Poetry for children :: :: University of Virginia Library

He, who spread out the sky,
That broad, blue canopy;
Who made the glorious sun,
The moon to shine by night,
The stars with eye so bright,
He made thee, little one.

He, who with care doth keep
The young birds while they sleep;
And when their rest is done,
Doth guide them through the sky,
And feed them when they cry,
He made thee, little one.

I must not teaze my Mother.

I must not teaze my Mother;
For she is very kind,

And every thing she says to me,
I must directly mind;
For when I was a baby,
And could not speak or walk,
She let me in her bosom sleep,
And taught me how to talk.

I must not teaze my Mother;
And when she likes to read,
Or has the head-ache, I will step
Most silently indeed.
I will not choose a noisy play,
Nor trifling troubles tell,
But sit down quiet by her side,
And try to make her well.

I must not teaze my Mother;
I've heard dear father say,
When I was in my cradle sick,
She nurs'd me night and day.
She lays me in my little bed,
She gives me clothes and food,
And I have nothing else to pay,
But trying to be good.

I must not teaze my Mother;
She loves me all the day,
And she has patience with my faults,
And teaches me to pray;
How much I'll strive to please her,
She every hour shall see,
For should she go away, or die,
What would become of me?

Morning Thoughts.

Dark night away hath roll'd,
Glad birds are soaring high,
And see,—a ray like dazzling gold
Comes darting from the sky.

How shall I thank the Power
Whose hand sustains me so,
And o'er each waking plant and flower
Bids dews of mercy flow?

Teach me to look above;
Receive my morning prayer,

And Father in thy boundless love,
Make me, this day, thy care.

Thoughts at Sun-set.

The sun hath gone to rest,
The bee forsakes the flower,
The bird doth hasten to its nest
Within the leafy bower.

Where have I been this day?
Into what follies run?
Forgive me, Father, when I pray
Through Jesus Christ thy Son.

When all my days are o'er,
And in the tomb I rest,
Oh, may my happy spirit soar
Up to a Saviour's breast.

The Dove.

There was a lonely ark
That sail'd o'er waters dark;
And wide around,
Not one tall tree was seen,
No flower, nor leaf of green,
All,—all were drown'd.

Then a soft wing was spread,
And o'er the billows dread,
A meek dove flew;
But on that shoreless tide
No living thing she spied,
To cheer her view.

There was no chirping sound
O'er that wide watery bound,
To sooth her wo;
But the cold surges spread
Their covering o'er the dead,
That slept below.

So to the ark she fled,
With weary, drooping head,
To seek for rest:
Christ is thy ark, my love,
Thou art the timid dove,—
Fly to his breast.

Love to Brothers and Sisters.

I had a little friend,
And every day he crept
In sadness to his brother's tomb,
And laid him down and wept.

And when I ask'd him why
He mourn'd so long and sore;
He answer'd through his tears, “because
I did not love him more.

“Sometimes!I was not kind,
And cross or coldly spake;”
And then he turn'd away, and sobb'd
As though his heart would break.

Brothers and sisters are a gift
Of mercy from the skies,
And may I always think of this
Whene'er they meet my eyes.

Be tender, good, and kind,
And love them in my heart,
Lest I should sink with bitter grief
When we are call'd to part.

Prayer at entering School.

Lord!—lead my heart to learn,
Prepare my ears to hear,
And let me useful knowledge seek
In thy most holy fear.

Oh, make me kindly treat
My dear companions, all,
Nor let me causeless anger feel,
Nor in temptation fall.

If unforgiven sin
Within my bosom lies.

Or evil motives linger there
To offend thy perfect eyes—

Remove them far away,
Inspire me with thy love,
That I may please thee here below
And dwell with thee above.

Respect to Age.

When leaning on the staff
Amid the crowded street,
With feeble step and wrinkled face
Some aged form I meet.

However poor and weak,
Or ignorant and low,
I must respect their hoary hairs,
For God has told me so.

I love to see the hair
All venerably grey,
A crown of glory 'tis to those
Who walk in Wisdom's way.

I love the reverend head,
With years and honors white,
'Tis like the ripened fruit of heav'n,
And angels bless the sight.

Early Rising.

Are my flowers awake
That so sweet were sleeping?
See,—they lift their heads,
Dewy tear-drops weeping.

Has the bee come forth?
At her work she's singing,
To her busy hive
Honied treasures bringing.

Is the linnet up?
Hark! his song he raises,
Let me join him too,
With my morning praises.

The Garden.

Come, dear little friend,
To the garden we'll go,
I've water'd my rose-plants,
Come see how they grow.

The first one that blossoms,
My mother's must be,
For as I watch these rose-buds,
She watch'd over me.

Here, here are some pinks
For your bosom and hair,
'Tis the pencil of Heaven,
That hath dy'd them so fair.

How thick the young violets
Spring up at our feet,
Let us love the kind hand
That hath made them so sweet.

Is it time for our school?
Then we will thither repair,
And the smile of our teachers
Will welcome us there.

The Sabbath.

The best of the days has come,
The day our Creator blest,
And set an example to mark its hours
By a sweet and holy rest.

'Tis a day to blessed thought
And happy feelings given.
A day to study that Blessed Book
Which shews the way to Heaven.

'Tis a day to hear of God,
Of angels and saints above,
A day to learn how to fit our souls
For their company of love.

The grave of a Child.

Come, see the grassy bed
Where our companion lies,
And mid your tears, remember well
His buried dust shall rise.

The seed that sown in earth
Is hidden from the eye,
At length puts forth the leaf, the bud,
The flower of radiant dye.

When wintry storms are past,
Spring decks the verdant tree,
And at the resurrection-morn
Such shall his rising be.

Hymn for the children of an Orphan Asylum.

Not for our infant homes we pine,
Nor mourn a parent's care,
Adopted thus by christian love,
And nurtur'd as we are;
Instructed from the ways of sin
To turn with cautious feet,
And taught how truth and goodness make
A lot of labor sweet.

Hail, bounteous friends! who kindly guide
Our steps in paths of peace,
Ye ne'er shall be by us forgot
Till life and memory cease;
But daily, when we kneel in prayer
We'll ask of Him above,
To shed his blessing on your souls
For all your deeds of love.

Baby's note to a Baby with a pair of coral bracelets.

Dear little Ann,
I hope you can
These bracelets wear,
And that you will
Remember still
Whose gift they are.

They're very plain,
For to be vain
I don't approve,

Proud babies sure
Few could endure,
And fewer love.

You're handsome, dear,
They tell me here,
But when you call
To visit me,
You'll quickly see
I'm not at all.

Tho' I've thick hair,
No caps I wear,
(Nurse says 'tis lawful)—
My face is brown,
And when I frown,
'Tis truly awful.

You'll think I'm bold,
Not six weeks old,
To send this letter,
Your're twice my age,
And I'll engage
Can write much better.

So, when you've leisure
'Twill give me pleasure,
Your notes to see;
Some grave advice,
Or precept wise,
Pray send to me.

Baby to a Baby with a New-Year's Present.

'Tis New-Year's day,
The people say,
Kind notes they frame,
And presents send,
So I, my friend,
Will do the same.

I think I must
Write you the first,
Because you see
My age is four
Whole months and more,
And yours but three.

You've talents great
For church or state,
I often hear,
But don't be vain,
Wise men are plain,
And meek, my dear.

