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 | The youth's coronal |  |
Whate'er the good instruction may reveal,
The head must take, before the heart can feel.
THE MORALIZER.
The head must take, before the heart can feel.
THE MORALIZER.
23
THE BOY AND THE CRICKET.
At length I have thee! my brisk new-comer,
Sounding thy lay to departing summer;
And I'll take thee up from thy bed of grass,
And carry thee home to a house of glass;
Where thy slender limbs, and the faded green
Of thy close-made coat, can all be seen.
For I long to know if the cricket sings,
Or plays the tune with his gauzy wings;—
To bring that shrill-toned pipe to light
Which kept me awake so long last night,
That I told the hours by the lazy clock,
Till I heard the crow of the noisy cock;
When, tossing and turning, at length I fell
In a sleep so strange, that the dream I'll tell.
Sounding thy lay to departing summer;
And I'll take thee up from thy bed of grass,
And carry thee home to a house of glass;
Where thy slender limbs, and the faded green
Of thy close-made coat, can all be seen.
For I long to know if the cricket sings,
Or plays the tune with his gauzy wings;—
To bring that shrill-toned pipe to light
Which kept me awake so long last night,
That I told the hours by the lazy clock,
Till I heard the crow of the noisy cock;
When, tossing and turning, at length I fell
In a sleep so strange, that the dream I'll tell.
Methought, on a flowery bank I lay,
By a beautiful stream; and watched the play
Of the sparkling wavelets, that fled so fast,
I could not number them as they passed.
But I marked the things which they carried by;
And a neat little skiff first caught my eye.
'Twas woven of reeds, and its sides were bound
By a tender vine, that had clasped it round;
And spreading within, had made it seem
A basket of leaves, borne down the stream.
And the skiff had neither a sail nor oar;
But a bright little boy stood up, and bore,
On his outstretched hands, a wreath so gay,
It looked like a crown for the Queen of May.
And while he was going, I heard him sing,
“O seize the garland of passing Spring!”
But I dared not reach, for the bank was steep;
And he bore it away, to the far off deep!
By a beautiful stream; and watched the play
24
I could not number them as they passed.
But I marked the things which they carried by;
And a neat little skiff first caught my eye.
'Twas woven of reeds, and its sides were bound
By a tender vine, that had clasped it round;
And spreading within, had made it seem
A basket of leaves, borne down the stream.
And the skiff had neither a sail nor oar;
But a bright little boy stood up, and bore,
On his outstretched hands, a wreath so gay,
It looked like a crown for the Queen of May.
And while he was going, I heard him sing,
“O seize the garland of passing Spring!”
But I dared not reach, for the bank was steep;
And he bore it away, to the far off deep!
There came, then, a lady;—her eye was bright—
She was young and fair, and her bark was light;
Its mast was a living tree, that spread
Its boughs for a sail, o'er the lady's head.
And some of its fruits had just begun
To flush, on the side that was next the sun;
And some with the crimson streak were stained;
While others their size had not yet gained.
In passing she cried, “Oh! who can insure
The fruits of Summer to get mature?
For, fast as the waters beneath me flowing,
Beyond recall, I'm going! I'm going!”
She was young and fair, and her bark was light;
Its mast was a living tree, that spread
Its boughs for a sail, o'er the lady's head.
And some of its fruits had just begun
To flush, on the side that was next the sun;
25
While others their size had not yet gained.
In passing she cried, “Oh! who can insure
The fruits of Summer to get mature?
For, fast as the waters beneath me flowing,
Beyond recall, I'm going! I'm going!”
I turned my eye, and beheld another,
That seemed as she might be Summer's mother.
She looked more grave; while her cheek was tinged
With a deeper brown; and her bark was fringed
With the tasselled heads of the wheaten sheaves
Along its sides; and the yellow leaves,
That had covered the deck concealed a throng
Of Crickets!—I knew by their choral song.
And at Autumn's feet lay the golden corn,
While her hands were raised, to invert a horn
That was filled with a sweet and mellow store,
And the purple clusters were hanging o'er.
She bade me seize on the fruit that should last
When the harvest was gone, and Autumn had past.
But, when I had paused to make the choice,
I saw no bark! and I heard no voice!
That seemed as she might be Summer's mother.
She looked more grave; while her cheek was tinged
With a deeper brown; and her bark was fringed
With the tasselled heads of the wheaten sheaves
Along its sides; and the yellow leaves,
That had covered the deck concealed a throng
Of Crickets!—I knew by their choral song.
And at Autumn's feet lay the golden corn,
While her hands were raised, to invert a horn
That was filled with a sweet and mellow store,
And the purple clusters were hanging o'er.
She bade me seize on the fruit that should last
When the harvest was gone, and Autumn had past.
But, when I had paused to make the choice,
I saw no bark! and I heard no voice!
26
Then I looked on a sight that chilled my blood!
'Twas a mass of ice, where an old man stood
On his frozen float; while his shrivelled hand
Had clenched, as a staff by which to stand,
A whitened branch that the blast had broke
From the lifeless trunk of an aged oak.
The icicles hung from the naked limb,
And the old man's eye was sunken and dim.
But his scattering locks were silver bright,
His beard with gathering frost was white;
The tears congealed on his furrowed cheek,
His garb was thin, and the winds were bleak.
He faintly uttered, while drawing near,
“Winter, the death of the short-lived year,
Can yield thee nought, as I downward tend
To the boundless sea, where the Seasons end!
But I trust from others, who've gone before,
Thou'st clothed thy form, and supplied thy store:
And now, what tidings am I to bear
Of thee—for I shall be questioned there?”
'Twas a mass of ice, where an old man stood
On his frozen float; while his shrivelled hand
Had clenched, as a staff by which to stand,
A whitened branch that the blast had broke
From the lifeless trunk of an aged oak.
The icicles hung from the naked limb,
And the old man's eye was sunken and dim.
But his scattering locks were silver bright,
His beard with gathering frost was white;
The tears congealed on his furrowed cheek,
His garb was thin, and the winds were bleak.
He faintly uttered, while drawing near,
“Winter, the death of the short-lived year,
Can yield thee nought, as I downward tend
To the boundless sea, where the Seasons end!
But I trust from others, who've gone before,
Thou'st clothed thy form, and supplied thy store:
And now, what tidings am I to bear
Of thee—for I shall be questioned there?”
I asked my mother, who o'er me bent,
What all this show of the Seasons meant?
She said 'twas a picture of Life, I saw;
And the useful moral myself must draw!
What all this show of the Seasons meant?
27
And the useful moral myself must draw!
I woke, and found that thy song was stilled,
And the sun's bright beams my room had filled!
But I think, my Cricket, I long shall keep
In mind the dream of my morning sleep!
And the sun's bright beams my room had filled!
But I think, my Cricket, I long shall keep
In mind the dream of my morning sleep!
28
FANNY SPY.
Lucy, Lucy, come away!
Never climb for things so high.
Don't you know, the other day,
What fell out with Fanny Spy?
Never climb for things so high.
Don't you know, the other day,
What fell out with Fanny Spy?
Fanny spied a loaf of cake,
Wisely set above her reach;
Yet did Fanny think to make
In its tempting side a breach.
Wisely set above her reach;
Yet did Fanny think to make
In its tempting side a breach.
When she thought the family
Out of sight and hearing too,
Forth a polished table she
Quickly to the closet drew.
Out of sight and hearing too,
Forth a polished table she
Quickly to the closet drew.
29
First, she stepped upon a chair;
Then the table—then a shelf;
Thinking she securely there
Might, unnoticed, help herself.
Then the table—then a shelf;
Thinking she securely there
Might, unnoticed, help herself.
Then she seized a heavy slice,
Leaving in the loaf a cleft
Wider than a dozen mice,
Feasted there all night, had left.
Leaving in the loaf a cleft
Wider than a dozen mice,
Feasted there all night, had left.
Stepping backward, Fanny slid
On the table's polished face:—
Down she came, with dish and lid,
Silver—glass—and china vase!
On the table's polished face:—
Down she came, with dish and lid,
Silver—glass—and china vase!
In, from every room they rushed,
Father—mother—servants—all,
Thinking all the closet crushed,
By the racket and the fall.
Father—mother—servants—all,
Thinking all the closet crushed,
By the racket and the fall.
