane,—‘You'll give the pearls to me.’
Now let me have my necklace—do!—
I said just what you told me to!”
TO A BEAUTY.
Beautiful, yes! but the blush will fade,The light grow dim which the blue eyes wear;
The gloss will vanish from curl and braid,
And the sunbeam die in the waving hair.
Turn from the mirror, and strive to win
Treasures of loveliness still to last;
Gather earth's glory and bloom within,
That the soul may be bright when youth is past.
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TO JANE.
Written in her Album, beneath a Picture of a Dove at a Fountain.
The wild-dove, to the garden spring,May come and lave its wandering wing,
And bend above the waters bright,
And murmur with a dove's delight;
But holier, in the solitude,
Her own pure fountain of the wood,
That blessed home,—that shadowed nest,
Where soft and calm her dear ones rest!
And flinging, from her pinions fair,
The silver drops that linger there;
The bird will leave the garden-spring,
And wave for home her weary wing.
And thus for thee, in haunts of light,
The stream of Joy will sparkle bright,
And thou wilt stay thy step and sip
The fairy draught, with smiling lip;
And linger long amid the flowers,
That gaily wreathe in Pleasure's bowers.
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And turn thee from the wave away,
To that fair fount of Truth and Love,
That springs within thy home for aye!
Oh! calm and blest be there thy rest,
As the wild bird's in woodland nest!
TO A FRIEND,—WITH A BOOK.
Not as a token of my love,—
For countless offerings, light as this,
Can never tell thee half its high
And holy tenderness!
For countless offerings, light as this,
Can never tell thee half its high
And holy tenderness!
Not as a gift of gratitude,—
A world's wealth could not guerdon thee,
For the divine, deep wealth of heart,
Thou lavishest on me!
A world's wealth could not guerdon thee,
For the divine, deep wealth of heart,
Thou lavishest on me!
But as a simple souvenir,
Of one, who proudly calls thee friend,
Appealing to thy memory,
The little book I send.
Of one, who proudly calls thee friend,
Appealing to thy memory,
The little book I send.
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THE FLOWER PLAY.
How soon a bright and happy child
Will catch our playful tone;
And glad to have a frolic wild,
Match our mirth with her own!
Will catch our playful tone;
And glad to have a frolic wild,
Match our mirth with her own!
I said to Anna once—“Good night,
My precious Mignionette!”
And she replied, with quick delight,
“Good night, my Violet!”
My precious Mignionette!”
And she replied, with quick delight,
“Good night, my Violet!”
I tried again, “Good night, my Pink,
My Jessamine, my Laurel!”
She pressed her lip,—“I cannot think—
Oh! yes—Good night, my Sorrel.”
My Jessamine, my Laurel!”
She pressed her lip,—“I cannot think—
Oh! yes—Good night, my Sorrel.”
Once more I spoke, in pleased surprise,
“Good night, my little Fox-glove!
She answered me, with laughing eyes,—
“Good night, my piece of Box, love!”
“Good night, my little Fox-glove!
She answered me, with laughing eyes,—
“Good night, my piece of Box, love!”
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I thought to tire her baby-brain,
But no! she'd not give up,—
“Good night, my Rose!” she laughed again—
“Good night, my Buttercup!”
But no! she'd not give up,—
“Good night, my Rose!” she laughed again—
“Good night, my Buttercup!”
But little versed in Flora's lore,
Is Anna,—yet an hour
She racked her infant mind for more,
And gave me flower for flower!
Is Anna,—yet an hour
She racked her infant mind for more,
And gave me flower for flower!
Weary at last, she sighed out, while
Her brow began to wrinkle,
With desperate tone and sleepy smile,
“Good night,—my Periwinkle!”
Her brow began to wrinkle,
With desperate tone and sleepy smile,
“Good night,—my Periwinkle!”
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A SKETCH.
We had sat,
Day after day, my gentle friend and I,
On the rude door-step of the pleasant cottage;
And all the time, the blessed smile of Heaven
Was stealing to our hearts, and filling them
With its own silent gladness. We had heard
The last warm, fragrant sigh of parting Summer—
The last light rustle of her lovely robe,
That fluttered in the Autumn-breeze, before
The lingerer spread her bright, unwilling wings:
We saw her sunny glances fade away
From the fair meadows she so seemed to love,—
The graceful wooded hills and streams, that laugh'd
Like light, beneath the glory of her eye.