When thought asleep
I sometimes peep
My cradle o'er,
And slily turn
My ear and learn
Some curious lore.

A doctor grave
Who lives can save
I thus espied;
And when Nurse blam'd
And loudly sham'd
All babes who cried,

He said 'twas better
To lay no fetter
Upon the lungs.

Yet almost fear
To have you hear
My poor inditing,
Your critic smile
Must scorn my style
Of baby-writing.

Six months have shed
Upon my head
But little knowledge,
While you are fit
In sense and wit
To enter college.

My mother said
The map you'd spread
And shew with ease,
All the globe boasts,
Realms, isles and coasts,
And lakes and seas.

That you'd describe
The four-legged tribe
Both great and small,

Both wild and tam'd
That Adam nam'd
In Eden, all.

Years, at this rate
Will make you great
Or I'm mistaken.
Perhaps with Locke,
The crowd you'll mock
Or shine like Bacon.

With Franklin's zeal
The lightning steal,
And chain its rage,
Or nobly write
Your name like Dwight,
On Heaven's own page.

Our sex I'm told
Are formed to hold
A lower place,
Our powers of mind
Being far behind
Your lordly race.

I've understood
That “household-good”
Was our employment,
To cook and mend,
And babies tend,
Our chief enjoyment.

'Tis very well,
I sha'nt rebel,
And when I grow,
Shall like to make
Nice pies and cake,
And share also.

But now good bye,
'Tis time that I
Your patience spare,
May you each day
In love repay
A parent's care.

Mother and Boy.

A DIALOGUE IN THE FIELDS.

Come forth,—come forth, 'tis the time of joy,
Bright summer is out, in the vales, my boy,
Through its lillied bed, see the clear brook glide,
And the white lamb sport by its mother's side,
And the butterfly spread out a golden wing,
And the bees to the honey blossoms sing,
And the grasshopper leap 'mid the new-mown hay,
So, we, my child, will be happy as they.

Sweet words
Speak the birds
From the tree;
Mother! teach
Their speech
Unto me.

Of love they sing when they build their nest,
Of love when they soar o'er the mountain's breast,
Or nurture their young in their green retreat,
This makes their music to us so sweet.

And who can say but their warblings rise
To our Father's ears in yon beautiful skies?
Yet nobler, boy, than their highest lays,
Is the language of man and the voice of praise.

Mother's eye
Like the sky
Shines bright,
Such beams
To my dreams
Give light.

There's a smile on the earth and the waters mild,
For the heart of a good and a happy child,
And the sighing leaves on the wind-rock'd limb
Will lull him to sleep like a cradle-hymn;
While Nature, with pencil of rain-bow dye,
Writes the name of God for his waking eye.
Remember him, babe, in thy day of care,
At morn, and at night, in thy simple prayer,
Breathe the incense of childhood, fresh and free,
And he in thine age will remember thee.

Child of sixteen months old to a Cousin in Boston.

My Cousin, dear,
I almost fear
To write to you;
So rare your wit
'Tis surely fit,
My words be few.

Your native coast
Has much to boast
Of glorious name;
Both antique lore
And modern store
Uphold its fame.

You're proud, I fear,
In Boston, dear;
I wish you would
Just come and share
Our country fare,
'Twill do you good.

Our rustic ways
And boisterous plays
Perhaps might fright you;
But the sweet birds
And lambs, and herds
Must sure delight you.

Pray give with this
A Christmas kiss
To aunties, three;
And love to all,
Both great and small,
Who think of me.

'Tis time that I
My cradle try,
Nurse takes the light,
And strains her ken,
To snatch my pen,
So, love, good night.

A little Girl to a little Boy on his removal to New-York.

You go, I'm told,
This winter cold,
A journey, sir,
Pray shun the blast,
And travel fast,
Wrap'd close in fur.

I'm sorry too,
To part with you,
Your courteous care
At infant school,
Next summer cool,
I hop'd to share.

My wish to go,
I do not know
But they'll refuse,
Is it not shame
My age should claim
No right to choose.

Twice has the sphere
Roll'd round the year,
Since I saw light;
Yet all my skill
To have my will,
Has fail'd outright.

I marvel why
You wish to try
A city life;
Pleas'd as you were
With rural care,
And free from strife.

Manners and men
You'd better ken
Among the throng;
But the young breast
Is nurtur'd best
Mid Nature's song.

I've heard that those
Who pass for beaux,
In lofty stations,

Oft treat with scorn
Their country-born,
And poor relations.

Now don't forget
How oft we've met
In Nurse's arms,
When gay and free,
You crow'd at me,
And prais'd my charms.

Little Girl to a little Girl, with a basket of wild flowers.

You have green-house plants, I hear,
Of rare and splendid tints, my dear,
And I have no such gifts to send,
Yet anxious still, to be your friend,
These wild flowers from my father's grave,
I charge with messages of love,
—Microscopic tube will spy
Charms in their simplicity,
Hidden cells, where pure and free
Springs the nectar for the bee,
Graceful forms and radiant die
From the pencil of the sky.

Now my simple errand's told,
For as I am but three years old,
Letter brief, and scanty line,
Best become a hand like mine.

A little Girl to her friend, with a present of the Rev. Mr. Gallaudet's “Book of the Soul.”

Unless my mother guides my hand,
I cannot write, you know,
But such a tide of tender thought
Does round your image flow,
I fain must send one simple scroll
With this sweet book about the Soul.

'Tis written by a learned man,
And though the size is small,
Its subject is a boundless one,
And much concerns us all,
Because the soul can ne'er decay,
When this frail body fades away.

I've never seen this volume's power
At all surpast, my dear,

For making hidden mysteries plain,
And abstract matters clear,
Pray, let it have the highest place,
Your chosen library to grace.

I often of your sister, think,
That early smitten flower,
Who gave her soul so cheerfully
To God, in life's last hour:
Oh, may we meet her when we die,
In yonder, bright, unclouded sky.

Little Girl to her Pet Lamb.

My Lamb, where hast thou been
Roaming abroad all day?
Cropping thy food in pastures green,
Where the bright waters play?
But of the sunny vale
Thou'rt weary now, I see,
So, thou may'st come and tell thy tale,
And rest thy head on me.

I have been sporting too,
Where spring my favorite flowers,

Among the lillies fresh with dew,
Among the vine clad bowers,
And by yon chrystal stream
Where droops the willow tree,
I sweetly slept, and had a dream,
A pleasant dream of thee.

And music all around
Was breathing when I woke,
From nest, and branch, and rose-deck'd bound,
And from my lips it broke.
Why does thy bosom beat?
Hath aught disturb'd thy peace?
Dear Lamb! have brambles torn thy feet,
Or rent thy snowy fleece?

Come! I can sooth thy pain,
If thou wilt tell me free,
And lull thee with that cooing strain,
The young Dove taught to me.
Thou by my side shalt run,
Friend and companion dear,
For since thou hast no evil done,
What evil need'st thou fear?

The Bee and Butterfly.

“Come neighbour Bee,” said Butterfly,
And spend a merry hour,
For cloudless is the summer sky,
And fragrant every flower;

The Humming-bird a party gives.
Closed by a ball in state,
A fashionable life she lives,
I'll shew you to the féte.

Here is her card, she sent it down,
She meant to call no doubt,
But knew your Queen was apt to frown,
And you are always out.