'Mid the uproar of the house,
Fanny, in her shame and fright,
Wished herself indeed a mouse,
But to run and hide from sight.
Fanny, in her shame and fright,
Wished herself indeed a mouse,
But to run and hide from sight.
30
Yet was she to learn how vain,
Poor and worthless, is a wish.
Wishing could not lull her pain,
Hide her shame, nor mend a dish.
Poor and worthless, is a wish.
Wishing could not lull her pain,
Hide her shame, nor mend a dish.
There she lay, but could not speak;
For a tooth had made a pass
Through her lip; and to her cheek
Clung a piece of shivered glass.
For a tooth had made a pass
Through her lip; and to her cheek
Clung a piece of shivered glass.
From her altered features gushed
Rolling tears, and streaming gore;
While, untasted still, and crushed,
Lay her cake upon the floor.
Rolling tears, and streaming gore;
While, untasted still, and crushed,
Lay her cake upon the floor.
Then the doctor hurried in:
Fanny at his needle swooned,
As he held her crimson chin,
And together stitched the wound.
Fanny at his needle swooned,
As he held her crimson chin,
And together stitched the wound.
Now her face a scar must wear,
Ever till her dying day!
Questioned how it happened there,
What can blushing Fanny say?
Ever till her dying day!
Questioned how it happened there,
What can blushing Fanny say?
31
SUDDEN ELEVATION; OR, THE EMPALED BUTTERFLY.
“Ho!” said the Butterfly, “here am I,
Up in the air, who used to lie
Flat on the ground, for the passers by
To treat with utter neglect!
But none will suspect that I am the same;
With a bright, new coat, and a different name;
The piece of nothingness whence I came
In me they'll never detect.
Up in the air, who used to lie
Flat on the ground, for the passers by
To treat with utter neglect!
But none will suspect that I am the same;
With a bright, new coat, and a different name;
The piece of nothingness whence I came
In me they'll never detect.
“That horrible night in the chrysalis,
Which brought me at length to a day like this,
In a form of beauty—a state of bliss,
Was little enough to give
For freedom to range from bower to bower,
To flirt with the buds, and flatter the flower,
And bask in the sunbeams hour by hour,
The envy of all that live.
Which brought me at length to a day like this,
In a form of beauty—a state of bliss,
Was little enough to give
32
To flirt with the buds, and flatter the flower,
And bask in the sunbeams hour by hour,
The envy of all that live.
“Why, this is a world of curious things,
Where those who crawl, and those that have wings,
Are ranked in the classes of beggars, and kings,
No matter how much the worth
May be on the side of those who creep,
Where the vain, the light, and the bold will sweep,
Others from notice, and proudly keep
Uppermost on the earth!
Where those who crawl, and those that have wings,
Are ranked in the classes of beggars, and kings,
No matter how much the worth
May be on the side of those who creep,
Where the vain, the light, and the bold will sweep,
Others from notice, and proudly keep
Uppermost on the earth!
“Many a one that has loathed the sight
Of the piteous worm, will take delight
In welcoming me, as I look so bright
In my new and beautiful dress.
But some I shall pass with a scornful glance,
Some, with an elegant nonchalance;
And others will woo me, till I advance
To give them a slight caress.”
Of the piteous worm, will take delight
In welcoming me, as I look so bright
In my new and beautiful dress.
But some I shall pass with a scornful glance,
Some, with an elegant nonchalance;
And others will woo me, till I advance
To give them a slight caress.”
33
“Ha, ha!” said the Pin, “you are just the one
Through which I'm commissioned, at once, to run
From back to breast, till, your fluttering done,
Your form may be fairly shown.
And when my point shall have reached your heart,
'T will be as a balm to the wounded part,
To think how you're to be copied by art,
And your beauty will all be known!”
Through which I'm commissioned, at once, to run
From back to breast, till, your fluttering done,
Your form may be fairly shown.
And when my point shall have reached your heart,
'T will be as a balm to the wounded part,
To think how you're to be copied by art,
And your beauty will all be known!”
34
THE STRICKEN BIRD.
Here's the last food your poor mother can bring!
Take it, my suffering brood.
Oh! they have stricken me under the wing;
See, it is dripping with blood!
Take it, my suffering brood.
Oh! they have stricken me under the wing;
See, it is dripping with blood!
Fair was the morn, and I wished them to rise,
Enjoying its beauties with me.
The air was all fragrance—all splendor the skies,
While bright shone the earth and the sea.
Enjoying its beauties with me.
The air was all fragrance—all splendor the skies,
While bright shone the earth and the sea.
Little I thought, when so freely I went,
Employing my earliest breath,
To wake them with song, it could be their intent
To pay me with arrows and death!
Employing my earliest breath,
To wake them with song, it could be their intent
To pay me with arrows and death!
35
Fear that my nestlings would feel them forgot,
Helped me a moment to fly;
Else I had given up life on the spot,
Under my murderer's eye.
Helped me a moment to fly;
Else I had given up life on the spot,
Under my murderer's eye.
Yet, I can never brood o'er you again,
Closing you under my breast!
Its coldness would chill you; my blood would but stain
And spoil the warm down of your nest.
Closing you under my breast!
Its coldness would chill you; my blood would but stain
And spoil the warm down of your nest.
Ere the night-coming, your mother will lie,
All motionless, under the tree;
Where, deafened, and silent, I still shall be nigh,
While you will be moaning for me!
All motionless, under the tree;
Where, deafened, and silent, I still shall be nigh,
While you will be moaning for me!
36
THE YOUNG SPORTSMAN.
Harry had a dog and gun;
And he loved to set the one,
Barking, out upon the run,
While he held the other,
Often charged so heavily,
'T was a dangerous thing to be
With so young a wight as he
Mindless of his mother.
And he loved to set the one,
Barking, out upon the run,
While he held the other,
Often charged so heavily,
'T was a dangerous thing to be
With so young a wight as he
Mindless of his mother.
Earnestly she warned her child
To forego a sport so wild;
While he, turning, frowned or smiled,
And away would sidle.
For, to give him short and long,
Harry had a head so strong,
In the right or in the wrong,
It was hard to bridle.
To forego a sport so wild;
While he, turning, frowned or smiled,
And away would sidle.
For, to give him short and long,
Harry had a head so strong,
In the right or in the wrong,
It was hard to bridle.
37
On his gunning madly bent,
Often in his clothes a rent
Told the reckless way he went,
Over hedge and brambles.
Homeward then would Harry slouch,
With his gun and empty pouch,
Looking like a scaramouch
Coming from his rambles.
Often in his clothes a rent
Told the reckless way he went,
Over hedge and brambles.
Homeward then would Harry slouch,
With his gun and empty pouch,
Looking like a scaramouch
Coming from his rambles.
Sometimes when he scaled a wall,
Headlong there to pitch and fall,
Ratling stones, and gun and all,
Down together tumbled.
Tray would bark to tell the news
Of his master with a bruise,
Hatless, and with grated shoes,
Lying flat and humbled!
Headlong there to pitch and fall,
Ratling stones, and gun and all,
Down together tumbled.
Tray would bark to tell the news
Of his master with a bruise,
Hatless, and with grated shoes,
Lying flat and humbled!
Where he saw the bushes stirred,
Harry, sure of hare or bird,
Drew,—and at a flash was heard
Noise like little thunder.
When he ran his game to find,
Disappointment 'mazed his mind;—
Finding he'd but shot the wind,
Dumb he stood with wonder!
Harry, sure of hare or bird,
Drew,—and at a flash was heard
Noise like little thunder.
38
Disappointment 'mazed his mind;—
Finding he'd but shot the wind,
Dumb he stood with wonder!
Over muddy pool or bog,
Not so nimble as his dog,
When he walked the plank or log,
There his balance losing,
Splash! he went—a rueful plight!
If his face before was white,
'T was like morning turned to night,
Much against his choosing.
Not so nimble as his dog,
When he walked the plank or log,
There his balance losing,
Splash! he went—a rueful plight!
If his face before was white,
'T was like morning turned to night,
Much against his choosing.
Now, like many a hasty one,
Whether quadruped or gun,
Or a mother's wayward son
Given to disaster,
Harry's gun was rather quick;
And it had a naughty trick,—
It would snap itself, and kick
Fiercely at its master.