Thus Fancy taught us then to gaze and listen,
For Fancy is a fairy, that can hear,
Ever, the melody of Nature's voice,
And see all lovely visions that she will.
She drew a picture of a beauteous bird,
With plumes of radiant green and gold inwoven,
Banished from its beloved resting-place,
And fluttering, in vain hope, from tree to tree,
And bade us think, how like it, the sweet season
From one bright shelter to another fled:
First, from the maple waved her emerald pinions,
But lingered still upon the oak and elm,
Till, frightened by rude breezes, even from them,
With mournful sigh, she moan'd her sad farewell!
And now came Autumn, like a gorgeous king,
With mantle many-hued, of changeful light,
And golden crown—the harvest-moon his sceptre.
No more we sat, as we were wont, at eve,
On the rude door-step of the pleasant cottage,
For all too frail as yet the trembling rose,
Fanned by the breath of Summer into life,
On Anna's cheek—that cheek so pale of late!
Fondly we nursed the flower, and dared not let
The voice of Autumn whisper to our treasure
Too rudely, lest he'd scare that bloom away:
Yet gay within the evening went, and oft
Our circle parted for another friend—
Another voice our pleasant converse joined.
Day after day, my gentle friend and I,
On the rude door-step of the pleasant cottage;
And all the time, the blessed smile of Heaven
Was stealing to our hearts, and filling them
With its own silent gladness. We had heard
The last warm, fragrant sigh of parting Summer—
The last light rustle of her lovely robe,
That fluttered in the Autumn-breeze, before
The lingerer spread her bright, unwilling wings:
We saw her sunny glances fade away
From the fair meadows she so seemed to love,—
The graceful wooded hills and streams, that laugh'd
Like light, beneath the glory of her eye.
Thus Fancy taught us then to gaze and listen,
For Fancy is a fairy, that can hear,
Ever, the melody of Nature's voice,
And see all lovely visions that she will.
She drew a picture of a beauteous bird,
With plumes of radiant green and gold inwoven,
Banished from its beloved resting-place,
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And bade us think, how like it, the sweet season
From one bright shelter to another fled:
First, from the maple waved her emerald pinions,
But lingered still upon the oak and elm,
Till, frightened by rude breezes, even from them,
With mournful sigh, she moan'd her sad farewell!
And now came Autumn, like a gorgeous king,
With mantle many-hued, of changeful light,
And golden crown—the harvest-moon his sceptre.
No more we sat, as we were wont, at eve,
On the rude door-step of the pleasant cottage,
For all too frail as yet the trembling rose,
Fanned by the breath of Summer into life,
On Anna's cheek—that cheek so pale of late!
Fondly we nursed the flower, and dared not let
The voice of Autumn whisper to our treasure
Too rudely, lest he'd scare that bloom away:
Yet gay within the evening went, and oft
Our circle parted for another friend—
Another voice our pleasant converse joined.
I wish I could recal, in his own words,
A story told by one, who sometimes came:
He had been wandering in a wood at sunset;
Two little, careless girls, just come from school,
Were standing mute beside a silent stream;
The eldest looked, with deep blue eyes, intent
Upon her graceful work—an oak-leaf wreath,
On which her little fingers glanced like snow,
While rapidly the pliant stems she twined,
A chain of glowing tints—crimson and brown,
And green and clouded gold—a brilliant toy!
And wreathed around her white, unshadowed forehead
Just such another rich-leafed coronal,
Mingled its rude and changeful beauty there
With sunny, curling clusters of light hair,
That lay in wild waves on her neck and cheek:
The other watched the garland as it grew,
In patient joy and with a waiting smile,
For well she knew 'twas for her own sweet brow.
Meanwhile, the sun hung lingering o'er the scene,
As if he loved to look on loveliness!
And in the clear, still stream, with radiant pencil,
Pictured the pretty creatures as they stood!
Careless, unconscious, silent with delight,
Their small straw bonnets flung among the leaves,
And they, unheeding of the parting day,
Thinking of nothing but their own sweet play!
A story told by one, who sometimes came:
He had been wandering in a wood at sunset;
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Were standing mute beside a silent stream;
The eldest looked, with deep blue eyes, intent
Upon her graceful work—an oak-leaf wreath,
On which her little fingers glanced like snow,
While rapidly the pliant stems she twined,
A chain of glowing tints—crimson and brown,
And green and clouded gold—a brilliant toy!
