 | Love ; or Woman's Destiny |  |
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POEMS.
In the year 1697, a body of Indians attacked the town of Haverhill,
Massachusetts, killed and carried into captivity forty inhabitants.
A party of the Indians approached the house of Mr.
Thurston, who was abroad at his labor, but who, on their
approach, hastened to the house, sent his children out, and
ordered them to fly in a course opposite to that in which danger
was approaching. He then mounted his horse and determined
to snatch up the child with which he was most unwilling to part,
when he should overtake the little flock. The sequel, as it
occurred, is told in the poem. The scene of these events was
the old homestead of the poet Whittier.
In the year 1697, a body of Indians attacked the town of Haverhill, Massachusetts, killed and carried into captivity forty inhabitants. A party of the Indians approached the house of Mr. Thurston, who was abroad at his labor, but who, on their approach, hastened to the house, sent his children out, and ordered them to fly in a course opposite to that in which danger was approaching. He then mounted his horse and determined to snatch up the child with which he was most unwilling to part, when he should overtake the little flock. The sequel, as it occurred, is told in the poem. The scene of these events was the old homestead of the poet Whittier.
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GREAT MEN.
1.
“How old art thou?” the sage began;—The boy, aroused from play,
Tossing his fresh-plucked flowers aside,
Sprang to his feet and gayly cried,
“I'm ten years old to-day;—
What long, long days! Oh, how I wish
The years would go away!”
2.
A blush of conscious eagernessAthwart his bright face ran;
“Thou'lt find,” the sage went on to say,
“When manhood comes, a shorter day,
When age, that life 's a span.
What dost thou wish for now, my boy?”
“I wish to be a man.”
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3.
“What would'st thou do, wert thou a man?”“I would a traveller be;
And every curious thing I'd know,
And through all foreign lands I'd go,
And sail on every sea;
And I would visit mighty kings,
And they might visit me.”
4.
“But kings spurn common men.” The boyLooked up with flashing eye:
“I thought that kings were good great men;
But I will be a monarch then,
And have a Palace high;
And none I see in all the world
Shall greater be than I.”
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5.
“But greatness is not happiness;My son, an emblem see—
How lovely grow these lowly flowers
How peacefully they pass their hours,—
While yonder lofty tree—
That soared so high to reach the sky—
Was scathed most fearfully.”
6.
The boy upon the blasted pineGazed long in sober thought.
“I'll pluck these flowers,” at length he cried,
“And they will die as that has died
And sooner, will they not?
Nor bud, nor flower, nor leaf, nor stem
Remain to mark the spot.”
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7.
“'Tis true,” the old man said, “'tis true;”—His voice was low and mild;
“The hand of man or Heaven's decree
Alone can bow the great strong tree;
The finger of a child
Or foot of senseless brute comes nigh,
The flower is plucked or spoiled.
8.
“We prate of peace in lowly place—'Tis not in place it lies,
Evil, whose shadow darkens earth,
Must perish in its place of birth!
But hope may seek the skies,
The good must tend to the All-good,
The soul that strives will rise.
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9.
“Press on, my royal boy, press on!As booklets form the flood,
The thoughts that swell the simple heart
May guide thee to a glorious part,—
But self must be withstood;
And hold thou fast thy boyhood's faith,
The Great Men are the Good!”
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THIRTY-FIVE.
I'm thirty-five, I'm thirty-five,
Nor would I make it less:
Each passing year has kept alive
Some bud of happiness.
Who would a single link undo
From memory's heart-strung chain,
And lose a sorrow, losing too
The love that soothed the pain?
Why should I count my youth a loss?
Its holiest hopes survive.
I know the fine gold from the dross
Now I am thirty-five.
Nor would I make it less:
Each passing year has kept alive
Some bud of happiness.
Who would a single link undo
From memory's heart-strung chain,
And lose a sorrow, losing too
The love that soothed the pain?
Why should I count my youth a loss?
Its holiest hopes survive.
I know the fine gold from the dross
Now I am thirty-five.
I see the old moon softly rest,
Swathed in the new moon's rays,
And, cradled thus within my breast,
I hold my earlier days:
And gentle word and generous deed
Are living in my mind:
The planets, as they onward speed,
Ne'er leave their light behind.
And sufferings, like the dews of night,
That faded flowers revive,
Oh! I can value these aright,
Now I am thirty-five.
Swathed in the new moon's rays,
And, cradled thus within my breast,
I hold my earlier days:
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Are living in my mind:
The planets, as they onward speed,
Ne'er leave their light behind.
And sufferings, like the dews of night,
That faded flowers revive,
Oh! I can value these aright,
Now I am thirty-five.
I know the young have hopes more bright,
Nor would I shadow these;
A wildering joy is in the light
That happy girlhood sees.