Whether quadruped or gun,
Or a mother's wayward son
Given to disaster,
Harry's gun was rather quick;
And it had a naughty trick,—
It would snap itself, and kick
Fiercely at its master.
39
So, this snappish habit grew
With a power for him to rue;
Just as all bad habits do
Grow, as age increases.
When, one day, with noise and smoke,
Over-charged, the barrel broke,
Harry's hand the mischief spoke—
It was blown to pieces!
With a power for him to rue;
Just as all bad habits do
Grow, as age increases.
When, one day, with noise and smoke,
Over-charged, the barrel broke,
Harry's hand the mischief spoke—
It was blown to pieces!
Tray came crouching round, and growled,—
Saw the gore, and whined, and howled,
While his owner groaned and scowled,
And the blood was running.
With the horrors of his state,
And with anguish desperate,
Then poor Harry owned too late,
He was sick of gunning!
Saw the gore, and whined, and howled,
While his owner groaned and scowled,
And the blood was running.
With the horrors of his state,
And with anguish desperate,
Then poor Harry owned too late,
He was sick of gunning!
While his mother bent to mourn
As her froward son was borne,
With his hand all burnt and torn,
Faint and pale, before her,
Harry's pain must be endured,—
And the wound—it might be cured;
But, for fingers uninsured,
There was no restorer!
As her froward son was borne,
With his hand all burnt and torn,
Faint and pale, before her,
40
And the wound—it might be cured;
But, for fingers uninsured,
There was no restorer!
48
THE ROSE-BUD OF AUTUMN.
Come out—pretty Rose-Bud,—my lone, timid one!
Come forth from thy green leaves, and peep at the sun!
For little he does, in these dull autumn hours,
At height'ning of beauty, or laughing with flowers.
Come forth from thy green leaves, and peep at the sun!
For little he does, in these dull autumn hours,
At height'ning of beauty, or laughing with flowers.
His beams, on thy tender young cheek as he plays,
Will give it a blush that no other could raise:
Thy fine silken petals they'll softly unfold,
Thy pure bosom filling with spices and gold!
Will give it a blush that no other could raise:
Thy fine silken petals they'll softly unfold,
Thy pure bosom filling with spices and gold!
I would not instruct thee in coveting wealth;
Yet beauty, we know, is the offspring of health;
And health, the fair daughter of freedom! is bright
From drinking the breezes, and feasting on light.
Yet beauty, we know, is the offspring of health;
And health, the fair daughter of freedom! is bright
From drinking the breezes, and feasting on light.
49
Then, come, little gem, from thy covert look out;
And see what the glad, golden sun is about!
His shafts, do they strike thee, new charms will impart,
Thy form making fairer, and richer, thy heart.
And see what the glad, golden sun is about!
His shafts, do they strike thee, new charms will impart,
Thy form making fairer, and richer, thy heart.
Occasion, sweet Bud, is for thee and for me:
This hour it may give what again ne'er shall be.
O, let not the sunshine of life pass away,
Nor touch both our eye and our heart with its ray!
This hour it may give what again ne'er shall be.
O, let not the sunshine of life pass away,
Nor touch both our eye and our heart with its ray!
50
FROST, THE WINTER-SPRITE.
The Frost looked forth on a still, clear night,
And whispered, “Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley, and over the height
I'll silently take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
That make so much bustle and noise in vain.
But I'll be as busy as they!”
And whispered, “Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley, and over the height
I'll silently take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
That make so much bustle and noise in vain.
But I'll be as busy as they!”
He flew up, and powdered the mountain's crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest
With diamonds and pearls;—and over the breast
Of the quivering Lake he spread
A bright coat of mail that it need not fear
The glittering point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock was rearing its head.
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest
With diamonds and pearls;—and over the breast
Of the quivering Lake he spread
51
The glittering point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock was rearing its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy crept;
Wherever he breathed—wherever he stepped—
Most beautiful things were seen
By morning's first light!—there flowers and trees,
With bevies of birds, and swarms of bright bees;—
There were cities—temples, and towers; and these,
All pictured in silvery sheen!
And over each pane, like a fairy crept;
Wherever he breathed—wherever he stepped—
Most beautiful things were seen
By morning's first light!—there flowers and trees,
With bevies of birds, and swarms of bright bees;—
There were cities—temples, and towers; and these,
All pictured in silvery sheen!
But one thing he did that was hardly fair—
He peeped in the cupboard, and, finding there
That none had remembered for him to prepare,
“Now, just to set them a-thinking,
I'll bite their rich basket of fruit,” said he,
“This burly old pitcher—I'll burst it in three!
And the glass with the water they've left for me
Shall ‘tchick!’ to tell them I'm drinking!”
He peeped in the cupboard, and, finding there
That none had remembered for him to prepare,
“Now, just to set them a-thinking,
I'll bite their rich basket of fruit,” said he,
“This burly old pitcher—I'll burst it in three!
And the glass with the water they've left for me
Shall ‘tchick!’ to tell them I'm drinking!”
60
A SUMMER MORNING RAMBLE.
Oh! the happy Summer hours,
With their butterflies and flowers,
And the birds among the bowers
Sweetly singing;—
With the spices from the trees,
Vines, and lilies, while the bees
Come floating on the breeze,
Honey bringing!
With their butterflies and flowers,
And the birds among the bowers
Sweetly singing;—
With the spices from the trees,
Vines, and lilies, while the bees
Come floating on the breeze,
Honey bringing!
All the East was rosy red,
When we woke and left our bed;
And to gather flowers we sped,
Gay and early.
Every clover-top was wet,
And the spider's silken net
With a thousand dew-drops set,
Pure and pearly.
When we woke and left our bed;
And to gather flowers we sped,
Gay and early.
Every clover-top was wet,
And the spider's silken net
With a thousand dew-drops set,
Pure and pearly.
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With their modest eyes of blue
Were the violets peeping through
Tufts of grasses, where they grew,
Full of beauty,
At the lamb in snowy white,
O'er the meadow bounding light,
And the crow just taking flight,
Grave and sooty.
Were the violets peeping through
Tufts of grasses, where they grew,
Full of beauty,
At the lamb in snowy white,
O'er the meadow bounding light,
And the crow just taking flight,
Grave and sooty.
On our floral search intent,
Still away, away we went,—
Up and down the rugged bent,—
Through the wicket,—
Where the rock with water drops,—
Through the bushes and the copse,—
Where the greenwood pathway stops
In the thicket.
Still away, away we went,—
Up and down the rugged bent,—
Through the wicket,—
Where the rock with water drops,—
Through the bushes and the copse,—
Where the greenwood pathway stops
In the thicket.
We heard the fountain gush,
And the singing of the thrush;
And we saw the squirrel's brush
In the hedges,
As along his back 't was thrown,
Like a glory of his own,
While the sun behind it, shone
Through its edges.
And the singing of the thrush;
And we saw the squirrel's brush
In the hedges,
62
Like a glory of his own,
While the sun behind it, shone
Through its edges.
All the world appeared so fair,
And so fresh and free the air,—
Oh! it seemed that all the care
In creation
Belonged to God alone;
And that none beneath his throne,
Need to murmur or to groan
At his station.
And so fresh and free the air,—
Oh! it seemed that all the care
In creation
Belonged to God alone;
And that none beneath his throne,
Need to murmur or to groan
At his station.
Dear little brother Will!
He has leaped the hedge and rill,—
He has clambered up the hill,
Ere the beaming
Of the rising sun, to sweep
With its golden rays the steep,
Till he's tired, and dropped asleep,
Sweetly dreaming.
He has leaped the hedge and rill,—
He has clambered up the hill,
Ere the beaming
Of the rising sun, to sweep
With its golden rays the steep,
Till he's tired, and dropped asleep,
Sweetly dreaming.
63
See, he threw aside his cap,
And the roses from his lap,
When his eyes were, for the nap,
Slowly closing:
Wit his sunny curls outspread,
On its fragrant mossy bed,
Now his precious infant head
Is reposing.
And the roses from his lap,
When his eyes were, for the nap,
Slowly closing:
Wit his sunny curls outspread,
On its fragrant mossy bed,
Now his precious infant head
Is reposing.
He is dreaming of his play—
How he rose at break of day,
And he frolicked all the way
On his ramble.