And wreathed around her white, unshadowed forehead
Just such another rich-leafed coronal,
Mingled its rude and changeful beauty there
With sunny, curling clusters of light hair,
That lay in wild waves on her neck and cheek:
The other watched the garland as it grew,
In patient joy and with a waiting smile,
For well she knew 'twas for her own sweet brow.
Meanwhile, the sun hung lingering o'er the scene,
As if he loved to look on loveliness!
And in the clear, still stream, with radiant pencil,
Pictured the pretty creatures as they stood!
Careless, unconscious, silent with delight,
Their small straw bonnets flung among the leaves,
And they, unheeding of the parting day,
Thinking of nothing but their own sweet play!
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FRAGMENT OF A FAIRY ROMANCE.
Mary, did you ever hearOf the frolic fairies, dear?
They're a little, blessed race,
Peeping up in Fancy's face,
In the valley, on the hill,
By the fountain and the rill;
Laughing out between the leaves
That the loving Summer weaves;
Sailing in a nut-shell, set
Down a tiny rivulet,
With a rose-leaf for a sail,
Swelling to the mimic gale;
Riding on a humming-bird,
Guiding him with magic word;
Struggling with a butterfly,
On a blossom fresh and fair,
With a laughing lip and eye,
For the clearest dew-drop there;
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All the poor bee's breakfast up;
Hiding in the sunny sheaf,
Sleeping on a lily leaf,
Dancing ever on the moss
That doth wear the greenest gloss,
With their little lightning feet,—
Did you ever see them, sweet?
Waving soft their balmy wings
O'er the infant's slumber meek,
Circling it in airy rings,
Breathing roses on its cheek;
Well they love their watch to keep
O'er all pure and guileless things—
Gentle children—happy flowers—
Singing to them in their sleep,
Through the holy starlight hours
Smiling still their beds above,—
Did you ever feel them, love?
Did you ever, dearest? No?
Do not look in sorrow so,—
Hear the story, Mary mine,
Of the fairy Rosoline;
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Keeper of the Rose she was;—
Her's to watch the blushing flower,
Fan it in the noontide hour,
Bid the lazy zephyr fly,
Lest her drooping charge should die,
And with murmured elfin-charm
Save it from the insect's harm.
Once, in pleasant moonlight weather,
Lots of fairies met together,—
Busy creatures! what a bustle!
How their silken winglets rustle!
How their tongues, so tiny, rattle
With their low, melodious prattle!
How the rovers come and go
“On the light, fantastic toe!”
You'd have thought a bee was there,
Buzzing in the balmy air!
Pleased to see its starlight track,
One climbed up a glow-worm's back!
One within her golden hair
Wreathed a row of feathers rare,
Borrowed, with imploring eye,
From a beaming butterfly!
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On a pebble laid a straw;
But another roguish one,
Fully bent on fairy fun,
Crept behind them while at play,
And the pebble pulled away;
How the stones, for minutes after,
Echoed to their silvery laughter!
One, from off the slippery straw,
Straight into a raindrop fell,
Soaked her pretty pinions well;
While her wiser playmate saw
How things went,—and so the elf,
Spread her wings and saved herself;
But the loveliest of the throng,
And the merriest, Mary mine,
Was the heroine of my song,
Was the fairy Rosoline!
Hidden in her favorite rose,
Rocking when the zephyr chose;
There she lay and bubbles blew,
With a tulip's pistil fine,
Dipping in a drop of dew,
While each circle as it flew,
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Resting in her flower's protection.
She had seen the day before,
Children by a cottage door,
She had watched them fling in play,
Bubbles to the sunset ray;
And had kept the secret sweet,
Till the fairy band should meet.
Well! the others saw the bubble,
And exclaimed in pleasant trouble,
“What a beautiful balloon!
Is she going to the moon?
Sure the form is Rosoline's,
That within the crystal shines;
Ah! 'tis broken in the air,
And no shining form is there!
Fell she in the blossom bright?
Yes! from out the rose's heart,
Bearing still that shape of light,
See another circle start.
One by one they soar on high,
One by one they break and die;
But each globe that rises there,
Doth the same bright image bear,
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Rosoline in soft repose!
Now—ere one is burst, another
Follows fast its beaming brother:
Rare! to see the wonders shine,
And in each a Rosoline!”
Suddenly a laugh, that stirred
All the rose's leaves was heard;—
When the fairies gathered round,
Wondering what the meaning should be,
Roguish Rosoline they found,
Quiet and demure as could be;
With her pipe her lips below,
Ready for another blow.