How sweet the rose-bud's lip of red!
How sweet the rose when blown!
But never till the leaves are shed
Is all their sweetness known.
My youth has fled as roses fade
Whose sweets may yet survive,
And these may gladden life's lone shade,
Now I am thirty-five:
Nor would I shadow these;
A wildering joy is in the light
That happy girlhood sees.
How sweet the rose-bud's lip of red!
How sweet the rose when blown!
But never till the leaves are shed
Is all their sweetness known.
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Whose sweets may yet survive,
And these may gladden life's lone shade,
Now I am thirty-five:
And when my song of thirty-five
By smiling lips is sung,
And May and her fresh flowers arrive,
And all the world is young,
Oh, waste on me nor wish nor sigh,
But keep the shade in sight,
Where pale neglected flow'rets lie
I'm lifting to the light:
For in my heart, while Love Divine
Keeps human love alive,
The angel graces may be mine,
Though over thirty-five.
By smiling lips is sung,
And May and her fresh flowers arrive,
And all the world is young,
Oh, waste on me nor wish nor sigh,
But keep the shade in sight,
Where pale neglected flow'rets lie
I'm lifting to the light:
For in my heart, while Love Divine
Keeps human love alive,
The angel graces may be mine,
Though over thirty-five.
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PLEASURE.
We all are children in our strife to seize
Each petty pleasure, as it lures the sight;
And like the tall tree, swaying in the breeze,
Our lofty wishes stoop their towering flight,
Till, when the aim is won, it seems no more
Than gathered shell from ocean's countless store.
Each petty pleasure, as it lures the sight;
And like the tall tree, swaying in the breeze,
Our lofty wishes stoop their towering flight,
Till, when the aim is won, it seems no more
Than gathered shell from ocean's countless store.
Or, like the boy, whose eager hand is raised
To seize the shining fly that folds its wings,
We grasp the pleasure, and then stand amazed
To find how small the real good it brings!
The joy is in the chase—so finds the boy—
When seized, then he must loose it, or destroy.
To seize the shining fly that folds its wings,
We grasp the pleasure, and then stand amazed
To find how small the real good it brings!
The joy is in the chase—so finds the boy—
When seized, then he must loose it, or destroy.
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And yet the child will have enjoyment true,
The sweet and simple pleasure of success;
He reasons not, as older minds would do,
How he shall show the world his happiness:
And, wiser than the crowds who seek display,
His own glad earnest purpose makes him gay.
The sweet and simple pleasure of success;
He reasons not, as older minds would do,
How he shall show the world his happiness:
And, wiser than the crowds who seek display,
His own glad earnest purpose makes him gay.
And ever those who would true pleasure gain
Must find it in the purpose they pursue;
And even failure loses half its pain
If our own soul bear witness—we are true!
Oh, glorious meed! in seeking for the right
We find that clouds conceal, but never quench God's light.
Must find it in the purpose they pursue;
And even failure loses half its pain
If our own soul bear witness—we are true!
Oh, glorious meed! in seeking for the right
We find that clouds conceal, but never quench God's light.
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IT SNOWS.
“It snows!” cries the School-boy—“Hurrah!” and his shout
Is ringing through parlor and hall,
While swift as the wing of a swallow he 's out,
And his playmates have answered his call:
It makes the heart warm but to witness their joy—
Proud wealth has no pleasure, I trow,
Like the rapture that burns in the blood of the boy,
As he gathers his treasures of snow;
Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs,
While health and the riches of nature are theirs.
Is ringing through parlor and hall,
While swift as the wing of a swallow he 's out,
And his playmates have answered his call:
It makes the heart warm but to witness their joy—
Proud wealth has no pleasure, I trow,
Like the rapture that burns in the blood of the boy,
As he gathers his treasures of snow;
Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs,
While health and the riches of nature are theirs.
“It snows!” sighs the Imbecile—“Ah!” and his breath
Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight;
While, from the pale aspect of nature in death,
He turns to the blaze of his grate;
And nearer, and nearer, his soft-cushioned chair
Is wheeled tow'rds the life-giving flame;
He dreads a chill puff of the snow-burdened air,
Lest it wither his delicate frame:
Oh, small is the pleasure existence can give,
When the fear we shall die only proves that we live!
Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight;
While, from the pale aspect of nature in death,
He turns to the blaze of his grate;
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Is wheeled tow'rds the life-giving flame;
He dreads a chill puff of the snow-burdened air,
Lest it wither his delicate frame:
Oh, small is the pleasure existence can give,
When the fear we shall die only proves that we live!