And before his fancy's eye,
He has still the butterfly
Mocking him, where not so high
He could scramble.
How he rose at break of day,
And he frolicked all the way
On his ramble.
And before his fancy's eye,
He has still the butterfly
Mocking him, where not so high
He could scramble.
In his cheek the dimples dip,
And a smile is on his lip,
While his tender finger-tip
Seems as aiming
At some wild and lovely thing
That is out upon the wing,
Which he longs to catch and bring
Home for taming.
And a smile is on his lip,
While his tender finger-tip
Seems as aiming
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That is out upon the wing,
Which he longs to catch and bring
Home for taming.
While he thus at rest is laid
In the old oak's quiet shade,
Let's cull our flowers to braid,
Or unite them
In bunches trim and neat,
That for every friend we meet,
We may have a token sweet
To delight them.
In the old oak's quiet shade,
Let's cull our flowers to braid,
Or unite them
In bunches trim and neat,
That for every friend we meet,
We may have a token sweet
To delight them.
'Tis the very crowning art
Of a happy, grateful heart
To others to impart
Of its pleasure.
Thus its joys can never cease,
For it brings an inward peace,
Like an every day increase
Of a treasure.
Of a happy, grateful heart
To others to impart
Of its pleasure.
Thus its joys can never cease,
For it brings an inward peace,
Like an every day increase
Of a treasure.
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THE SHOEMAKER.
“Honor and shame from no condition rise.
Act well your part:—there all the honor lies.”
Act well your part:—there all the honor lies.”
The shoemaker sat amid wax and leather,
With lapstone over his knee;
Where, snug in his shop, he defied all weather,
A-drawing his quarters and sole together:
A happy old man was he!
With lapstone over his knee;
Where, snug in his shop, he defied all weather,
A-drawing his quarters and sole together:
A happy old man was he!
This happy old man was so wise and knowing,
The worth of his time he knew.
He bristled his ends, and he kept them going;
And felt to each moment a stitch was owing,
Until he got round the shoe.
The worth of his time he knew.
He bristled his ends, and he kept them going;
And felt to each moment a stitch was owing,
Until he got round the shoe.
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Of every deed that his wax was sealing,
The closing was firm and fast.
The prick of his steel never caused a feeling
Of pain to the toe, and his skill in heeling
Was perfect, and true to the last!
The closing was firm and fast.
The prick of his steel never caused a feeling
Of pain to the toe, and his skill in heeling
Was perfect, and true to the last!
Whenever you gave him a foot to measure,
With gentle and skilful hand,
He took its proportions, with looks of pleasure,
As if you were giving the costliest treasure,
Or dubbing him lord of the land.
With gentle and skilful hand,
He took its proportions, with looks of pleasure,
As if you were giving the costliest treasure,
Or dubbing him lord of the land.
And many a one did he save from getting
A fever, or cold or cough:
For many a sole did he save from wetting,
When, whether in water or snow 'twas setting,
His shoeing would keep them off.
A fever, or cold or cough:
For many a sole did he save from wetting,
When, whether in water or snow 'twas setting,
His shoeing would keep them off.
And when he had done with his making and mending,
With hope and a peaceful breast,
Resigning his awl, as his thread was ending,
He slid from his bench, to the grave descending,
As high as a king to rest!
With hope and a peaceful breast,
Resigning his awl, as his thread was ending,
He slid from his bench, to the grave descending,
As high as a king to rest!
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THE DISOBEDIENT SKATER BOYS.
Said William to George, “It is New-Year's day!
And now for the pond and the merriest play!
So, on with your cap; and away, away,
We'll off for a frolic and slide.
Be quick—be quick, if you would not be chid
For doing what father and mother forbid;
And under your coat let the skates be hid;
Then over the ice we'll glide.”
And now for the pond and the merriest play!
So, on with your cap; and away, away,
We'll off for a frolic and slide.
Be quick—be quick, if you would not be chid
For doing what father and mother forbid;
And under your coat let the skates be hid;
Then over the ice we'll glide.”
They're up, and they're off; on their run-away feet
They fasten the skates, when, away they fleet,
Far over the pond, and beyond retreat,
Unconscious of danger near.
But lo! the ice is beginning to bend—
It cracks—it cracks—and their feet descend!
To whom can they look as a helper—a friend?
Their faces are pale with fear.
They fasten the skates, when, away they fleet,
Far over the pond, and beyond retreat,
Unconscious of danger near.
But lo! the ice is beginning to bend—
It cracks—it cracks—and their feet descend!
To whom can they look as a helper—a friend?
Their faces are pale with fear.
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In their flight to the pond, they had caught the eye
Of a neighboring peasant, who, lingering nigh,
Aware of their danger, and hearing their cry,
Now hastens to give them aid.
As home they are brought, all dripping and cold,
To all who their piteous plight behold,
The worst of the story is plainly told—
Their parents were disobeyed!
Of a neighboring peasant, who, lingering nigh,
Aware of their danger, and hearing their cry,
Now hastens to give them aid.
As home they are brought, all dripping and cold,
To all who their piteous plight behold,
The worst of the story is plainly told—
Their parents were disobeyed!
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POOR OLD PAUL.
Poor old Paul! he has lost a foot;
And see him go hobbling along,
With the stump laced up in that clumsy boot,
Before the gathering throng!
And see him go hobbling along,
With the stump laced up in that clumsy boot,
Before the gathering throng!
And now, as he has to pass so many,
And suffer the gaze of all,
If each would only bestow a penny,
'Twere something for poor old Paul.
And suffer the gaze of all,
If each would only bestow a penny,
'Twere something for poor old Paul.
His cheek is wan, and his garb is thin;
His eye is sunken and dim;
He looks as if the winter had been
Making sad work with him.
His eye is sunken and dim;
He looks as if the winter had been
Making sad work with him.
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While he is trying to hide the tatter,
Mark how his looks will fall!
Nobody needs to ask the matter
With poor, old, hungry Paul.
Mark how his looks will fall!
Nobody needs to ask the matter
With poor, old, hungry Paul.
All that he has in his dingy sack
Is morsels of bread and meat,—
The leavings, to burden his aged back,
Which others refused to eat.
Is morsels of bread and meat,—
The leavings, to burden his aged back,
Which others refused to eat.
So now I am sure, you will all be willing
To part with a sum so small
As each will spare, who makes up a shilling
To comfort him—Poor old Paul!
To part with a sum so small
As each will spare, who makes up a shilling
To comfort him—Poor old Paul!
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THE STOVE AND GRATE-SETTER.
Old Winter is coming, to play off his tricks—
To make your ears tingle—your fingers to numb!
So I, with my trowel, new mortar and bricks,
To guard you against him, already am come.
To make your ears tingle—your fingers to numb!
So I, with my trowel, new mortar and bricks,
To guard you against him, already am come.
An ounce of prevention in time, I have found,
Is worth pounds of remedy taken too late!
And proof that the sense of my maxim is sound,
Will shine where I fasten stove, furnace or grate.
Is worth pounds of remedy taken too late!
And proof that the sense of my maxim is sound,
Will shine where I fasten stove, furnace or grate.
The Summer leaves now whirling fast from the trees,
By Autumn's chill blast are tossed yellow and sere;
And soon, with the breath of his nostrils to freeze
Each thing he can puff at, will Winter be here!
By Autumn's chill blast are tossed yellow and sere;
And soon, with the breath of his nostrils to freeze
Each thing he can puff at, will Winter be here!
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But hardly he'll dare to steal in at the door,
Your elbows to bite with his keen cutting air,
And give you an ague, where I've been before,
To set the defence I to-day can prepare.
Your elbows to bite with his keen cutting air,
And give you an ague, where I've been before,
To set the defence I to-day can prepare.
And when he comes blustering on from the north,
To give you blue faces, and shakes by the chin,
You'll find what the craft of the mason was worth,
As you from abroad to your parlor step in!
To give you blue faces, and shakes by the chin,
You'll find what the craft of the mason was worth,
As you from abroad to your parlor step in!
For all will around be so pleasant and warm,—
Your hearth bright and cheering—your coal in a glow;
You'll not heed the winds whistling up the rough storm
To sift o'er your dwellings its clouds full of snow!