But to the Butterfly, the Bee
Replied, with serious brow,
“Suppose you work an hour with me,
I'm not at leisure now.

By daily industry I live,
Say, will you aid my task?

And bear this pollen to the hive,
If I do what you ask?

Perhaps you'd better toil a while
For your own winter store,
For Summer wears a fleeting smile,
And Autumn's at the door.”

“Good bye,” the Butterfly rejoin'd,
You've grown a mope I see,
There's nothing hurts a brilliant mind,
Like stupid industry,”

And so, the Bee with cheerful care
Pursued on pinions light,
Thro' the vast regions of the air
Her hackless path aright.

The tallest trees she ventured up,
And scal'd the vine-clad wall,
Singing and tasting every cup,
But temperate in all.

One morn, as from her honied cell
'Mid Autumn's frost she sped,

Beneath a flowret's withered bell
The Butterfly lay dead.

Aunt Nancy and her Parrot.

Aunt Nancy was a maiden fair
Who chose the lonely part;
Birds, cats, and lap-dogs claim'd her care
And rul'd her tender heart.

Their every want she well supplied,
But 'mid her hopeful race,
A Parrot, gay as eastern bride,
Maintain'd the highest place.

He, to her elbow-chair would hie,
Where she, erect and prim,
Her fan and box of snuff laid by
To play and talk with him.

His wit and wisdom cheer'd her days,
His accents charm'd her ear,
As loud he conn'd his boasted phrase
“Good bye, Aunt Nancy dear.”

When in her garden's flowery spot
The lady took the air,
This proud prime-minister would trot,
And scold, and chatter there.

Her ancient favorites scarce could brook
The eclipsing rival's state,
His motions mark'd with jealous look,
And ill-dissembled hate.

The cross old lap-dog oft would snap.
Regardless of the law,
Or sly miss tabby give a tap
With long protruded claw.

Once as he chose alone to walk
Like Eve, without a guide,
A crooked-fang'd, marauding Hawk
The morsel choice, espied.

“My unfledg'd infants, sure,” he said,
“Shall have a feast to-day,”
So, with a fearful swoop, he made
The struggling bird his prey.

Aunt Nancy, by a shriek amaz'd
Quick to the window flew,
Put on her spectacles and gaz'd,
And the lost darling knew.

And as the Hawk, his talons sharp,
With ruthless rage would ply
It seem'd as if some breaking harp
Shriek'd forth,—“good bye,—good bye.”

Slow mingling with the summer cloud
Those gorgeous plumes appear,
Yet thence the Parrot scream'd aloud,
“Good bye,—Aunt Nancy dear.”

Then fast the pitying lady's tears
Distain'd her wither'd cheek,
At hearing thus from higher spheres,
Her kidnapp'd idol speak.

Full oft the tragic tale she told,
And sympathy would claim,
That even 'mid death's relentless hold,
The bird pronounced her name.

Oft too, her purring, growling train
In dining-room, or grove,
She lectur'd long in accents vain,
Of Poll's superior love.

And still, her tears each other chas'd,
While some reproachful friend
Would hint, that love on parrots placed
Was apt in wo to end.

The Rat.

When others for their faults are blam'd,
'Tis a good rule to show
Some causes for defence or praise,
If any such we know.

Now Rats are usually condemn'd
As quite devoid of grace,
And yet I can a story tell
In honor of their race.

A gallant ship to Lisbon went,
And as it cross'd the sea,

It found increasing 'mid its freight
The rat fraternity.

And most uncomfortable friends
Those busy people were,
For nothing could be so conceal'd
But what they'd have a share.

Candles, and eggs, and cheese, and bread,
Off to their cells they bore,
And rifled every apple-cask,
And every sweet-meat store.

And though to punish thefts like these
The sailors oft would toil,
Yet still these cunning culprits hid
And fattened on the spoil.

But when the vessel reach'd the port,
Dark vengeance they secured,
And fill'd their hold with sulphur smoke
Too strong to be endured.

The rats not fancying such perfume,
Fled from their holes amain,

And hurrying headlong o'er the wharf,
Were without mercy slain.

But one was seen with care to tread
The path all red with gore,
And on his back, a rat quite grey
And blind with age he bore.

Then some who mark'd this filial deed
Did that good rat compare
To Eneas, who from flames of Troy,
His sire, Anchises, bare.

The astonish'd executioners,
No longer bitter foes,
Did let the faithful creature pass
In safety, where he chose.

This simple tale is true, my dears,
And so here ends the strain;
For even if rats our candor crave,
They should not ask in vain.

Dialogue between the Canary and Humming Bird.

HUMMING BIRD.

You gaze from your narrow grate in vain,
Poor prisoner-bird of the boasted strain;
Fresh flowers spring up in each nook and dell,
Every bird hath a tale of love to tell,
And the fairest bowers 'neath the summer sky
Are the haunt of the gadding butterfly;
While you, in your pitiless durance pine,
Say, what can you know of a joy like mine?

CANARY BIRD.

You hover about on the sunny spray,
You revel among the flowers all day,
You wound the rose if it wake your ire,
But breathe no lay to the Bountiful Sire.
While I, by a captive's ills opprest,
Far, far from my native bowers of rest,
Pour forth from the morn to the setting sun,
The heart's deep music. “Thy will be done.”

Cat and Kittens.

Aunt Mary's cat, three snowy kittens had,
Playful, and fat, and gay. And she would sport,
And let them climb upon her back, and spread
Her paws to fondle them,—and when she saw
Her mistress come that way, would proudly show
Her darlings, purring with intense delight.
—But one was missing, and grimalkin ran
Distracted, searching with a mother's haste
Parlor and garret, sofa, box and bed,
Calling her baby with a mournful cry,
And questioning each creature that she met,
In her cat-language, eloquently shrill.
And then she left the house. Two hours past by,—
When bringing her lost treasure in her mouth,
She came exulting. While her mewing train
Join'd in loud welcome, she with raptured zeal
Wash'd and re-wash'd their velvet face and paws.
—It had been given to a kind lady's care,
By my Aunt Mary, out of pure good will
To pussy, fearing she might be fatigued
By too much care and nursing. But she sought
From house to house, among the neighbors all

Until she found, and numbered it again
With her heart's jewels.
One full month she fed
And nurtur'd it. Then by the neck she took
The same young kitten, and conveyed it back
To the same house,—and laid it in the lap
Of the same good old lady, as she sat
Knitting upon the sofa. Much surpris'd
She rais'd her spectacles to view the cat,
Who with a most insinuating tone,
Fawning and rubbing round her slipper'd foot
Bespoke her favoring notice.
This is true,
Aunt Mary told me so.
Did pussy think
Her child too young for service?—and when grown
To greater vigor, did she mean to shew
Full approbation of her mistress' choice,
By passing many a nearer house, to find
The lady that its first indentures held?
—This looks like reason,—and they say that brutes
Are only led by instinct. Yet 'tis hard
Sometimes to draw the line, where one begins,
And where the other ceases.

But I know
That kindness to domestic animals
Improves their nature,—and 'tis very wrong
To take away their comforts, and be cross
And cruel to them. The kind-hearted child
Who makes them humble friends, will surely find
A pleasure in such goodness, and obey
The Book of Wisdom in its law of love.

The Dog.

“He will not come,” said the gentle child,
And she patted the poor dog's head,
And pleasantly call'd him, and fondly smil'd,
But he heeded her not, in his anguish wild,
Nor arose from his lowly bed.

'Twas his master's grave, where he chose to rest,
He guarded it night and day,
The love that glow'd in his grateful breast
For the friend that had fed, controll'd, caress'd,
Might never fade away.

And when the long grass rustled near
Beneath some traveller's tread,
He started up with a quivering ear,
For he thought 'twas the step of that master dear
Returning from the dead.

And sometimes, when a storm drew nigh
And the clouds were dark and fleet,
He tore the turf with a mournful cry,
As if he would force his way or die,
To his much lov'd master's feet.

So, there through the summer's heat he lay,
Till autumn nights were bleak;
Till his eye grew dim with his hope's decay,
And he pin'd, and pin'd, and wasted away,
A skeleton gaunt and weak.

And pitying children often brought
Their offerings of meat and bread,
And to coax him away to their homes they sought,
But his buried friend he ne'er forgot,
Nor stray'd from his lonely bed.

Cold winter came with an angry sway,
And the snow lay deep and sore;
And his moaning grew fainter day by day,
Till there, on the spot where his master lay
He fell, to rise no more.

And when he struggled with mortal pain,
And death was by his side,
With one loud cry that shook the plain,
He call'd for his master, but all in vain,
Then stretch'd himself and died.

The Stork.

See the stork, with labor tending
Onward through the boundless sky;
'Neath those aged pinions bending,
That had taught his own to fly.

Still his parents' burden bearing
Patient, o'er the trackless way,
Ever for their comfort caring,
Never wearied, night or day.

Father! when thy head is hoary,
When thine eye is dim with shade,
Will it be my pride and glory
Thy declining steps to aid?

Mother! when thy spirits languish,
When thy strength and youth are spent,
Shall I love to soothe thine anguish,
As thou o'er my cradle bent?

Gentle, tireless, kind, and tender,
Shall I watch lest thou art grieved?
And the same affections render
That I once from thee received?

Filial lesson,—sweetly given!
May it not be lost on me;
Lest this simple bird of heaven
Should my just reprover be.

The Gold Fish.

In globe of glass, and crystal tide,
A graceful, golden form did glide,

Still, in its shelter'd waveless sea,
As happy as a fish could be.
—But discontent it seems has place
Even with the quiet, finny race,
For raising oft a sadden'd eye,
It heav'd a solitary sigh;
Desiring some companion gay
With whom to gambol and to play.
—Its gentle master, ever prone
To make another's wo his own,
And able well to comprehend
The priceless value of a friend,
Did to its weakness condescend,
And for his beauteous favorite bought
A kindred spirit, as he thought.
—But how the sequel shall I trace!
That very night, the stranger, base,
Destroyed the gentle, trusting fish,
Whose only sin had been the wish,
Not quite alone, without a mate,
Life's little sea to navigate.
—Then those who saw its death-clos'd eye
So dim, beneath the waters lie,
Might think they heard a pitying sigh

Soft to their heart this warning send,
“Be careful how you choose a friend.”

War.

War, is a wicked thing,
It strikes the strong man dead,
And leaves the trampled battle-field
With blood and carnage red,
While thousand mangled forms
In hopeless suffering bleed,
And vultures and hyenas throng
Upon their flesh to feed.

See with what bitter grief
Those widowed ones deplore;
And children for their father mourn,
Who must return no more.
And aged parents sink
In penury and despair,
And sorrow dwells in many a home,—
War makes the weeping there.

It comes with sins and woes,
A dark and endless train,
It fills the breast with murderous hate
Where Christian love should reign,
It desolates the land
With famine, death, and flame,
And those are in a sad mistake
Who seek the warrior's fame.

Oh, may I guard my heart
From every evil thing,
From thoughts of anger and revenge
Whence wars and fightings spring.
And may the plants of peace
Grow up serene and fair,
And mark me for a child of heaven
That I may enter there.

Difference of Color.

God gave to Afric's sons
A brow of sable dye,

And spread the country of their birth
Beneath a burning sky,
And with a cheek of olive, made
The little Hindoo child,
And darkly stain'd the forest-tribes
That roam our western wild.

To me he gave a form
Of fairer, whiter clay;
But am I, therefore, in his sight
Respected more than they?
No,—'tis the hue of deeds and thoughts
He traces in his Book,
'Tis the complexion of the heart
On which he deigns to look.

Not by the tinted cheek
That fades away so fast,
But by the color of the soul,
We shall be judg'd at last.
And God, the Judge, will look at me
With anger in his eyes,
If I, my brother's darker brow
Should ever dare despise.

Thoughts among Flowers.

I've seen a full blown rose bow down,
As though it fondly smil'd,
Upon its little fragrant bud,
As a mother loves her child.

So have I seen twin lilies press
Like tender sisters near,
Affectionate in loveliness,
And innocent as dear,

And if a rain-drop's chilling tear
Long on their bosoms lay,
Those gentle friends divided it,
Till the chillness fled away.

I've seen the violet's dewy eye
When summer showers did fall,
Look grateful up to the clear blue sky,
And the loving Sire of all.

And clustering 'mid her neighbors fair,
I've mark'd the daisy grow,

As if she sought those sympathies
That friendship can bestow.

Perchance, around the flowers that glow
So pure, in their green retreat,
The same affections kindly flow,
That make our lives so sweet.

Letter from a little Western Emigrant Girl.

Here are huge forests, cousin. The great elm
With that low bench around it, where we sat
At Summer's eve and ate our bread and milk,
Thinking its green head reach'd into the sky,
Was nothing to these tall, thick-woven trees
That shut the sun out, here. I often think
Of the sweet cherry-tree I us'd to call
My own,—from which we gathered crimson fruit,
So rich and ripe, and of the little bed
Of tulips, which we two so oft would tend.
Who helps you make your garden now? I hope
Sometimes when you walk there, your heart will turn
To your poor cousin, who remembers you,
And has no garden.

Tell my butterflies,
Those red and black wing'd ones, that us'd all day
To hover round our flowers, I wish they'd come
On to this western country. They would find
With their slight forms, and pinions swift as light,
The journey but a trifle, which to us
Was a sore labor, sure. We toil'd along,
And toil'd, up hill and down, through dangerous roads,
Plunging in rivers 'till the horses swam,
And camping 'neath our waggon in the night,
The baby always crying, as if he
Who least could know the value of our home,
Griev'd most to leave it. Yet 'tis pleasant here,
And there are many birds, and father says
'Tis a good land.

My elder sister mourns
Because there is no school;—but as for me,
I like to play all day among the hills,
And frisk with the young lambs. When Sunday comes,
And there is no sweet echoing bell, no church,
No children with their lessons hasting on,
Clean drest and happy,—in my breast there swells
A sorrow unto tears, and by myself
Where the thick bushes bend, I go and weep,

Because I think my mother looks more sad
To see her children grieving, and we ought
To cheer her heart, who bears so much for us.
—O cousin, love your teachers, love their voice
Who bring you wisdom from the Book of God.
And when you hear the tuneful bell that calls
You to his house, lift up your heart in praise,
And breathe a prayer, that we, poor emigrants,
May share the blessings that you thus enjoy.

Cheerfulness.

ADAPTED TO THE TUNE OF “AWAY WITH MELANCHOLY.”

Shall we oppress'd with sadness
Strike Melancholy's string?
No! take the harp of gladness,
And merrily, merrily sing.

Bright valleys crown'd with flowers,
Gay birds on soaring wing,
Incite our tuneful powers
To cheerily,—cheerily sing.

In sweet harmonious measures,
Praise to Creation's king,
The Author of our pleasures,
We'll gratefully,—gratefully sing.

Motto for a painted Work-Box.

Might this light toy presume to teach,
With radiant brow and pictur'd speech,
The lesson of its choice would be,
“Redeem the day from sloth,—through me:”

So, while it aids with ready art
The busy needle's dexterous part,
Soft let it whisper to the heart,
The absent giver's name,—and prove,
The sweet remembrancer of love.

Birth-Day Verses.

TO A LITTLE GIRL WHO HAD LOST HER MOTHER.

We love the flower that decks the spray,
And brightens thro' the summer-day,

We praise the fruit, whose ripening hue
Of gold or crimson meets our view;
But with delight far more refin'd,
Behold the fair, expanding mind,
Whose radiant blossoms charm the eye,
Whose hallow'd fruits can never die.

An eye there was whose tender beam
Hung o'er thy being's earliest dream,
That once upon this rising morn
Wept tears of joy that thou wert born;
And now, perchance, with watchful zeal,
With such pure love as angels feel,
Regards thee from that realm of day,
Where every tear is wip'd away.

Oh choose the path, that Mother trod,
Belov'd on earth, and blest of God;
At Pity's call, at Sorrow's sigh,
Pour forth her heaven-taught sympathy,
Her image in its grace restore,
Print on thy brow the smile she wore,
Bare as she bore, a Saviour's name,
—What higher wish can Friendship frame?

Dialogue between Orphan Sisters.

YOUNGEST SISTER.
Sister,—when I go to rest,
The last image in my breast,
Is of a hand that gently spread
The covering o'er my cradle-bed,
And of a bosom soft and kind
On which my infant head reclin'd.
And ever, when I wake,—my theme,
As of some dear and blissful dream,
Is of a tone prolong'd and clear,
Sweet and birdlike to my ear,
Of a fond kiss,—it was not thine,
And murmer of the Name Divine:
Sister,—you remember well,
Tell me of our parents,—tell.

ELDEST SISTER.

Alas of him,—our father-guide,
Few tints hath memory's scroll supplied;
A tender smile,—a glance, whose pain
Could well my wayward moods restrain,

Fair gifts that still unsullied shine,
In childhood's books some pencil'd line,—
And then, a burst of bitter wo,
Knell, coffin, and procession slow,
And this is all of him who sleeps
Where yonder drooping willow weeps,

But of that blessed one who gave
Our father to the lonely grave,
So strong with every thought is wove,
The tireless teachings of her love,
With every fibre of the mind,
So close her prayer her smile entwin'd,
That my whole being's hidden store
Seems by her pencil written o'er;
And if within my heart there springs
Some chasten'd love of holy things,
She sow'd the seed with mild control
That patient florist of the soul.

Sweetest, let me dry thy tear,
Thou art like that mother dear,
And I fain would be to thee
What that mother was to me.

Winter Thoughts.

Winter hath hid my flowers. I cannot find
A single violet where so many grew,
And all my garden-beds, so nicely fring'd
With verdant box, are cover'd thick with snow.
He has not left one lingering pink, to please
My little sister.
Sure,—tis very hard
For Winter so to come,—and take away
What was my own, and I had toil'd to keep
Healthful, and free from weeds.
They say he rocks
The wearied flowers to sleep, as some good nurse
Compels the infant to resign its sports,
And go to needful slumber. Well,—I thought
My roses all look'd sleepy,—and I know
When one is tir'd, how very sweet it is,
To shut the eyelids close, and know no more,
Until the wakening of a mother's kiss.

Winter looks stern and hath an angry voice.
I hope he will not harm my tender buds,
That had just put their velvet leaflets forth,
And seem'd so frighten'd. But I know who rules

Harsh Winter, and spreads out the spotless snow,
Like a soft curtain over every herb,
And shrinking plant that it may rest secure,
And undisturb'd. He shields the lowliest shrub
That strikes its lone root at the mountain's base,
With the same gentle and protecting love
As the moss-rose. Yea. He doth care for all,
The ivy, and the aspen, and the moss
Clothing the ancient wall,—who have no friend
To watch them,—and no fragrance to repay.

Father in Heaven! I thank Thee for the rest
Thou giv'st my weary flowers. Grant them to wake
At Spring's first call and rear their beauteous heads
Rejoicing,—as my baby-brother springs
From his sweet cradle-sleep,—with tiny arms
Outstretch'd,—and eyes like my own violets bright.

Intemperance.

I saw a little girl
With half uncovered form,
And wondered why she wandered thus,
Amid the winter storm;

They said her mother drank
What took her sense away,
And so she let her children go
Hungry and cold all day.

I saw them lead a man
To prison for his crime,
Where solitude, and punishment,
And toil divide the time;
And as they forc'd him through its gate
Unwillingly along,
They told me 'twas Intemperance
That made him do the wrong.

I saw a woman weep
As if her heart would break;
They said her husband drank too much
Of what he should not take.
I saw an unfrequented mound
Where weeds and brambles wave;
They said no tear had fallen there,
It was a drunkard's grave.

They said these were not all
The risks the intemperate run,
For there was danger lest the soul
Be evermore undone.
Water is very pure and sweet,
And beautiful to see,
And since it cannot do us harm,
It is the drink for me.

Life.

Life is like a fleeting dream,
Like the rapid summer stream,
Like the flashing meteor's ray,
Like the shortest winter's day,
Like the fitful breeze that sighs,
Like the wavering flame that dies,
Darting, dazzling on the eye,
Fading in Eternity.

Entrance to a Sunday School.

Father in Heaven! my spirit ought
Thy blessing to implore,
Admitted where thy truths are taught,
And pious hearts adore.

Instruct my ignorance, I pray,
My wayward passions tame,
From every folly guard my way,
From every sin reclaim.

Each task with pleasure may I learn,
Each Scripture-lesson prize,
And grant thy wisdom to discern
Whate'er in darkness lies.

Short is the time we here may pass,
And life is transient too,
Like the brief flowret of the grass,
Or like the morning dew.

With trembling awe, thy power I see,
Thy boundless mercy sing,

Few words become a child like me
Before so great a King.

Teach me thy precepts to fulfil,
To trust a Savior's love,
To yield to thy most righteous will
And seek a home above.

“He is about my path,—and about my bed.”

Psalm 139th.

When first my infant feet essay'd,
The movements of my will to aid,
Parents and friends with watchful eye
To guard my tottering steps would fly.
But now, 'mid verdant paths I stray,
Or on the clear brook's margin play,
Till the Sun's parting lustres burn—
Go fearless forth and safe return,
For watchful ever by my side,
A Father doth my footstep guide.

When weary on my pillow laid
Mild evening draws her curtaining shade,

And busy dreams, with changeful sway
Bring back the pleasures of the day,
When the last form that linger'd near,
My tender mother, ever dear,
Hath left her kiss, hath breath'd her prayer,
And in sweet rest resign'd her care:
Still One, whose eye can never sleep,
Around my bed his watch doth keep.

Moses.

There was a king of Egypt, and he made
A cruel law, that every infant son
Born to the Hebrew race, throughout his realm,
Should be destroyed. Think! what a cruel law,
That those sweet, sinless infants should be slain.
—But one fond mother hid her babe away,
So that they might not find him, and she went
Silent, and gave him food; and when he cried
She softly hush'd him, lest his voice should lead
The murderers to their prey. So he became
Exceeding fair, and health upon his cheek
Gleam'd like an opening rose.

Three months past by,
And his glad eye grew brighter, when he heard
His mother's footstep, though he did not know
Why she would press her finger on his lip
To check his joyous mirth. With bitter pang
She gaz'd upon the beauty of his smile,
And shuddering heard his laughter, for she felt
She could no longer hide him.
So, one morn,
She wrapt him safely in a cradle-ark,
And with a hurried foot-step laid him down
Among the rushes by the river's brink.
—Strangely the wild eye of the wondering babe,
Gaz'd on her from the water,—and his arms
Stretch'd from their reedy prison, sought in vain
To twine about her neck. She turn'd away,
Breathing that prayer, which none but mothers breathe,
For their endanger'd babes.
It was the Nile,
On which she laid her son in his slight ark
Of woven rushes. She remember'd well
The gaunt and wily crocodile, that loves
To haunt those slimy waters. But she knew
That He who made the crocodile could stay

His ravenous jaws. So, in his mighty arm
She put her trust. Close by the river's brink,
Her little mournful daughter staid to see
What would befal her brother, and her voice
Did sweetly struggle with her grief, to sing
The hymn that sooth'd the child.
But then there came
Proud Egypt's princess, with her flowing robes,
Walking that way. And when she saw the ark
Among the flags, she bade her maidens haste,
And bring it to her.
Lo! there lay a babe,
A weeping babe:—and when she saw its brow,
Polish'd and beautiful, all wet with tears,
And deadly pale, pity and love sprang up
In her kind bosom, and she took the boy
To her own palace-home. Yet still he wept,
Like an affrighted stranger.
Then she bade
To call a nurse; and lo! the mother came!
She, who had sown in tears, did reap in joy.
—And when she drew her nursling to her breast,
And fondly lull'd him to a gentle sleep,
Know ye how warm the thrill of praise went up
Unto the God of Israel?

—So, this babe
Of the poor Hebrew, 'neath the royal dome
Of Egypt's monarch grew,—in all the lore
Of that wise realm instructed. He became
A prophet, mighty both in word and deed.
And when you read, my children, how he broke
The yoke of bondage from his people's neck,
And smote with awful rod the parting sea,
And brought pure water from the rock, and stood
On Sinai, with Jehovah face to face,
You will bethink you of this simple tale,—
The Ark of rushes, and the Mother's prayer.

Samuel.

There came to Zion's courts, a guest,
With meek and reverent air,
Whose tender, watchful eye express'd
A mother's anxious care.
And by his hand, a boy she brought,
And thus the priest bespake,—
“Lo! of my God, this son was sought,
The gift to him I make.”

She hid the tear-drop in her heart,
And musing, homeward sped,
While the fond child, compell'd to part,
Wept on his lonely bed.
When night hung heavy in her sphere,
And all was dark with shade,
Jehovah's voice address'd his ear,
And answering, he obey'd.

The priest observed with wondering care
The grace to Samuel given,
Beholding how a mother's prayer
Might win the grace of Heav'n;
For pure devotion's holy flame
Was with his stature rear'd,
Till Hannah's son, a Seer became,
By listening Israel fear'd.

The Almighty.

Who bade thy parents love thy infant form,
And shield thy weakness from the wintry storm,
Who gave the ear to hear, the mind to know,
The eye to sparkle, and the blood to flow?

Who grants the day of health, the night of rest,
Strength to thy limbs, and comfort in thy breast?
Who marks with kindest care thy daily lot?
Whose arm sustains thee though thou seest it not?
Whose watchful eye observes thy secret ways?
Who writes the record of thy fleeting days?

Go, ask the stream that rolls in torrents by,
Ask of the stars that light the darken'd sky,
Or of the fields, array'd in garments fair,
Or of the birds that warble in the air,
Or of the mountain-lilies wet with dew,
Or of the trees, and they will tell thee who,—
Then lift thine eyes adoring to his throne,
And bow thy heart to Him, the Everlasting One.

“He feedeth the young ravens that cry.”

The new-fledg'd ravens leave the nest,
And with a clamorous cry,
Uncertain wing, and ruffled breast,
In broken circles fly.

Abandon'd by a parent's care,
They famish'd press the sod,
And in the wildness of despair
Demand their meat of God.

By him who feeds the ravenous bird
And guards the sparrow's lot,
Shall our petitions be unheard?
Our sorrowing sighs forgot?

Consider how the lilies grow,
The young birds safely rove,
Nor fear in every time of wo
To trust your Maker's love.

An Emblem.

I've seen a drop of morning dew
Like radiant gem serene,
Bright sparkling on a verdant bough
All clad in summer-green.

The risen sun exhal'd the tear,
And drank it, as it shone;

The sudden lightning smote the branch,
It shiver'd, and was gone.

Was not that dew-drop like the bloom
And morning of our span?
And yonder broken, blasted bough,
Like the frail hope of man?

Sunday School Hymn.

I hear the voice of Nature's praise
'Mid summer's joyous bowers,
And where the streams with crystal maze
Refresh the thirsty flowers.

And where yon high o'er-arching trees
In verdant robes are drest,
It comes on every gentle breeze
From bough, and spray, and nest.

Then, if the things by Nature taught
Breathe music o'er the sod,

How high should rise our raptur'd thought,
We, who are taught of God!

To us he speaks,—from morning's cell,
From evening's dewy sphere,
And when the Sabbath's holy bell
Melodious warns the ear.

To us he speaks,—He guides our choice
By heaven's own Book divine,
And aids our teacher's much-lov'd voice
To impress each treasur'd line.

To us He speaks,—and we in praise
Would still our answer bring;
Here, where Creation prompts our lays,
And there, where angels sing.

A Scripture Story.

Children, I'll tell a story of the sea,
And Him, who walk'd upon it.
It was night,

Dark night, and the loud winds howl'd fearfully
Along the madden'd billows. O'er these waves
In all their pride and anger, Jesus came.
—A ship lay tossing there, and the strain'd eyes
Of the storm-driven mariners, were bent
On Him with terror, for they did not know
Their Master in that hour.
But at the sound,
Of his blest voice that cheer'd their fainting hearts,
Peter, with eager footstep hasted down
To meet his Lord. The wild and boisterous blast
Made him afraid, and the cold surge came up
Against his shuddering breast.
“Save me!”—he cried,
“Save, or I perish.”
Then the Savior's hand
Was stretch'd to succor him; even as it plucks
The soul that trusts him from the flood of death,
And gives it victory. Safe on the deck
Among the glad disciples, Peter stood,
Full of adoring gratitude, while all
Gave praise and glory to the Son of God.
—Then Peter learn'd he might not place his foot
Upon the ocean's stormy face and live.

Children, you know the reason. 'Tis not given
To man to tread the sea. It riseth up,
And sweeps him like a feeble weed away.
—But God doth do, what man attempts in vain.
And he who made the sea, can bid its waves
In all the madness of their stormy strength,
Spread a smooth pavement for his feet divine.

Christ blessing the Children.

“And he took them in his arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed them.”

Mark 10:16.

When the Redeemer dwelt in clay,
The proud, the powerful shunn'd his sway,
The scribe and pharisee, with frown
On him of Nazareth look'd down,
And Judah, long with dream elate
Of her Messiah's regal state,
Beheld the homeless one with hate,
And Rome, with haughty mockery ey'd
The Man of grief, the crucified.—
—But they, the innocent, the blest,

In childhood's meekness, sought his breast,
Their little feet without a guide
Came thronging to his peaceful side,
And tho' the cold and stern command
Bade them at greater distance stand,
Yet strengthen'd by his cheering smile,
They gather'd to his arms the while,
And 'mid his bosom's holy shade
Their beauteous heads, confiding laid.
—Children! even now that heavenly Friend
Doth to your weakness condescend;
Yes, still he marks with favoring smile,
Your trusting spirits, free from guile,—
Still, by his gracious Word would guide
Your steps in safety to his side;
Still waits, in tender love to shed
His blessing on your duteous head.
—Lambs of the flock! with all your charms,
Haste to your glorious Shepherd's arms.

Death of the youngest Child.

“Why is our infant sister's eye
No more with gladness bright?

Her brow of dimpled beauty, why
So like the marble white?”
My little ones, ye need no more
To hush the sportive tread,
Or whispering, pass the muffled door,—
Your sweetest one is dead.

In vain you'll seek her joyous tone
Of tuneful mirth to hear,
Nor will her suffering, dove-like moan
Again distress your ear.
Lost to a mother's pillowing breast,
The snow-wreath marks her bed,
Her polish'd cheek in earth must rest,—
Your sweetest one is dead.

Returning spring, the birds will call
Their happy task to take;
Vales, verdant trees, and streamlets, all
From winter's sleep shall wake,
Again your cherished flowers shall bloom,
Anew their fragrance shed;
But she, the darling, will not come,—
Your sweetest one is dead.

Ye know that blest Redeemer's name
Who gaz'd on childhood's charms,
Indulgent heard its gentle claim,
And clasp'd it in his arms;
To him, your sister-babe hath gone,
Her pains, her tears are o'er,
Safe, near her Heavenly Father's throne,
She bows to death no more.

Praise for religious Instruction.

Awake the grateful hymn of praise
To our Almighty Friend,
Who bids instruction's holy light
On infant minds descend;—

Who bids the heaven-taught spirit toil
To spread its knowledge wide,
And urge the listening child to seek
The love of Christ who died;—

Who makes the moral desert hear
Salvation's glorious voice,

The wild and solitary place
With sudden bloom rejoice.

To us, oh Lord, who learn thy word,
A docile mind impart,
And deign to touch with tireless zeal
Each faithful teacher's heart,

Till as the rushing waters fill
The boundless ocean's bed,
The saving knowledge of thy will
O'er all the earth shall spread.

Funeral Hymn for a Sunday School Scholar.

As crushed by sudden storms, the rose
Sinks on the garden's breast,
Down to the grave our brother goes
In earth's cold arms to rest.

No more with us, his tuneful voice
The hymn of praise shall swell,
No more his cheerful heart rejoice
To hear the Sabbath-bell.

Yet if in yon unclouded sphere,
Amid a blessed throng,
He warbles to his Savior's ear
The everlasting song,—

No more we'll mourn our buried friend,
But lift the ardent prayer,
And every wish and effort bend
To rise and join him there.

The First Martyr.

There was a holy man, in ancient times
Who taught the Jewish people, Full of power,
And strong in faith, he told them of the Christ,
The hope of Israel.
But their hearts were hard,
And their ears deaf to preaching. More than this,—
They were offended at him. So, by force
They brought him to the Council, and accused
Falsely, of evil deeds, and impious words,
Against their Law and Prophet.

The High Priest,
Majestic, from his seat of state inquired,
“Are these things so?”
Then, lo! the face of him
Who stood arraign'd before them, brightly glow'd
With such celestial light of innocence,
That they who gaz'd upon it, deem'd they saw
An angel's countenance. And then he spake
The truth with boldness,—how the voice of God
Bade faithful Abraham leave his native home
For a far land of strangers,—and with power
Speaking through Moses, led their fathers forth
From Egypt's bondage, through the parted sea,
And through the desert, to a fruitful land,
Giving them rest, beneath the peaceful sway
Of their own kings. But at his keen rebuke
Of their ingratitude and unbelief,
And sinful shedding of a Savior's blood,
They gnash'd their teeth, and from the city's bound
Hurried him forth, hurling with furious rage
Stones at his guiltless head.
Kneeling, he met
The murderous shower. Before his stedfast sight
There was a vision of the Son of God,

And heaven's unuttered glory. His pale lip
Trembling with painful death, still strove in prayer,
For his blood-thirsty foes. “Lord! to their charge
Lay not this sin.”
And so, he fell asleep:
The first meek martyr to the faith of Christ,
Mangled and crush'd beneath the unpitying storm
Of sinful anger.
Children, who have read
Of Stephen in your bibles, you will know
That this was he. You do not live in days
Of persecution,—but I'll tell you how
You may resemble Stephen;—yea, even more,
How to be like the Master whom he served.
—When at your homes, or in your sports, you take
Offence at your companions, and the blood
Rushes up warmly to your brow, and prompts
The deed of anger, ask of Stephen's God
To teach you how to pardon, and to melt
With gentle dews of love, the thought unkind.

On a Child of two and a half years old, who wiped the tears of his Father with his dying hand.

Pale was the little polish'd brow
That lately bloomed so fair,
And speechless lay the baby-boy,
His parents' pride and care.
The struggle and the fever-pang
That shook his frame were past,
And there, with fix'd and wishful glance
He lay—to breathe his last.

Upon his sorrowing father's face
He gazed with dying eye,
Then raised a cold and feeble hand
His starting tears to dry.
And so he wip'd those weeping eyes
Even with his parting breath;
Oh! tender deed of infant love,
How beautiful in death!

Yes,—ere that gentle soul forsook
The fainting, trembling clay,
It caught the spirit of that world
Where tears are wiped away.

And still its cherish'd image gleams
Upon the parent's eye,
A guiding-cherub to that home
Where every tear is dry.

The Infant's Prayer.

[_]

A very young and lovely child in New-York, was found in prayer by her bed-side, for her little sick cousin. She was not able to say plainly, Elizabeth, which was the name of her dear playmate. So her prayer was, “please God, let Lilly live.”

Those two sweet children died within a short time of each other, of the same disease. It was the will of their Father in heaven, that they should live together with him.

The West had shut its gate of gold
Upon the parted sun,
And through each window's curtaining fold
Lamps glimmer'd one by one;
And many a babe had gone to rest,
And many a tender mother's breast
Still lull'd its darling care,
When in a nursery's quiet bound,
With fond affections circled round,
I heard an infant's prayer.

Yes, there it knelt,—its cherub face
Uprais'd with earnest air;
And well devotion's heaven born grace
Became a brow so fair;
But seldom at our Father's throne
Such blest and happy child is known
So painfully to strive;
For long with tearful ardor fraught,
That supplicating lip besought,—
“Please God, let Lilly live.”

And still the imploring voice did flow
That little couch beside,
As if for “poor sick Lilly's” wo,
It could not be denied:
Even when the balm of slumber stole
With soothing influence o'er the soul,
Like moon-light o'er the stream,
The murmuring tone, the sobbing strife,
The broken plea for Lilly's life,
Mix'd with the infant dream.

So Lilly liv'd.—But not where time
Is measur'd out by woes;

Not where cold Winter chills the clime,
Or canker eats the rose;
And she, who for that darling friend—
In agonizing love did bend
To pour the simple prayer,—
Safe from the pang, the groan, the dart,
That wound the mourning parent's heart,
Lives with her Lilly there.

The Last Day in the Year.

Oh Thou, who dwellest in the heavens,
Whom angels love and fear,
Who giv'st us in thy tender love
To close another year,—

Did'st for our many daily wants
Untiringly provide,
And grant us friends and parents dear
Our thoughtless steps to guide,—

When sickness smote our feeble frames,
Did'st take away our pain,

And even when others sought the grave,
Restor'd our health again,—

And bade the lamp of knowledge shine
With radiance full and free,
And sent thy holy Book to shew
The path that leads to Thee,—

Oh! give us good and grateful hearts
Thy mercy to adore,
And take our spirits, when we die,
Where they can praise thee more.

New Year's Address to the Children of the United States.

My children, 'tis the New Year's morn,
And many a wish for you is born,
And many a prayer, of spirit true,
Breaks from paternal lips for you.
—No more the vales with daisies glow,
The violet sleeps beneath the snow,
The rose her radiant robes doth fold
And hide her buds from winter's cold.

But Spring, with gentle smile, shall call
Up from their beds, those slumberers all;
Fresh verdure o'er your path shall swell,
The brook its tuneful story tell,
And graceful flowers with varied bloom
Again your garden's bound perfume.
—Ye are our buds; and in your breast
The promise of our hope doth rest.
When knowledge like the breath of Spring
Shall wake your minds to blossoming,
May their unfolding germs disclose
More than the fragrance of the rose,
More than the brightness of the stream,
That through green shades, with sparkling gleam
In purity and peace doth glide
On to the ocean's mighty tide.
—The country, too, which gave you birth,
That freest, happiest clime of earth,
To all, to each, with fervor cries,
“Child! for my sake,—be good, be wise.
Seek knowledge, and with studious pain,
Resolve her priceless gold to gain.
Shun the strong cup, whose poisonous tide
To ruin's dark abyss doth guide,

And with the sons of virtue stand,
The bulwark of your native land.
—Me, would you serve? This day begin
The fear of God, the dread of sin;
Love, for instruction's watchful care,
The patient task, the nightly prayer,
So shall you glitter as a gem,
Bound in my brightest diadem.”

Minerva's Prize.

Minerva, a visit to Flora once made,
When the flowers, in a body, their compliments paid,
And charm'd with their manners and elegant dyes,
She promis'd to give to the fairest a prize;
And appointed a day when herself would preside,
And on their pretensions to beauty, decide.
—Then the rose bridled up with a confident air,
As if she would say, “who with me can compare?”
While the lily, but newly come out as a bride,
Whisper'd long to her sisters, and laugh'd at such pride.
—The hyacinth studied her wardrobe with care,
Still puzzled to settle what colors to wear.

The poppy ashamed of her dull, sleepy eyes,
Wore a bright scarlet dress, with a view to the prize;
While the tulip came flaunting and waving her fan,
And turn'd up her nose at the daffodil clan.
Then flock'd the anemonies, fair to behold,
With the rich polyanthus in velvet and gold,
And the jonquil with corsets lac'd terribly tight,
The hump on her back to conceal from the sight,
Tho' her gasping for breath, and stiff movements betray'd
The pain she endur'd and the effort she made,
While wiser globe-amaranth whisper'd apart
How such folly would injure the lungs and the heart
There were some so mistaken and vain, as to say
That by fine dress alone, they could carry the day.
So with them, there was toiling and prinking enough,
And trying new fashions of head-dress and ruff.
The stately carnations stood frizzing their hair,
And the tall London-pride choosing feathers to wear;
The pink at her mirror was ready to drop,
And the snow-ball bought rouge at a milliner's shop,
While in the same square, at a shoe-store so neat,
The trim ladies'-slippers sat pinching their feet.

—Thrifty lilac observed that her robe was not new,
But with turning and furbishing thought it might do,
While the queer ragged-lady, who pass'd for a poet,
Wish'd to darn up her hose, and let nobody know it,
And the monk's-hood who simper'd in scorn at a sonnet,
Was tying new bows on her sombre old bonnet.
—The green-house exotics in chariots went by,
For their delicate nerves fear'd each frown of the sky,
While from her low cottage of moss on the plain,
The violet look'd up and admir'd the bright train,
Not dreaming to join in a circle so gay,
Or supposing that she had a charm to display,
Then o'er a sick sister she tenderly bow'd,
And kiss'd her pale brow, as she turn'd from the crowd.
—With delight, Flora gaz'd on the glittering train,
And bade them pass by her, again and again.
But judge how that well dress'd conventicle star'd,
When Minerva the prize to the violet declar'd!
And added,—“tho' beauty and splendor were there,
That modesty ever to her was most fair;
Bright brows and gay costumes might dazzle the eyes,
But merit, tho' meek, was preferred by the wise:
And fashion might garnish the form with her art,
But the pearl of true beauty lay deep in the heart.”

100

A Mother's Grave.

My mother's grave. 'Tis there beneath the trees.
I love to go alone, and sit, and think
Upon that grassy mound. My cradle hours
Come back again so sweetly, and the smile
That ever beamed upon me, when I woke
And lifted up my head, to kiss the cheek
That bow'd to meet me. And I seem to feel
Once more the hand that smooth'd my clustering curls,
And led me to the garden, pointing out
Each fragrant flower and bud, or drawing back
My foot, lest I should careless crush the worm
That crawl'd beside us.
And that gentle tone,
Teaching to pat the house-dog, and be kind
To the poor cat, and spare the little flies
Upon the window, and divide my bread
With those that hunger'd, and bow meekly down
To the grey-headed man, and a look with love
On all whom God hath made.
And then her hymn
At early evening, when I went to rest,
And folded closely to her bosom, sat

101

Joining my cheek to her's and pouring out
My broken music, with her tuneful strain:—
Comes it not back again, that holy hymn,
Even now, upon my ear?
But when I go
To my lone bed, and find no mother there,
And weeping, kneel to say the prayer she taught,
Or when I read the Bible that she lov'd,
Or to her vacant seat at church draw near,
And think of her, a voice is in my heart,
Bidding me early seek my God, and love
My blessed Savior.
Sure, that voice is her's.
I know it is, because these were the words
She us'd to speak so tenderly, with tears,
At the still twilight-hour, or when we walk'd
Forth in the Spring amid rejoicing birds,
Or whispering, talk'd beside the winter fire.
—Mother! I'll keep these precepts in my heart,
And do thy bidding.
Then, when God shall say,
My days are finish'd, will he give me leave
To come to thee? And can I find thy home
And see thee with thy glorious garments on,

102

And kneel at the Redeemer's feet, and beg
That where the Mother is, the Child may dwell?

A Prayer.

Giver of our every blessing,
Thou, for whose unceasing care,
Earth is still her praise addressing,
Hear thy little children's prayer.

Wisdom, with our stature grant us,
Goodness with each growing year,
Nor let folly's wiles enchant us
From our duty's sacred sphere.

Grant us hope when life is ending;
When the pulse forsakes the breast,
May our spirit, upward tending,
Father! in thy bosom rest.