“It snows!” shouts the Traveller—“Ho!” and the word
Has quickened his steed's lagging pace,
The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard,
Unfelt the sharp drift in his face;
For bright through the dark storm his own home appeared;
Though leagues intervened, he can see
The clear, glowing hearth, and the table prepared,
And his wife, with her boy on her knee!
O Love! how it lightens the grief-laden hour,
To know that our dear ones are safe from its power.
Has quickened his steed's lagging pace,
The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard,
Unfelt the sharp drift in his face;
For bright through the dark storm his own home appeared;
Though leagues intervened, he can see
The clear, glowing hearth, and the table prepared,
And his wife, with her boy on her knee!
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To know that our dear ones are safe from its power.
“It snows!” says the Belle—“Dear, how lucky!” and turns
From her mirror to watch the flakes fall;
Like the first rose of summer her dimpled cheek burns
While musing on sleigh-ride and ball:
And visions of conquests, of splendor and mirth,
Float over each drear winter's day;
But the tintings of Hope, on this snow-beaten earth,
Will melt like the snow-flakes away:
Turn, turn thee to Heaven, fair maiden, for bliss,
That world has a fountain ne'er opened in this.
From her mirror to watch the flakes fall;
Like the first rose of summer her dimpled cheek burns
While musing on sleigh-ride and ball:
And visions of conquests, of splendor and mirth,
Float over each drear winter's day;
But the tintings of Hope, on this snow-beaten earth,
Will melt like the snow-flakes away:
Turn, turn thee to Heaven, fair maiden, for bliss,
That world has a fountain ne'er opened in this.
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“It snows!” cries the Widow—“O God!” and her sighs
Have stifled the voice of her prayer;
Its burden ye'll read in her tear-swollen eyes,
On her cheek pale with fasting and care.
'Tis night—and her fatherless ask her for bread,
But “He gives the young ravens their food”—
And she hopes, till her dark hearth adds horror to dread,
And she lays on her last chip of wood.
Poor widow! That sorrow thy God only knows:
'Tis a pitiful lot to be poor when it snows.
Have stifled the voice of her prayer;
Its burden ye'll read in her tear-swollen eyes,
On her cheek pale with fasting and care.
'Tis night—and her fatherless ask her for bread,
But “He gives the young ravens their food”—
And she hopes, till her dark hearth adds horror to dread,
And she lays on her last chip of wood.
Poor widow! That sorrow thy God only knows:
'Tis a pitiful lot to be poor when it snows.
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GROWING OLD.
Growing old! growing old! Do they say it of me?
Do they hint my fine fancies are faded and fled?
That my garden of life, like the winter swept tree,
Is frozen and dying, or fallen and dead?
Do they hint my fine fancies are faded and fled?
That my garden of life, like the winter swept tree,
Is frozen and dying, or fallen and dead?
Is the heart growing old, when each beautiful thing
Like a landscape at eve, looks more tenderly bright,
And love sweeter seems, as the bird's wand'ring wing
Draws nearer her nest at the coming of night?
Like a landscape at eve, looks more tenderly bright,
And love sweeter seems, as the bird's wand'ring wing
Draws nearer her nest at the coming of night?
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Is the Mind growing old, when with ardor of youth
Through the flower-walks of Wisdom new paths it would try,
And seek, not for shells from the ocean of Truth,
But the Pearl of great price, which the World cannot buy?
Through the flower-walks of Wisdom new paths it would try,
And seek, not for shells from the ocean of Truth,
But the Pearl of great price, which the World cannot buy?
Is the Soul growing old? See, the planet of even,
When rising at morn, melts in glory above,—
Thus, turning from earth, we creep closer to Heaven,
Like a child to her father's warm welcoming love.
When rising at morn, melts in glory above,—
Thus, turning from earth, we creep closer to Heaven,
Like a child to her father's warm welcoming love.
Does the mortal grow older as years roll away?
'Tis change, not destruction; kind winter will bring
Fresh life to the germ and perfect it. Decay
Holds the youth bud Immortal, and heralds its spring.
'Tis change, not destruction; kind winter will bring
Fresh life to the germ and perfect it. Decay
Holds the youth bud Immortal, and heralds its spring.
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Growing old, growing old! Can it ever be true
While joy for life's blessings is thankful and warm,
And hopes sown for others are blooming anew,
And the rainbow of Promise bends over the storm?
While joy for life's blessings is thankful and warm,
And hopes sown for others are blooming anew,
And the rainbow of Promise bends over the storm?
Growing old, growing old! No, we never grow old,
If, like little children, we trust in the WORD,
And reckoning earth's treasures by Heaven's pure gold,
We lay our weak hands on the strength of the Lord.
If, like little children, we trust in the WORD,
And reckoning earth's treasures by Heaven's pure gold,
We lay our weak hands on the strength of the Lord.
| Love ; or Woman's Destiny | |