Your hearth bright and cheering—your coal in a glow;
You'll not heed the winds whistling up the rough storm
To sift o'er your dwellings its clouds full of snow!
You'll then think of me;—how I handled to-day
The cold stone and iron—the brick and the lime:
And all, but the surer foundation to lay
For comfort to give in the drear winter time.
The cold stone and iron—the brick and the lime:
And all, but the surer foundation to lay
For comfort to give in the drear winter time.
I lay you, against this old Winter, a charm,
To make him, at least, keep himself out of doors!
'Twould melt—should he enter—his hard hand and arm,
When loud for admission he threatens and roars.
To make him, at least, keep himself out of doors!
'Twould melt—should he enter—his hard hand and arm,
When loud for admission he threatens and roars.
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If gratitude then should come, warming your heart,
As peaceful you sit by your warm fireside;
Perhaps it may teach you some good to impart
To those, where the gifts you enjoy are denied.
As peaceful you sit by your warm fireside;
Perhaps it may teach you some good to impart
To those, where the gifts you enjoy are denied.
For He in whose favor all blessedness is;
And out of whose kingdom no treasure is sure,
Was poor when on earth;—and the poor still are his:
His charge to his friends is “Remember the poor.”
And out of whose kingdom no treasure is sure,
Was poor when on earth;—and the poor still are his:
His charge to his friends is “Remember the poor.”
Nor would his disciple be higher than He,
Who once on the dwellings of men, for his bread,
In lowliness wrought! but contentedly, we
Will work by the light that our Master has shed.
Who once on the dwellings of men, for his bread,
In lowliness wrought! but contentedly, we
Will work by the light that our Master has shed.
136
THE SUMMER IS COME.
CHILDHOOD'S RURAL SONG.
The Summer is come
With the insect's hum,
And the birds that merrily sing.
And sweet are the hours,
And the fruits and flowers,
That Summer has come to bring.
With the insect's hum,
And the birds that merrily sing.
And sweet are the hours,
And the fruits and flowers,
That Summer has come to bring.
All nature is glad,
And the earth is clad
In her brightest and best array:
So, we with delight
Will our songs unite,
Our tribute of joy to pay.
And the earth is clad
In her brightest and best array:
So, we with delight
Will our songs unite,
Our tribute of joy to pay.
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The swallow is out,
And she sails about
In air, for the careless fly:
Then she takes a sip
With her horny lip
As she skims where the waters lie.
And she sails about
In air, for the careless fly:
Then she takes a sip
With her horny lip
As she skims where the waters lie.
And the lamb bounds light
In his fleece of white,
But he doesn't know what to think,
In the streamlet clear,
Where he sees appear
His face as he stoops to drink.
In his fleece of white,
But he doesn't know what to think,
In the streamlet clear,
Where he sees appear
His face as he stoops to drink.
For, never before
Has he gambolled o'er
The summer-dressed, flowery earth;
And he skips in play,
As he fain would say
“'Tis a season of feast and mirth.”
Has he gambolled o'er
The summer-dressed, flowery earth;
And he skips in play,
As he fain would say
“'Tis a season of feast and mirth.”
And we have to-day
Been rambling away
To gather the flowers most fair,
Which we sat beneath
An old oak to wreath
While fanned by the balmy air.
Been rambling away
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Which we sat beneath
An old oak to wreath
While fanned by the balmy air.
Now the sun goes down
Like a golden crown
That's sliding behind a hill;
So we dance the while
To his farewell smile;
And we'll dance as the dews distil.
Like a golden crown
That's sliding behind a hill;
So we dance the while
To his farewell smile;
And we'll dance as the dews distil.
Then, we'll dance to-night
While the fire-fly's light
Is sparkling among the grass;
And we'll step our tune
To the silver moon,
As over the green we pass.
While the fire-fly's light
Is sparkling among the grass;
And we'll step our tune
To the silver moon,
As over the green we pass.
O, Summer is sweet!
But her joys are fleet;
We catch them but on the wing:
Yet never the less
Would our hearts confess
The blessings she comes to bring.
But her joys are fleet;
We catch them but on the wing:
Yet never the less
Would our hearts confess
The blessings she comes to bring.
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THE MORNING-GLORY.
Come here and sit thee down by me!
I've read a tale, I'll tell to thee;
And precious will the moral be,
Though simple is the story.
It is about a brilliant flower,
With beauty scarce possessed of power
Its opening to survive an hour—
An airy Morning-Glory.
I've read a tale, I'll tell to thee;
And precious will the moral be,
Though simple is the story.
It is about a brilliant flower,
With beauty scarce possessed of power
Its opening to survive an hour—
An airy Morning-Glory.
'Tis common parlance names it thus;
But 'twas a gay convolvulus:
Yet we'll not stop to here discuss
Its species or its genus.
We'll just suppose a blooming vine
With many leaf and bud to shine,
And curling tendrils thrown to twine
And form a bower, between us.
But 'twas a gay convolvulus:
Yet we'll not stop to here discuss
Its species or its genus.
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With many leaf and bud to shine,
And curling tendrils thrown to twine
And form a bower, between us.
And we'll suppose a happy boy,
With face lit up by hope and joy,
Who thinks that nothing shall destroy
His vine, his pride and pleasure,
Is standing near, with kindling eye,
As if its very look would pry
The cup apart, therein to spy
The growing floral treasure.
With face lit up by hope and joy,
Who thinks that nothing shall destroy
His vine, his pride and pleasure,
Is standing near, with kindling eye,
As if its very look would pry
The cup apart, therein to spy
The growing floral treasure.
And now the petal, twisted tight,
Above the calyx peers to sight
With apex tipped with purple, bright
As if the rainbow dyed it.
While on the air it vacillates,
Its owner's bosom palpitates
To see it open, as he waits
Impatient close beside it.
Above the calyx peers to sight
With apex tipped with purple, bright
As if the rainbow dyed it.
While on the air it vacillates,
Its owner's bosom palpitates
To see it open, as he waits
Impatient close beside it.
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Another rising sun has thrown
Its beams upon the vine, and shown
The splendid Morning-Glory blown,
As if some little fairy,
When early from his couch he went,
On some ethereal journey bent,
Had there inverted left his tent
Of purple, high and airy.
Its beams upon the vine, and shown
The splendid Morning-Glory blown,
As if some little fairy,
When early from his couch he went,
On some ethereal journey bent,
Had there inverted left his tent
Of purple, high and airy.
And many a fair and shining flower
As bright as this adorned the bower,
Displayed like jewels in an hour,
Where'er the vine was clinging.
As each corolla lost its twist,
The zephyr fanned, the sunbeam kissed
The little vase of amethyst;
And round it birds were singing.
As bright as this adorned the bower,
Displayed like jewels in an hour,
Where'er the vine was clinging.
As each corolla lost its twist,
The zephyr fanned, the sunbeam kissed
The little vase of amethyst;
And round it birds were singing.
And now the little boy comes out
To see his vine. He gives a shout,
And sings and laughs, and jumps about
Like one two-thirds demented.
His little playmates, one, two, three,
Come round the beauteous vine to see,
And each cries, “Give a flower to me,
And I'll go off contented.”
To see his vine. He gives a shout,
And sings and laughs, and jumps about
Like one two-thirds demented.
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Come round the beauteous vine to see,
And each cries, “Give a flower to me,
And I'll go off contented.”
But “No,” the selfish owner cried,
And pushed his comrades all aside,
While walking round his bower with pride,
“Not one of you shall sever
A floweret from the stem so gay;
I own them, not to give away!
I'll come to see them every day;
And keep them mine for ever!”
And pushed his comrades all aside,
While walking round his bower with pride,
“Not one of you shall sever
A floweret from the stem so gay;
I own them, not to give away!
I'll come to see them every day;
And keep them mine for ever!”
So, when at noon from school he came,
To see his vine was first his aim:
But oh! his feelings who can name,
As mute he stood and eyed it?
For not a flower could he behold,
While each corolla, inward rolled,
Appeared as shrivelled, dead, and old
As if a fire had dried it.
To see his vine was first his aim:
But oh! his feelings who can name,
As mute he stood and eyed it?
For not a flower could he behold,
While each corolla, inward rolled,
Appeared as shrivelled, dead, and old
As if a fire had dried it.
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“Alas!” the selfish owner said,
“My Glories—oh! they all are dead!
And all my little friends have fled
Aggrieved! for I've abused them.
They'll keep away, and but deride
My sorrow, when they hear my pride
Is gone;—that quick the pleasures died
Which rudely I refused them!”
“My Glories—oh! they all are dead!
And all my little friends have fled
Aggrieved! for I've abused them.
They'll keep away, and but deride
My sorrow, when they hear my pride
Is gone;—that quick the pleasures died
Which rudely I refused them!”
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THE OLD COTTER AND HIS COW.
My good old Cow,
I scarce know how
Again we've wintered over;
With my scant fare,
And thine so spare—
No dainty dish, nor clover!
I scarce know how
Again we've wintered over;
With my scant fare,
And thine so spare—
No dainty dish, nor clover!
We both were old,
And keen the cold;
While poorly housed we found us;
And by the blast
That, whistling, passed,
The snows were sifted round us.
And keen the cold;
While poorly housed we found us;
And by the blast
That, whistling, passed,
The snows were sifted round us.
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While, many a day,
Few locks of hay
Were most thy crib presented,
A patient Cow,
And kind wast thou,
And with thy mite contented.
Few locks of hay
Were most thy crib presented,
A patient Cow,
And kind wast thou,
And with thy mite contented.
But though the storms
Have chilled our forms,
And we've been pinched together,
The dark, blue day
Is passed away;
We've reached the warm spring weather!
Have chilled our forms,
And we've been pinched together,
The dark, blue day
Is passed away;
We've reached the warm spring weather!
The bounteous earth
Is shooting forth
Her grass and flowers so gayly;
Thou now canst feed
Along the mead,
While food is growing daily.
Is shooting forth
Her grass and flowers so gayly;
Thou now canst feed
Along the mead,
While food is growing daily.
The soft, sweet breeze
Through budding trees
Now fans my brow so hoary:
And these old eyes
Find new supplies
Of light from nature's glory.
Through budding trees
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And these old eyes
Find new supplies
Of light from nature's glory.
Though poor my cot,
And low my lot,
With thee, my richest treasure,
I take my cup,
And looking up,
Bless Him who gives my measure.
And low my lot,
With thee, my richest treasure,
I take my cup,
And looking up,
Bless Him who gives my measure.
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THE BLIND MUSICIAN.
“Ah! who comes here?” old Raymond cried,
As lone he sat by the highway-side,
Where Frisk jumped up at his knee in play;
And his white locks went to the air astray;—
While his worn-out hat lay on the ground,
And his light violin gave forth no sound—
“Ah! who comes here with voice so kind
To the ear of a poor old man who's blind?”
As lone he sat by the highway-side,
Where Frisk jumped up at his knee in play;
And his white locks went to the air astray;—
While his worn-out hat lay on the ground,
And his light violin gave forth no sound—
“Ah! who comes here with voice so kind
To the ear of a poor old man who's blind?”
'Twas a gladsome troop of bright young boys,
With hearts all full of their play-day joys,
As their baskets were of nuts and cake,
And fruits, a pic-nic treat to make.
For they were out for the fields and flowers—
For the grassy lane, and the woodland bowers;
And the course they took first led them by
Where the lone one sat with a sightless eye.
With hearts all full of their play-day joys,
As their baskets were of nuts and cake,
And fruits, a pic-nic treat to make.
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For the grassy lane, and the woodland bowers;
And the course they took first led them by
Where the lone one sat with a sightless eye.
They saw he'd a worn and hungry look;
And each from his basket promptly took
A part of its precious pic-nic store,
And tried the others to get before,
As on with their ready gifts they ran,
To reach them forth to the poor old man;
And said, “Good Sir, take this and eat
While resting thus on your mossy seat.”
And each from his basket promptly took
A part of its precious pic-nic store,
And tried the others to get before,
As on with their ready gifts they ran,
To reach them forth to the poor old man;
And said, “Good Sir, take this and eat
While resting thus on your mossy seat.”
“Heaven bless you, little children dear!”
Old Raymond cried, with a starting tear,
As they took their cup to the fountain's brink,
And brought him back some clear, cool drink.
And Frisk looked up with a grateful eye,
As to him they dropped some crust of pie:
For he, good dog, was his master's guide,
By a cord to the ring of his collar tied.
Old Raymond cried, with a starting tear,
As they took their cup to the fountain's brink,
And brought him back some clear, cool drink.
And Frisk looked up with a grateful eye,
As to him they dropped some crust of pie:
For he, good dog, was his master's guide,
By a cord to the ring of his collar tied.
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“And now, would you like to hear me play,”
Said the traveller, “ere you go your way?
O, I did not think that aught so soon
Could have put my poor old heart in tune.
But you have touched it at the spring,
And it seems as if it could dance and sing.
Your kindness makes my spirit light,
Till I hardly feel that I've lost my sight!”
Said the traveller, “ere you go your way?
O, I did not think that aught so soon
Could have put my poor old heart in tune.
But you have touched it at the spring,
And it seems as if it could dance and sing.
Your kindness makes my spirit light,
Till I hardly feel that I've lost my sight!”
He took up his violin and bow,
And made his voice to their music flow;
And the children, listening sat around
As if by a spell to the circle bound.
While thus they were fastened to the spot,
And their first pursuit almost forgot,
They felt they could ask no pleasure more,
And their picnic frolic at once gave o'er.
And made his voice to their music flow;
And the children, listening sat around
As if by a spell to the circle bound.
While thus they were fastened to the spot,
And their first pursuit almost forgot,
They felt they could ask no pleasure more,
And their picnic frolic at once gave o'er.
And there they staid till the sun went down,
When they led the old Raymond safe to town;
While Frisk went sporting all the way,
To speak his thanks by his joyous play.
They found him a room with a table spread,
And a pillow to rest his hoary head.
Then feeling their time and pence well-spent,
They all went back to their homes content.
When they led the old Raymond safe to town;
While Frisk went sporting all the way,
To speak his thanks by his joyous play.
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And a pillow to rest his hoary head.
Then feeling their time and pence well-spent,
They all went back to their homes content.
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THE LAME HORSE.
O, I cannot bring to mind
When I've had a look so kind,
Gentle lady, as thine eye
Gives me, while I'm limping by!
Then, thy little boy appears
To regard me but with tears.
Think'st thou he would like to know
What has brought my state so low?
When I've had a look so kind,
Gentle lady, as thine eye
Gives me, while I'm limping by!
Then, thy little boy appears
To regard me but with tears.
Think'st thou he would like to know
What has brought my state so low?
When not half so old as he,
I was bounding, light and free,
By my happy mother's side,
Ere my mouth the bit had tried,
Or my head had felt the rein
Drawn, my spirits to restrain.
But I'm now so worn and old,
Half my sorrows can't be told.
I was bounding, light and free,
By my happy mother's side,
Ere my mouth the bit had tried,
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Drawn, my spirits to restrain.
But I'm now so worn and old,
Half my sorrows can't be told.
When my services began,
How I loved my master, man!
I was pampered and caressed,—
Housed, and fed upon the best.
Many looked with hearts elate
At my graceful form and gait,—
At my smooth and glossy hair
Combed and brushed with daily care.
How I loved my master, man!
I was pampered and caressed,—
Housed, and fed upon the best.
Many looked with hearts elate
At my graceful form and gait,—
At my smooth and glossy hair
Combed and brushed with daily care.
Studded trappings then I wore,
And with pride my master bore,—
Glad his kindness to repay
In my free, but silent way.
Then was found no nimble steed
That could equal me in speed,
So untiring, and so fleet
Were these now, old, aching feet.
And with pride my master bore,—
Glad his kindness to repay
In my free, but silent way.
Then was found no nimble steed
That could equal me in speed,
So untiring, and so fleet
Were these now, old, aching feet.
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But my troubles soon drew nigh:
Less of kindness marked his eye,
When my strength began to fail;
And he put me off at sale.
Constant changes were my fate,
Far too grievous to relate.
Yet I've been, to say the least,
Through them all a patient beast.
Less of kindness marked his eye,
When my strength began to fail;
And he put me off at sale.
Constant changes were my fate,
Far too grievous to relate.
Yet I've been, to say the least,
Through them all a patient beast.
Older—weaker—still I grew:
Kind attentions all withdrew!
Little food, and less repose;
Harder burdens—heavier blows,—
These became my hapless lot,
Till I sunk upon the spot!
This maimed limb beneath me bent
With the pain it underwent.
Kind attentions all withdrew!
Little food, and less repose;
Harder burdens—heavier blows,—
These became my hapless lot,
Till I sunk upon the spot!
This maimed limb beneath me bent
With the pain it underwent.
Now I'm useless, old, and poor,
They have made my sentence sure;
And to-morrow is the day,
Set for me to limp away,
To some far, sequestered place,
There at once to end my race.
I stood by, and heard their plot—
Soon my woes shall be forgot!
They have made my sentence sure;
And to-morrow is the day,
Set for me to limp away,
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There at once to end my race.
I stood by, and heard their plot—
Soon my woes shall be forgot!
Gentle lady, when I'm dead
By the blow upon my head,
Proving thus, the truest friend,
Him who brings me to my end;
Wilt thou bid then dig a grave
For their faithful, patient slave;
Then, my mournful story trace,
Asking mercy for my race?
By the blow upon my head,
Proving thus, the truest friend,
Him who brings me to my end;
Wilt thou bid then dig a grave
For their faithful, patient slave;
Then, my mournful story trace,
Asking mercy for my race?
162
THE LOST NESTLINGS.
“Have you seen my darling nestlings?”
A mother-robin cried,
“I cannot, cannot find them,
Though I've sought them far and wide.
A mother-robin cried,
“I cannot, cannot find them,
Though I've sought them far and wide.
“I left them well this morning,
When I went to seek their food;
But I found, upon returning,
I'd a nest without a brood.
When I went to seek their food;
But I found, upon returning,
I'd a nest without a brood.
“O have you nought to tell me,
That will ease my aching breast,
About my tender offspring
That I left within the nest?
That will ease my aching breast,
About my tender offspring
That I left within the nest?
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“I have called them in the bushes,
And the rolling stream beside;
Yet they come not at my bidding;—
I'm afraid they all have died!”
And the rolling stream beside;
Yet they come not at my bidding;—
I'm afraid they all have died!”
“I can tell you all about them;
Said a little wanton boy
“For 'twas I that had the pleasure
Your nestlings to destroy.
Said a little wanton boy
“For 'twas I that had the pleasure
Your nestlings to destroy.
“But I didn't think their mother
Her little ones would miss;
Or ever come to hail me
With a wailing sound, like this.
Her little ones would miss;
Or ever come to hail me
With a wailing sound, like this.
“I didn't know your bosom
Was formed to suffer woe,
And to mourn your murdered children,
Or I had not grieved you so.
Was formed to suffer woe,
And to mourn your murdered children,
Or I had not grieved you so.
“I am sorry that I've taken
The lives I can't restore;
And this regret shall teach me
To do the like no more.
The lives I can't restore;
And this regret shall teach me
To do the like no more.
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“I ever shall remember
The wailing sound I've heard!
No more I'll kill a nestling,
To pain a mother-bird!”
The wailing sound I've heard!
No more I'll kill a nestling,
To pain a mother-bird!”
165
THE BAT'S FLIGHT BY DAYLIGHT.
AN ALLEGORY.
A bat one morn from his covert flew,
To show the world what a Bat could do,
By soaring off on a lofty flight,
In the open day, by the sun's clear light!
He quite forgot that he had for wings
But a pair of monstrous, plumeless things;
That, more than half like a fish's fin,
With a warp of bone, and a woof of skin,
Were only fit in the dark to fly,
In view of a bat's or an owlet's eye.
To show the world what a Bat could do,
By soaring off on a lofty flight,
In the open day, by the sun's clear light!
He quite forgot that he had for wings
But a pair of monstrous, plumeless things;
That, more than half like a fish's fin,
With a warp of bone, and a woof of skin,
Were only fit in the dark to fly,
In view of a bat's or an owlet's eye.
He sallied forth from his hidden hole,
And passed the door of his neighbor, Mole,
Who shrugged, and said, “Of the two so blind
The wisest, surely, stays behind!”
But he could not cope with the glare of day:
He lost his sight, and he missed his way;—
He wheeled on his flapping wings, till, “bump!”
His head went, hard on the farm-yard pump.
Then, stunned and posed, as he met the ground,
A stir and a shout in the yard went round;
For its tenants thought they had one come there,
That seemed not of water, earth, or air.
The Hen, “Cut, cut, cut-dah-cut!” cried,
For all to cut at the thing she spied;
While the taunting Duck said, “Quack, quack, quack!”
As her muddy mouth to the pool went back,
For something denser than sound, to show
Her sage disgust, at the quack to throw.
The old Turk strutted, and gobbled aloud,
Till he gathered around him a babbling crowd;
When each proud neck in the whole doomed group
Was poked with a condescending stoop,
And a pointed beak, at the prostrate Bat,
Which they eyed askance, as to ask, “What's that?”
But none could tell; and the poults moved off,
In their select circle to leer and scoff.
The Goslings skulked; but their wise mamma,
She hissed, and screamed, till the Lambs cried, “Ba-a!”
When up from his straw sprang the gaping Calf,
With a gawky leap and a clammy laugh.
He stared—retreated—and off he went,
The wondrous news in his voice to vent,—
That he had discovered a monster there—
A bird four-footed, and clothed with hair!
And had dashed his heel at the sight so odd,
It looked, he thought, like a heathen god!
And passed the door of his neighbor, Mole,
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The wisest, surely, stays behind!”
But he could not cope with the glare of day:
He lost his sight, and he missed his way;—
He wheeled on his flapping wings, till, “bump!”
His head went, hard on the farm-yard pump.
Then, stunned and posed, as he met the ground,
A stir and a shout in the yard went round;
For its tenants thought they had one come there,
That seemed not of water, earth, or air.
The Hen, “Cut, cut, cut-dah-cut!” cried,
For all to cut at the thing she spied;
While the taunting Duck said, “Quack, quack, quack!”
As her muddy mouth to the pool went back,
For something denser than sound, to show
Her sage disgust, at the quack to throw.
The old Turk strutted, and gobbled aloud,
Till he gathered around him a babbling crowd;
When each proud neck in the whole doomed group
Was poked with a condescending stoop,
And a pointed beak, at the prostrate Bat,
Which they eyed askance, as to ask, “What's that?”
But none could tell; and the poults moved off,
In their select circle to leer and scoff.
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She hissed, and screamed, till the Lambs cried, “Ba-a!”
When up from his straw sprang the gaping Calf,
With a gawky leap and a clammy laugh.
He stared—retreated—and off he went,
The wondrous news in his voice to vent,—
That he had discovered a monster there—
A bird four-footed, and clothed with hair!
And had dashed his heel at the sight so odd,
It looked, he thought, like a heathen god!
The scuddling Chicks cried, “Peep, peep, peep!
For Boss looks high, but not very deep!
It is not a fowl! 'tis the worst of things,—
A low, mean beast, with the use of wings,
So noiseless round on the air to skim,
You know not when you are safe from him.”
For Boss looks high, but not very deep!
It is not a fowl! 'tis the worst of things,—
A low, mean beast, with the use of wings,
So noiseless round on the air to skim,
You know not when you are safe from him.”
There stood by, some of the bristly tribe,
Who felt so touched by the peeper's gibe,
Their backs were up; for they thought, at least,
It aimed at them the low, mean beast:
And they challenged Chick to her tiny face,
In their sharp, high notes, and their awful base.
Who felt so touched by the peeper's gibe,
Their backs were up; for they thought, at least,
It aimed at them the low, mean beast:
And they challenged Chick to her tiny face,
In their sharp, high notes, and their awful base.
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Then old Chanticleer to his mount withdrew,
And gave from his rostrum a loud halloo.
He blew his clarion strong and shrill,
Till he turned all eyes to his height, the hill;
When he noised it round with his loudest crow,
That 't was none of the plumed ones brought so low.
And gave from his rostrum a loud halloo.
He blew his clarion strong and shrill,
Till he turned all eyes to his height, the hill;
When he noised it round with his loudest crow,
That 't was none of the plumed ones brought so low.
And, “Bow-wow-wow!” went the sentry Cur;
But he soon strolled off in a grave demur,
When he saw on the wonder, hair, like his,
Two ears, and a kind of doubtful phiz;
And he deemed it prudent to pause, and hark
In silence, for fear that the sight might bark!
But he soon strolled off in a grave demur,
When he saw on the wonder, hair, like his,
Two ears, and a kind of doubtful phiz;
And he deemed it prudent to pause, and hark
In silence, for fear that the sight might bark!
At last came Puss, with a cautious pat
To feel the pulse of the quivering Bat,
That had not, under her tender paw,
A limb to move, nor a breath to draw!
Then she called her kit for a mother's gift,
And stilled its mew with the racy lift.
To feel the pulse of the quivering Bat,
That had not, under her tender paw,
A limb to move, nor a breath to draw!
Then she called her kit for a mother's gift,
And stilled its mew with the racy lift.
When Mole of the awful death was told,
“Alas!” cried she, “he had grown too bold—
Too vain and proud! Had he only kept,
Like the prudent Mole, in his nest, and slept,
Or worked underground, where none could see,
He might have still been alive, like me!”
“Alas!” cried she, “he had grown too bold—
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Like the prudent Mole, in his nest, and slept,
Or worked underground, where none could see,
He might have still been alive, like me!”
While thus, so early the poor Bat died,
A cry, that it was but the fall of pride,
And signs of mirth, or of scorn, were all
He had from those who beheld his fall.
They each could triumph, and each condemn;
But no kind pity was shown by them.
A cry, that it was but the fall of pride,
And signs of mirth, or of scorn, were all
He had from those who beheld his fall.
They each could triumph, and each condemn;
But no kind pity was shown by them.
And now, should we, as a mirror, place
This story out for the world to face,
How many, think you, would there perceive
Likeness to children of Adam and Eve?
This story out for the world to face,
How many, think you, would there perceive
Likeness to children of Adam and Eve?
170
IDLE JACK.
See mischievous and idle Jack!
How fast he flies, nor dares look back!
He seized Horatio's pretty cart,
And broke and threw it part from part;
The body here, and there the wheels;
And now, by taking to his heels,
He makes the Scripture proverb true,—
The wicked flee when none pursue.
How fast he flies, nor dares look back!
He seized Horatio's pretty cart,
And broke and threw it part from part;
The body here, and there the wheels;
And now, by taking to his heels,
He makes the Scripture proverb true,—
The wicked flee when none pursue.
Oh! Jack's a worthless, wicked boy,
Who seems but evil to enjoy.
He often racks his naughty brain
Inventing ways of giving pain.
He loves to torture butterflies—
To dust the kitten's tender eyes—
To break the cricket's slender limb;
And pain to them is sport to him.
Who seems but evil to enjoy.
He often racks his naughty brain
Inventing ways of giving pain.
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To dust the kitten's tender eyes—
To break the cricket's slender limb;
And pain to them is sport to him.
He sometimes to your garden comes,
To crush the flowers and steal the plums—
The melons tries with thievish gripe,
To find the one that's nearest ripe—
His pocket fills with grapes or pears,
No matter how their owner fares;
When, by its lawless, robber track,
You trace the foot of idle Jack.
To crush the flowers and steal the plums—
The melons tries with thievish gripe,
To find the one that's nearest ripe—
His pocket fills with grapes or pears,
No matter how their owner fares;
When, by its lawless, robber track,
You trace the foot of idle Jack.
Whenever Jack is sent to school,
He, playing truant, plays the fool:
Or else he goes, with sloven looks
And hands unclean, to spoil the books—
To spill the ink, or make a noise,
Disturbing good and studious boys;
Till all who find what Jack's about
Within the school, must wish him out.
He, playing truant, plays the fool:
Or else he goes, with sloven looks
And hands unclean, to spoil the books—
To spill the ink, or make a noise,
Disturbing good and studious boys;
Till all who find what Jack's about
Within the school, must wish him out.
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If ever Jack at church appears,
He knows not, cares not, what he hears.
While others to the word attend,
He has a pencil-point to mend—
An apple, or his nails to pare,
Or cracks a nut in time of prayer,
Till many wish that Jack would come,
A better boy, or stay at home.
He knows not, cares not, what he hears.
While others to the word attend,
He has a pencil-point to mend—
An apple, or his nails to pare,
Or cracks a nut in time of prayer,
Till many wish that Jack would come,
A better boy, or stay at home.
In short, he shows, beyond a doubt,
That, if he does not turn about,
And mend his morals and his ways,
He yet must come to evil days;
And of a life of wasted time—
Of idleness, and vice, and crime,
To meet, perhaps, a felon's end,
With neither man, nor God his friend.
That, if he does not turn about,
And mend his morals and his ways,
He yet must come to evil days;
And of a life of wasted time—
Of idleness, and vice, and crime,
To meet, perhaps, a felon's end,
With neither man, nor God his friend.
185
THE MOUNTAIN MINSTREL.
On our mountain of Savoy,
In the shadow of a rock,
Once I sat, a shepherd-boy,
Watching o'er my father's flock.
In the shadow of a rock,
Once I sat, a shepherd-boy,
Watching o'er my father's flock.
We'd a happy cottage-home,
Peaceful as the sparrow's nest,
Where, at evening, we could come
From our roamings to our rest.
Peaceful as the sparrow's nest,
Where, at evening, we could come
From our roamings to our rest.
I'd a minstrel's voice and ear:
I could whistle, pipe and sing,
While I roving, seemed to hear
Music stir in every thing.
I could whistle, pipe and sing,
While I roving, seemed to hear
Music stir in every thing.
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But misfortune, like a blast,
Swift upon my father rushed;
From our dwelling we were cast—
At a stroke our peace was crushed.
Swift upon my father rushed;
From our dwelling we were cast—
At a stroke our peace was crushed.
All we had was seized for debt:
In the sudden overthrow,
Even my fond, fleecy pet,
My white cosset, too, must go.
In the sudden overthrow,
Even my fond, fleecy pet,
My white cosset, too, must go.
Then I wandered, sad and lone,
Where I'd once a flock to feed;
All the treasure now my own
Was my simple pipe of reed.
Where I'd once a flock to feed;
All the treasure now my own
Was my simple pipe of reed.
But a noble, pitying friend,
Who had seen me sadly stray,
Made me to his lute attend;
And he taught me how to play.
Who had seen me sadly stray,
Made me to his lute attend;
And he taught me how to play.
Then his lute to me he gave;
And abroad he bade me roam,
Till the earnings I could save
Would redeem our cottage-home.
And abroad he bade me roam,
Till the earnings I could save
Would redeem our cottage-home.
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Glad, his counsel straight I took—
I received his gift with joy;
All my former ways forsook,
And became a minstrel-boy.
I received his gift with joy;
All my former ways forsook,
And became a minstrel-boy.
With my mountain airs to sing,
Forward then I roamed afar,
Sweeping still the tuneful string—
Having hope my leading star
Forward then I roamed afar,
Sweeping still the tuneful string—
Having hope my leading star
In the hamlets where I've gone,
Groups would gather—music-bound:
In the cities I have drawn
List'ners till my hopes were crowned.
Groups would gather—music-bound:
In the cities I have drawn
List'ners till my hopes were crowned.
Ever saving as I earned,
I of one dear object dreamed;
To my mountain then returned,
And our cottage-home redeemed.
I of one dear object dreamed;
To my mountain then returned,
And our cottage-home redeemed.
Time has wiped away our tears;
Here we dwell together blest;
All our sorrows, doubts and fears
I have played and sung to rest.
Here we dwell together blest;
All our sorrows, doubts and fears
I have played and sung to rest.
188
Here my aged parents live
Free from want, and toil, and cares;
All the bliss that earth can give
Deem they in this home of theirs.
Free from want, and toil, and cares;
All the bliss that earth can give
Deem they in this home of theirs.
Life's night-shades fast o'er them creep;
All their wrongs have been forgiven—
They have but to fall asleep
In their cot, to wake in heaven.
All their wrongs have been forgiven—
They have but to fall asleep
In their cot, to wake in heaven.
Gentle friend, dost thou inquire
What's the lineage whence I came?
Jesse is my shepherd sire—
David-Jesse is my name!
What's the lineage whence I came?
Jesse is my shepherd sire—
David-Jesse is my name!
| The youth's coronal | |