Then the throng in accents gay,
One and all did freely say,
Rosoline out-fairied fairies,
With her beautiful vagaries.
LITTLE ELLEN'S PUN.
She raised a box—(a baby of two years!)And smiling, cried—“Shall Ellen box her ears?”
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“MY BUBBLE'S BURST—MY PIPE IS BROKEN!”
One eve, when Summer's rosiest hours,
To rich repose their Day-god drew;
I saw, half-hid, in smiling flowers,
A living blossom smiling too!
A being, pure, and wild, and fair,
As any rose-bud breathing there.
To rich repose their Day-god drew;
I saw, half-hid, in smiling flowers,
A living blossom smiling too!
A being, pure, and wild, and fair,
As any rose-bud breathing there.
It was a little playful girl,
Her lips apart,—her blue eyes raised,
While soft through many a silken curl,
With eager joy they upwards gazed:
I turned, and rising clear and light,
A sun-lit bubble met my sight.
Her lips apart,—her blue eyes raised,
While soft through many a silken curl,
With eager joy they upwards gazed:
I turned, and rising clear and light,
A sun-lit bubble met my sight.
In changeful beauty for a while,
The rounded rainbow floated on,
Returned the sun's rich farewell smile,
Then trembled,—faded, and was gone!
My sad eyes sought the child once more,
And she was gazing as before.
The rounded rainbow floated on,
Returned the sun's rich farewell smile,
Then trembled,—faded, and was gone!
My sad eyes sought the child once more,
And she was gazing as before.
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While to her earnest brow and eye,
A shade of silent thought had crept,
But soon she started eagerly,
And glanced around—then wildly wept.
For wreathed with flowers—a mockery sweet,
Her pipe lay broken at her feet.
A shade of silent thought had crept,
But soon she started eagerly,
And glanced around—then wildly wept.
For wreathed with flowers—a mockery sweet,
Her pipe lay broken at her feet.
Delighted with the radiant toy,
That simple pipe had lightly given,
She'd flung it there in thoughtless joy,
To see her bubble rise to Heaven.
Low words stole forth—the first she'd spoken,
“My bubble's burst—my pipe is broken!”
That simple pipe had lightly given,
She'd flung it there in thoughtless joy,
To see her bubble rise to Heaven.
Low words stole forth—the first she'd spoken,
“My bubble's burst—my pipe is broken!”
Years came and went—the child had blushed
To deeper, lovelier bloom, and now,
A woman's soul the fair cheek flushed,
A woman's feeling lit the brow.
Again I saw that graceful head,
On downy pillows lightly laid.
To deeper, lovelier bloom, and now,
A woman's soul the fair cheek flushed,
A woman's feeling lit the brow.
Again I saw that graceful head,
On downy pillows lightly laid.
Sweet dreams of holy Love, did fill
Her maiden heart with Heaven;—but while
The rich glow deepened richer still,
The red lip wore a sunnier smile.
Her sleep was troubled—she awoke,
And the rose faded as she spoke.
Her maiden heart with Heaven;—but while
The rich glow deepened richer still,
The red lip wore a sunnier smile.
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And the rose faded as she spoke.
The same bright eyes before me shone,
That watched the bubble soar on high,
And wildly sweet the thrilling tone
Of that soft evening hour went by.
And still, with tears her thought was spoken,
“My dream hath fled—the spell is broken!”
That watched the bubble soar on high,
And wildly sweet the thrilling tone
Of that soft evening hour went by.
And still, with tears her thought was spoken,
“My dream hath fled—the spell is broken!”
“Years came and went,” and left the trace
Of many a sorrow on her brow;
But once again I saw that face,
Alas! how sad its sweetness now!
Consumption nursed the hectic tinge,
Beneath her dark eye's drooping fringe.
Of many a sorrow on her brow;
But once again I saw that face,
Alas! how sad its sweetness now!
Consumption nursed the hectic tinge,
Beneath her dark eye's drooping fringe.
The breathing smile—once bright and warm,
With the rich dreams her heart had cherish'd,—
Had that too darkened in the storm,
Where bloom, and light, and joy had perished?
Ah! worn away with grief unspoken,
The smile was gone—the heart was broken!
With the rich dreams her heart had cherish'd,—
Had that too darkened in the storm,
Where bloom, and light, and joy had perished?
Ah! worn away with grief unspoken,
The smile was gone—the heart was broken!
FINIS.
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |