The poetical writings of Elizabeth Oakes Smith Second edition |
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| MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. |
 | The poetical writings of Elizabeth Oakes Smith |  |
138
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
THE APRIL RAIN.
The April rain—the April rain—
I hear the pleasant sound;
Now soft and still, like little dew,
Now drenching all the ground.
Pray tell me why an April shower
Is pleasanter to see
Than falling drops of other rain?
I'm sure it is to me.—
I hear the pleasant sound;
Now soft and still, like little dew,
Now drenching all the ground.
Pray tell me why an April shower
Is pleasanter to see
Than falling drops of other rain?
I'm sure it is to me.—
I wonder if 't is really so—
Or only hope the while,
That tells of swelling buds and flowers,
And summer's coming smile.
Whate'er it is, the April shower
Makes me a child again;
I feel a rush of youthful blood
Come with the April rain.
Or only hope the while,
That tells of swelling buds and flowers,
And summer's coming smile.
Whate'er it is, the April shower
Makes me a child again;
I feel a rush of youthful blood
Come with the April rain.
139
And sure, were I a little bulb
Within the darksome ground,
I should love to hear the April rain
So gently falling round;
Or any tiny flower were I,
By nature swaddled up,
How pleasantly the April shower
Would bathe my hidden cup.
Within the darksome ground,
I should love to hear the April rain
So gently falling round;
Or any tiny flower were I,
By nature swaddled up,
How pleasantly the April shower
Would bathe my hidden cup.
The small brown seed, that rattled down
On the cold autumnal earth,
Is bursting from its cerements forth,
Rejoicing in its birth.
The slender spears of pale green grass
Are smiling in the light,
The clover opes its folded leaves
As if it felt delight.
On the cold autumnal earth,
Is bursting from its cerements forth,
Rejoicing in its birth.
The slender spears of pale green grass
Are smiling in the light,
The clover opes its folded leaves
As if it felt delight.
The robin sings on the leafless tree,
And upward turns his eye,
As loving much to see the drops
Come filtering from the sky—
No doubt he longs the bright green leaves
About his home to see,
And feel the swaying summer winds
Play in the full-robed tree.
And upward turns his eye,
As loving much to see the drops
Come filtering from the sky—
No doubt he longs the bright green leaves
About his home to see,
And feel the swaying summer winds
Play in the full-robed tree.
The cottage door is open wide,
And cheerful sounds are heard;
The young girl sings at the merry wheel
A song like the wilding bird;
The creeping child by the old worn sill
Peers out with winking eye,
And his ringlets rubs with chubby hand,
As the drops come pattering by.
And cheerful sounds are heard;
The young girl sings at the merry wheel
A song like the wilding bird;
140
Peers out with winking eye,
And his ringlets rubs with chubby hand,
As the drops come pattering by.
With bounding heart beneath the sky,
The truant boy is out,
And hoop and ball are darting by
With many a merry shout—
Ay, sport away, ye joyous throng,
For yours is the April day;
I love to see your spirits dance
In your pure and healthful play.
The truant boy is out,
And hoop and ball are darting by
With many a merry shout—
Ay, sport away, ye joyous throng,
For yours is the April day;
I love to see your spirits dance
In your pure and healthful play.
141
THE WATER.
How beautiful the water is!
Didst ever think of it,
When down it tumbles from the skies,
As in a merry fit?
It jostles, ringing as it falls,
On all that's in its way—
I hear it dancing on the roof,
Like some wild thing at play.
Didst ever think of it,
When down it tumbles from the skies,
As in a merry fit?
It jostles, ringing as it falls,
On all that's in its way—
I hear it dancing on the roof,
Like some wild thing at play.
'T is rushing now adown the spout
And gushing out below,
Half frantic in its joyousness,
And wild in eager flow.
The earth is dried and parched with heat,
And it hath longed to be
Released from out the selfish cloud,
To cool the thirsty tree.
And gushing out below,
Half frantic in its joyousness,
And wild in eager flow.
The earth is dried and parched with heat,
And it hath longed to be
Released from out the selfish cloud,
To cool the thirsty tree.
It washes, rather rudely too,
The floweret's simple grace,
As if to chide the pretty thing
For dust upon its face.
It showers the tree till every leaf
Is free from dust or stain,
Then waits till leaf and branch are stilled,
And showers them o'er again.
The floweret's simple grace,
As if to chide the pretty thing
For dust upon its face.
142
Is free from dust or stain,
Then waits till leaf and branch are stilled,
And showers them o'er again.
Drop after drop is tinkling down,
To kiss the stirring brook,
The water dimples from beneath
With its own joyous look;
And then the kindred drops embrace,
And singing on they go,
To dance beneath the willow-tree,
And glad the vale below.
To kiss the stirring brook,
The water dimples from beneath
With its own joyous look;
And then the kindred drops embrace,
And singing on they go,
To dance beneath the willow-tree,
And glad the vale below.
How beautiful the water is!
It loves to come at night,
To make us wonder in the morn
To find the earth so bright;
To see a youthful gloss is spread
On every shrub and tree,
And flowerets breathing on the air
Their odors pure and free.
It loves to come at night,
To make us wonder in the morn
To find the earth so bright;
To see a youthful gloss is spread
On every shrub and tree,
And flowerets breathing on the air
Their odors pure and free.
A dainty thing the water is,
It loves the blossom's cup,
To nestle 'mid the odors there,
And fill the petals up;
It hangs it gems on every leaf,
Like diamonds in the sun;
And then the water wins the smile
The floweret should have won.
It loves the blossom's cup,
To nestle 'mid the odors there,
And fill the petals up;
It hangs it gems on every leaf,
Like diamonds in the sun;
And then the water wins the smile
The floweret should have won.
143
How beautiful the water is!
To me 't is wondrous fair—
No spot can ever lonely be,
If water sparkle there—
It hath a thousand tongues of mirth,
Of grandeur, or delight;
And every heart is gladder made
When water greets the sight.
To me 't is wondrous fair—
No spot can ever lonely be,
If water sparkle there—
It hath a thousand tongues of mirth,
Of grandeur, or delight;
And every heart is gladder made
When water greets the sight.
144
THE PARK FOUNTAIN.
Snowy fountain upward gushing
Like a spirit birth of glee,
From thy cold, dark pathway rushing
Thus rejoicing to be free;
On my cheek thy spray is falling,
Rock, and dell, and songful bird,
Echoes on each other calling,
In thy melody are heard.
Like a spirit birth of glee,
From thy cold, dark pathway rushing
Thus rejoicing to be free;
On my cheek thy spray is falling,
Rock, and dell, and songful bird,
Echoes on each other calling,
In thy melody are heard.
Thou dost owe thy birth, O, fountain,
Far away by wood and dale,
Silver streamlets from the mountain
Steal to thee in lonely vale;
Still amid thy falling water,
Mirrored in thy crystal sheen,
Frolic wood-nymphs, wild with laughter,
Lured by thee from woodland green.
Far away by wood and dale,
Silver streamlets from the mountain
Steal to thee in lonely vale;
Still amid thy falling water,
Mirrored in thy crystal sheen,
Frolic wood-nymphs, wild with laughter,
Lured by thee from woodland green.
145
Home of light and glory leaving
For a pathway dim and drear,
Struggling, hoping, inly grieving,
Thou rejoicest to be here;
Yet a sorrow mingleth ever
With the joy that set thee free;
Thou art falling, fountain, never
Shall thy hope be given thee!
For a pathway dim and drear,
Struggling, hoping, inly grieving,
Thou rejoicest to be here;
Yet a sorrow mingleth ever
With the joy that set thee free;
Thou art falling, fountain, never
Shall thy hope be given thee!
Thus through darkness, doubt, and sorrow,
Struggling in our pathway on,
Hoping brighter things to-morrow,
Sorrowing when the goal is won;
Thus like thee, do we, O fountain,
Half in memory of the past,
Look once more for bower and mountain,
Visions bright, too bright to last.
Struggling in our pathway on,
Hoping brighter things to-morrow,
Sorrowing when the goal is won;
Thus like thee, do we, O fountain,
Half in memory of the past,
Look once more for bower and mountain,
Visions bright, too bright to last.
Thus like thee are upward mounting,
Hopes for earth too fair and bright;
Perished hopes the hours are counting
With a promise of delight;
Yet we give them kindly greeting,
Till the heart itself be riven—
Visions fond, and frail,and fleeting,
Bathed like thee in hues of heaven.
Hopes for earth too fair and bright;
Perished hopes the hours are counting
With a promise of delight;
Yet we give them kindly greeting,
Till the heart itself be riven—
Visions fond, and frail,and fleeting,
Bathed like thee in hues of heaven.
146
THE LAST SHOT.
“The Prince had never been known to fail of his aim; he raised his bow, and a beautiful bird fell bleeding to the earth, which uttered at the same time the mournful words, ‘Why did you aim at me sitting.’”—
Arabian Nights.
An archer who ne'er drew his bow
Except at bird upon the wing.
Once bent it at the dancing spray,
Where lurked a bird but born to sing!
The flutter 'mid the glancing boughs,
The herd of vagrant shooters near,
Misled the veteran of the field,
Who thought his wonted quarry here!
Except at bird upon the wing.
Once bent it at the dancing spray,
Where lurked a bird but born to sing!
The flutter 'mid the glancing boughs,
The herd of vagrant shooters near,
Misled the veteran of the field,
Who thought his wonted quarry here!
And even when the songster fell
Wounded before his very eyes,
Still, still confused the archer gazed
In feeling half, and half surprise;
The stricken bird might beat its wing,
From pain that he of all would rue—
How could he trace its radiant plume,
Flitting amid that common crew?
Wounded before his very eyes,
Still, still confused the archer gazed
In feeling half, and half surprise;
The stricken bird might beat its wing,
From pain that he of all would rue—
How could he trace its radiant plume,
Flitting amid that common crew?
147
A note—a throb—a gush of song!
“That wildwood music! God of grace!
'T is heaven's own warbler that I hear—
The spirit-song my soul would trace!”
Half-cursed, half-blessed he then the aim,
Which wounded, but still spared the bird;
Cursed, that he blindly thus should shoot,
But, weeping, blessed the song he heard.
“That wildwood music! God of grace!
'T is heaven's own warbler that I hear—
The spirit-song my soul would trace!”
Half-cursed, half-blessed he then the aim,
Which wounded, but still spared the bird;
Cursed, that he blindly thus should shoot,
But, weeping, blessed the song he heard.
And rapt by that pure spirit-strain,
Away from all that charmed before,
He knelt upon his shattered bow,
And vowed that he would shoot no more.
That bird, fresh plumed, with vigorous wing,
More rich in melody they say.
To him in greenwood bower will sing,
Who loves to list the live-long day.
Away from all that charmed before,
He knelt upon his shattered bow,
And vowed that he would shoot no more.
That bird, fresh plumed, with vigorous wing,
More rich in melody they say.
To him in greenwood bower will sing,
Who loves to list the live-long day.
148
“THOU HAST LOVED.”
Dearest, in thine eye's deep light
Is a look to tears allied—
Sorrow struggling with delight,
Each the other seeks to hide;
Thou, the freighted ark of life
Lonely floating on the sea,
With thy being's treasure rife—
Thou hast wearied thus to be.
Is a look to tears allied—
Sorrow struggling with delight,
Each the other seeks to hide;
Thou, the freighted ark of life
Lonely floating on the sea,
With thy being's treasure rife—
Thou hast wearied thus to be.
Thou hast sent thy dove from thee—
Forth hast launched thy dove of peace,
And the branch, though green it be,
Can it bid thy doubtings cease?
Though it speak of hope the while,
Verdant spots and sunny bowers,
Can it bring thee back the smile
That beguiled thy vacant hours?
Forth hast launched thy dove of peace,
And the branch, though green it be,
Can it bid thy doubtings cease?
Though it speak of hope the while,
Verdant spots and sunny bowers,
Can it bring thee back the smile
That beguiled thy vacant hours?
Take thy dove and fold its wing—
Fold the ruffled wing to rest:
Deluge airs around it ring:
Let it nestle on thy breast.
Dearest, all thy care is vain—
Mark its trembling, weary wings;
But it comes to thee again,
And an olive branch it brings.
Fold the ruffled wing to rest:
Deluge airs around it ring:
Let it nestle on thy breast.
149
Mark its trembling, weary wings;
But it comes to thee again,
And an olive branch it brings.
Take it, bind it unto thee,
Though the leaves are dim with tears;
Such thy woman lot must be—
Love and sorrow, hopes and fears.
Bind the branch of promise ever
To thy heart, with fear oppressed,
Let the leaves of hope, oh! never,
Withered, leave their place of rest.
Though the leaves are dim with tears;
Such thy woman lot must be—
Love and sorrow, hopes and fears.
Bind the branch of promise ever
To thy heart, with fear oppressed,
Let the leaves of hope, oh! never,
Withered, leave their place of rest.
150
PRESAGES.
There are who from their cradle bear
The impress of a grief—
Deep, mystic eyes, and forehead fair,
And looks that ask relief;
The shadows of a coming doom,
Of sorrow and of strife.
When Fates conflicting round the loom,
Wove the sad web of life.
The impress of a grief—
Deep, mystic eyes, and forehead fair,
And looks that ask relief;
The shadows of a coming doom,
Of sorrow and of strife.
When Fates conflicting round the loom,
Wove the sad web of life.
And others come, the gladsome ones,
All shadowless and gay,
Like sweet surprise of April suns,
Or music gone astray;
Arrested, half in doubt we turn
To catch another sight,
So strangely rare it is to learn
A presage of delight.
All shadowless and gay,
Like sweet surprise of April suns,
Or music gone astray;
Arrested, half in doubt we turn
To catch another sight,
So strangely rare it is to learn
A presage of delight.
151
THE LOVE OF LADY ANN.
In her bower the lady Ann
Wept her love apart,
“Why so much of pride, ladye,
With a loving heart!
Wept her love apart,
“Why so much of pride, ladye,
With a loving heart!
Broad and fertile are thy lands,
Stately is thy hall,
But a faithful heart, ladye,
Far outweighs them all.
Stately is thy hall,
But a faithful heart, ladye,
Far outweighs them all.
Thou mayst choose thy gilded bower,
Nursing grief within,
And thy lover will forget
Love he failed to win.
Nursing grief within,
And thy lover will forget
Love he failed to win.
Thou mayst sit in gilded bower,
I the free woods roam;
Never should a lingering bride
Share with me a home.
I the free woods roam;
Never should a lingering bride
Share with me a home.
152
Truth of heart and strength of arm,
These I bring to thee;
But thy pride hath spurned the gift—
Fare-thee-well, ladye.”
These I bring to thee;
But thy pride hath spurned the gift—
Fare-thee-well, ladye.”
On the latchet is his glaive,
Scarce he deigns a sigh;
But the maiden's gushing tears
Tremble in her eye.
Scarce he deigns a sigh;
But the maiden's gushing tears
Tremble in her eye.
In the stirrup is his foot—
Thus do lovers part—
He to bear his pride alone,
She a breaking heart.
Thus do lovers part—
He to bear his pride alone,
She a breaking heart.
Trembling, doubtful, Lady Ann,
Half in fear arose;
Then with beating heart she sped,
And her arms she throws,
Half in fear arose;
Then with beating heart she sped,
And her arms she throws,
Clasping him with wild embrace,
Pride and home forgot,
She hath left her stately towers
For a lowly lot.
Pride and home forgot,
She hath left her stately towers
For a lowly lot.
153
CHILDHOOD'S LAUGH.
A laugh! a brimming laugh of joy—from childhood's lip it peals,
And every ear on which it falls, a thrill of rapture feels—
Stern brows relax, and lips will curl, with something like a smile,
Although the cause of that wild mirth be all unknown the while.
And every ear on which it falls, a thrill of rapture feels—
Stern brows relax, and lips will curl, with something like a smile,
Although the cause of that wild mirth be all unknown the while.
For there is something in the glee, the laughing of a child,
That speaks to e'en the coldest heart, it rings so free and wild;
'T is like the music of a bird, that hath no tone of care,
But poureth its exceeding joy upon the summer air.
That speaks to e'en the coldest heart, it rings so free and wild;
'T is like the music of a bird, that hath no tone of care,
But poureth its exceeding joy upon the summer air.
'T is like the odorous breath exhaled from out the dewy flower,
That telleth of a quiet bliss in every sunlight hour—
Or like the insects' ceaseless hum from grove or verdant spot,
Where they are telling all day long their joy-abounding lot.
That telleth of a quiet bliss in every sunlight hour—
154
Where they are telling all day long their joy-abounding lot.
It is a free, a guileless laugh, that brings a pang to none—
And welleth from a crystal heart, that hath no sorrow known—
And wheresoe'er that laugh shall fall, it will a dream restore
Of by-gone glee, and careless mirth, and childhood's days once more.
And welleth from a crystal heart, that hath no sorrow known—
And wheresoe'er that laugh shall fall, it will a dream restore
Of by-gone glee, and careless mirth, and childhood's days once more.
Up springing by the dusty way, rise many a joyous group—
The kite soars high, the ball rebounds, and darts the merry hoop—
The woods re-echo once again, to boyhood's noisy glee,
And tiny mills beside the brook are turning rapidly.
The kite soars high, the ball rebounds, and darts the merry hoop—
The woods re-echo once again, to boyhood's noisy glee,
And tiny mills beside the brook are turning rapidly.
And by-gone pranks, forgotten long, return till each has smiled,
To think how very smart he was, and witty when a child—
And retrospective sighs are heaved, so sadly boys have changed
Since they along the forest way, or by the seashore ranged.
To think how very smart he was, and witty when a child—
And retrospective sighs are heaved, so sadly boys have changed
Since they along the forest way, or by the seashore ranged.
155
The gay child's laugh is everywhere, and sad indeed were earth,
If never on the weary ear came childhood's voice of mirth.
Oh! were that hushed, a murky gloom on everything would rest,
And heavy press the weight of care upon the human breast.
If never on the weary ear came childhood's voice of mirth.
Oh! were that hushed, a murky gloom on everything would rest,
And heavy press the weight of care upon the human breast.
Then never check that sinless joy, but freely let it swell,
For 'mid the pleasant sounds of earth this works the holiest spell—
It tells of hours of innocence, when love and trust were given,
And it may whisper yet again the words of peace and heaven.
For 'mid the pleasant sounds of earth this works the holiest spell—
It tells of hours of innocence, when love and trust were given,
And it may whisper yet again the words of peace and heaven.
156
THE CHILD AND THE ROSE.
When stirring bud and songful bird
Brought gladness to the earth,
And spring-time voices first were heard
In low, sweet sounds of mirth;
Brought gladness to the earth,
And spring-time voices first were heard
In low, sweet sounds of mirth;
A little child, with pleasant eyes,
Reclined in tranquil thought,
And, half-communing with the skies,
His pretty fancies wrought.
Reclined in tranquil thought,
And, half-communing with the skies,
His pretty fancies wrought.
He turned where cased in robe of green
A rosebud met his eye—
And one faint streak the leaves between,
Rich in its crimson dye.
A rosebud met his eye—
And one faint streak the leaves between,
Rich in its crimson dye.
The warm light gathereth in the sky—
The bland air stirreth round—
And yet the child is lingering by,
Half-kneeling on the ground:
The bland air stirreth round—
And yet the child is lingering by,
Half-kneeling on the ground:
157
For broader grew that crimson streak,
Back folds the leaf of green—
And he in wonder still and meek
Watched all its opening sheen.
Back folds the leaf of green—
And he in wonder still and meek
Watched all its opening sheen.
“'Tis done, 'tis done!” at length he cried,
With glad amazement wild—
The rose, in new-created pride,
Had opened for the child.
With glad amazement wild—
The rose, in new-created pride,
Had opened for the child.
Oh! had we hearts like thine, sweet boy,
To watch creative power,
We too should thrill with kindred joy
At every opening flower.
To watch creative power,
We too should thrill with kindred joy
At every opening flower.
158
TO A BABE.
Precious baby, rest thee here,
Nestle thus about my heart:
Child, devoid of guilt and fear,
What a mystery thou art!
'Tis a pleasure, little one,
On thy sinless brow to look;
Life to do, and nothing done—
Nothing written in thy book!
Nestle thus about my heart:
Child, devoid of guilt and fear,
What a mystery thou art!
'Tis a pleasure, little one,
On thy sinless brow to look;
Life to do, and nothing done—
Nothing written in thy book!
Link art thou 'twixt me and heaven;
Blessed ministry is thine;
Unto thee a power is given
To renew this heart of mine—
Childhood's fearless love renew—
Childhood's truth and holy trust;
And of youth bring back the dew,
Lift the spirit from the dust.
Blessed ministry is thine;
Unto thee a power is given
To renew this heart of mine—
Childhood's fearless love renew—
Childhood's truth and holy trust;
And of youth bring back the dew,
Lift the spirit from the dust.
Mothers may not know on earth,
Half the deep and holy spell
Wrought by infant tears and mirth,
Meanings strange that few may tell.
Deeper grows the mother's eye
With its look of love and prayer—
Holiest duty, promptings high
Mingle with maternal care.
Half the deep and holy spell
Wrought by infant tears and mirth,
Meanings strange that few may tell.
159
With its look of love and prayer—
Holiest duty, promptings high
Mingle with maternal care.
Careless thou as blossoms wild
Growing in the light of heaven;
Thou, a meek and trusting child,
Faith like theirs to thee is given:
And for thee I will not fear
In the perils that await—
Thought and will, the prayer, the tear,
Arm thee strong for any fate.
Growing in the light of heaven;
Thou, a meek and trusting child,
Faith like theirs to thee is given:
And for thee I will not fear
In the perils that await—
Thought and will, the prayer, the tear,
Arm thee strong for any fate.
160
THE CHILD'S BENEDICTION.
I knew it not, sweet child, or I
Had smothered that desponding sigh,
For it hath checked thy joyous song;
Thine eye with tears it filleth now,
A shadow resteth on thy brow—
My child, my child, I did thee wrong!
Had smothered that desponding sigh,
For it hath checked thy joyous song;
Thine eye with tears it filleth now,
A shadow resteth on thy brow—
My child, my child, I did thee wrong!
What dost thou whisper in mine ear?
Sweet words “God bless thee, mother dear!”
My own fond one, thou art to me
A hope, a blessing, and a guide—
No more shall doubt and fear abide;
I'll meekly learn my faith of thee.
Sweet words “God bless thee, mother dear!”
My own fond one, thou art to me
A hope, a blessing, and a guide—
No more shall doubt and fear abide;
I'll meekly learn my faith of thee.
“God bless thee!” gentle words and kind,
The offspring of a trusting mind—
They bear a pledge, when lips like thine,
Forgetting childhood's random speech,
Do thus a higher lesson teach,
And mystic words like these combine.
The offspring of a trusting mind—
They bear a pledge, when lips like thine,
Forgetting childhood's random speech,
Do thus a higher lesson teach,
And mystic words like these combine.
161
God shield thee, for a heart like thine,
Where truth and tenderness combine,
Alas! is doomed too much to know
Of sympathies all vainly spent—
Of love to blinding worship lent—
And all life's strange and hidden wo.
Where truth and tenderness combine,
Alas! is doomed too much to know
Of sympathies all vainly spent—
Of love to blinding worship lent—
And all life's strange and hidden wo.
God shield thee, my poor, gentle boy!
Would that the cup of life and joy,
Dashed from thy mother's lips away,
Might with thine own of fate be blended,
And all the ill for thee intended,
Upon her bosom only prey.
Would that the cup of life and joy,
Dashed from thy mother's lips away,
Might with thine own of fate be blended,
And all the ill for thee intended,
Upon her bosom only prey.
162
LOVE SHELTERED.
“Love came to my window one day.”
A bird, escaped the fowler's snare,
Sought refuge in my breast—
Alas! too fondly cherished there,
It robbed me of my rest.
Sought refuge in my breast—
Alas! too fondly cherished there,
It robbed me of my rest.
Awhile its ruffled wing it drest,
Content it seemed awhile—
Close to my throbbing bosom prest,
I never dreamed of guile.
Content it seemed awhile—
Close to my throbbing bosom prest,
I never dreamed of guile.
I never dreamed my sheltered dove
Would weary of its home,
That it would seek another love,
And from my bosom roam.
Would weary of its home,
That it would seek another love,
And from my bosom roam.
I felt it struggling in my hand—
It struggled to be free;
I tighter drew the silken band
That bound it unto me.
It struggled to be free;
I tighter drew the silken band
That bound it unto me.
163
Alas! how drooped the joyous thing;
Its sorrow touched my heart—
I loosed the bond—it poised its wing;
How could my dove depart?
Its sorrow touched my heart—
I loosed the bond—it poised its wing;
How could my dove depart?
How leave a trusting heart to pine,
In solitude and pain!
Oh bird, new perils will be thine;
Come to my breast again.
In solitude and pain!
Oh bird, new perils will be thine;
Come to my breast again.
164
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL.
ILLUSTRATION OF BRACKETT'S ANGEL WATCHING THE SLEEPING CHILD.
Child of earth, and child of heaven!
Each alike in form and face,
Save that wings to one is given—
Something too of loftier grace.
Each alike in form and face,
Save that wings to one is given—
Something too of loftier grace.
Yet the trustful and the true
Dwell in meekness with the other—
These alone it was that drew
From the skies its angel brother.
Dwell in meekness with the other—
These alone it was that drew
From the skies its angel brother.
Half in blindness, half in trust,
Guardian arms around him prest,
Sleeps the child of time and dust,
Shielded by his cherub guest.
Guardian arms around him prest,
Sleeps the child of time and dust,
Shielded by his cherub guest.
Angel-child! and child of earth!
Semblance ye of hidden things;
One hath reached its spirit-birth—
One but waiteth for its wings.
Semblance ye of hidden things;
One hath reached its spirit-birth—
One but waiteth for its wings.
165
THE FIRST LEAF OF AUTUMN.
I see thee fall, thou quivering leaf, of faint and yellow hue,
The first to feel the autumn winds, that, blighting, o'er thee blew—
Slow-parted from the rocking branch, I see thee floating by,
To brave, all desolate and lone, the bleak autumnal sky.
The first to feel the autumn winds, that, blighting, o'er thee blew—
Slow-parted from the rocking branch, I see thee floating by,
To brave, all desolate and lone, the bleak autumnal sky.
Alas! the first, the yellow leaf—how sadly falls it there,
To rustle on the crispéd grass, with every chilly air!
It tells of those that soon must drop all withered from the tree,
And it hath waked a sadder chord in deathless memory.
To rustle on the crispéd grass, with every chilly air!
It tells of those that soon must drop all withered from the tree,
And it hath waked a sadder chord in deathless memory.
Thou eddying leaf, away, away, there's sorrow in thy hue;
Thou soundst the knell of sunny hours, of buds, and liquid dew—
And thou dost tell how from the heart the blooms of hope decay;
How each one lingers, loath to part, till all are swept away.
Thou soundst the knell of sunny hours, of buds, and liquid dew—
166
How each one lingers, loath to part, till all are swept away.
167
MINISTERING SPIRITS.
White-winged angels meet the child
On the vestibule of life,
And they offer to his lips
All that cup of mingled strife;
Mingled drops of smiles and tears,
Human hopes, and human fears,
Joy and sorrow, love and wo,
Which the future heart must know.
On the vestibule of life,
And they offer to his lips
All that cup of mingled strife;
Mingled drops of smiles and tears,
Human hopes, and human fears,
Joy and sorrow, love and wo,
Which the future heart must know.
Sad the smile the spirits wear,
Sad the fanning of their wings,
As in their exceeding love
Each a cup of promise brings;
In the coming strife and care,
They have promised to be there;
Bowed by weariness or grief,
They will minister relief.
Sad the fanning of their wings,
As in their exceeding love
Each a cup of promise brings;
In the coming strife and care,
They have promised to be there;
Bowed by weariness or grief,
They will minister relief.
Lady, could the infant look
In that deep and bitter cup,
All its hidden perils know,
Would it quaff life's waters up?
Lady, yes, for in the vase,
Upward beams an angel-face;
Deep and anguished though the sigh,
There is comfort lurking nigh—
Times of joy, and times of wo,
Each an angel-presence know.
In that deep and bitter cup,
All its hidden perils know,
Would it quaff life's waters up?
168
Upward beams an angel-face;
Deep and anguished though the sigh,
There is comfort lurking nigh—
Times of joy, and times of wo,
Each an angel-presence know.
169
FAREWELL TO FANCY.
With thee no more, oh Fancy, can I stray,
My dreamy eye through thee all things beholding,
No more with loitering feet, and hands enfolding,
I seek the bower where flickering sun-beams play.
Farewell, oh changeful spirit, we must part,
Thou hast no portion in a weary heart.
My dreamy eye through thee all things beholding,
No more with loitering feet, and hands enfolding,
I seek the bower where flickering sun-beams play.
Farewell, oh changeful spirit, we must part,
Thou hast no portion in a weary heart.
Farewell, the dew within the blossom's cup,
An angel's face no more to me revealing—
Glad voices now no more around me stealing,
Fanned by thy wing may lift my spirits up;
My world is all too drear for thee, sweet sprite,
And I will bid thee, one long, last good night.
An angel's face no more to me revealing—
Glad voices now no more around me stealing,
Fanned by thy wing may lift my spirits up;
My world is all too drear for thee, sweet sprite,
And I will bid thee, one long, last good night.
Yet linger thou, oh! when the stars are out,
Let thoughts of thee, the weak, lone heart beguiling,
Steal gently in, and lure the lip to smiling;
Though darkness and distress may be about,
The waving of thy robe I fain would see,
Though thou art lost, for ever lost to me.
Let thoughts of thee, the weak, lone heart beguiling,
Steal gently in, and lure the lip to smiling;
170
The waving of thy robe I fain would see,
Though thou art lost, for ever lost to me.
I know that thou art deemed a lesser sprite,
Thy rainbow wing unfit for lofty soaring;
Yet not the less for thee was my adoring,
I, who have shrank in terror from a flight
That leaving lowlier things, too oft hath left
The aching heart of all its love bereft.
Thy rainbow wing unfit for lofty soaring;
Yet not the less for thee was my adoring,
I, who have shrank in terror from a flight
That leaving lowlier things, too oft hath left
The aching heart of all its love bereft.
Thou wilt not bide, thy shadowy form each day
More faint and faintly on my vision gleaming,
May not the real screen, with thy sweet seeming;
And yet thou canst not turn thy face away—
Though form be lost, thy saddened eyes remain,
Fond, gentle eyes, that lure me from my pain.
More faint and faintly on my vision gleaming,
May not the real screen, with thy sweet seeming;
And yet thou canst not turn thy face away—
Though form be lost, thy saddened eyes remain,
Fond, gentle eyes, that lure me from my pain.
Farewell, in all the ministry of life—
Though visions fade, and such as once were keeping
Bright vigils round, vigils that knew no sleeping,
May leave their place for others armed for strife,
Yet blessed ones, 'tis sweet to think that ye,
And such as ye, have watched our destiny.
Though visions fade, and such as once were keeping
Bright vigils round, vigils that knew no sleeping,
May leave their place for others armed for strife,
Yet blessed ones, 'tis sweet to think that ye,
And such as ye, have watched our destiny.
171
THE ELEVENTH HOUR.
There are no times nor seasons unto Him
Who fashioned forth this universal frame,
The stars revolving weary grow and dim,
The Pleiad leaves on high no lingering flame,
Creations spring to birth, in age decay,
And as a scroll the heavens shall pass away:
Who fashioned forth this universal frame,
The stars revolving weary grow and dim,
The Pleiad leaves on high no lingering flame,
Creations spring to birth, in age decay,
And as a scroll the heavens shall pass away:
And as a point to Him man's fearful life—
Not by revolving sun nor changeful moon—
Mark not by these his agony and strife;
Oh! not by these his youth, his fervid noon,
Thronged by emotions crowded to a span,
Ages concentred in the life of man:
Not by revolving sun nor changeful moon—
Mark not by these his agony and strife;
Oh! not by these his youth, his fervid noon,
Thronged by emotions crowded to a span,
Ages concentred in the life of man:
And Thou, to whom all seasons are the same,
Though blindly erring, devious in our way,
Remember thou the weakness of our frame,
Forgive, though late we bow to thee and pray;
Though at the eleventh hour the offering be,
Spurn not the spirit seeking thus to thee;
For unto thee, oh God! a thousand years
Is as man's yesterday of smiles and tears.
Though blindly erring, devious in our way,
Remember thou the weakness of our frame,
Forgive, though late we bow to thee and pray;
Though at the eleventh hour the offering be,
Spurn not the spirit seeking thus to thee;
For unto thee, oh God! a thousand years
Is as man's yesterday of smiles and tears.
172
THE APPEAL.
I had rather have one kisse,
Childe waters of thy mouth;
Than I woulde have Cheshire and Lancashire bothe
That lye by north and south.
Old Ballad.
Childe waters of thy mouth;
Than I woulde have Cheshire and Lancashire bothe
That lye by north and south.
Old Ballad.
I came to thee in workday dress
And hair but plainly kempt,
For life is not all holyday,
From toil and care exempt;
And hair but plainly kempt,
For life is not all holyday,
From toil and care exempt;
I met thee oft with glowing cheek,
Thus love its tale will tell;
Though oft its after paleness told
Of hidden grief as well.
Thus love its tale will tell;
Though oft its after paleness told
Of hidden grief as well.
My eyes that drooped beneath thy glance
To hide their sense of bliss,
Let fall too oft the tears that tell
Of secret tenderness.
To hide their sense of bliss,
Let fall too oft the tears that tell
Of secret tenderness.
I sought for no bewildering lure
Thy senses to beguile,
But checked the woman playfulness,
The witching tone and smile.
Thy senses to beguile,
But checked the woman playfulness,
The witching tone and smile.
173
With household look and household word,
And frank as maidens meet;
I dared with earnest homely truth,
Thy manliness to greet.
And frank as maidens meet;
I dared with earnest homely truth,
Thy manliness to greet.
For oh! so much of truth was mine,
So much of love beside,
I wished in simple maidenhood
To be thy chosen bride.
So much of love beside,
I wished in simple maidenhood
To be thy chosen bride.
Alas! the russet robe no more
Of humble life may tell,
And thou dost say the velvet gear
Becomes my beauty well.
Of humble life may tell,
And thou dost say the velvet gear
Becomes my beauty well.
'T was thy dear hand upon my brow
That bound each sparkling gem,
But dearer far its slightest touch,
Than all the wealth of them.
That bound each sparkling gem,
But dearer far its slightest touch,
Than all the wealth of them.
Oh! tell me not of gorgeous robes,
Nor bind the jewel there;
And tell me not with those cold eyes,
That I am wondrous fair.
Nor bind the jewel there;
And tell me not with those cold eyes,
That I am wondrous fair.
I will not chide, I will not blame,
And yet the thought is here,
The thought so fraught with bitterness,
It yieldeth me no tear.
And yet the thought is here,
The thought so fraught with bitterness,
It yieldeth me no tear.
174
I gave thee tenderness too deep.
Too deep for aught but tears,
And thou wouldst teach the world's cold rule
Which learned, the heart but scars.
Too deep for aught but tears,
And thou wouldst teach the world's cold rule
Which learned, the heart but scars.
I gave thee all, the soul's deep trust,
Its truth by sorrow tried;
Nay start not thou, what hast thou given?
Alas! 'tis but thy pride.
Its truth by sorrow tried;
Nay start not thou, what hast thou given?
Alas! 'tis but thy pride.
Give back, give back the tenderness
That blest my simple love,
And call me as in those dear days,
Thine own, thy gentle dove.
That blest my simple love,
And call me as in those dear days,
Thine own, thy gentle dove.
175
THE JEWISH CAPTIVE.
Lo! where Euphrates in his tranquil bed
Scarce swells his heaving bosom to the light,
While from the west a thousand hues are shed,
To deck his waters, ere the sombre night
Shall on his gorgeous palaces come down,
And shroud each glory in his darkened frown.
Scarce swells his heaving bosom to the light,
While from the west a thousand hues are shed,
To deck his waters, ere the sombre night
Shall on his gorgeous palaces come down,
And shroud each glory in his darkened frown.
The stately obelisk has caught the ray,
The sunset trembling on its graceful head,
And the light winds come stealing on their way,
To kiss the lily in its liquid bed;
The flexile willow bends unto the stream,
And seems more lovely in the twilight gleam.
The sunset trembling on its graceful head,
And the light winds come stealing on their way,
To kiss the lily in its liquid bed;
The flexile willow bends unto the stream,
And seems more lovely in the twilight gleam.
A thousand flowers, that, through the scorching ray,
Their sweetness from the sense had treasured up,
Lavish their wealth upon the dying day
And make an offering pure of every cup,
As if they bowed in worship to the sun,
And offered incense when the day was done.
Their sweetness from the sense had treasured up,
Lavish their wealth upon the dying day
And make an offering pure of every cup,
As if they bowed in worship to the sun,
And offered incense when the day was done.
176
Forth from a marble fount the waters, plash,
And twinkle down in many a mimic fall—
That ever in the light like diamonds flash;
And in their melody they seem to call
To old Euphrates, as he wanders by,
And spreads his waters to the golden sky.
And twinkle down in many a mimic fall—
That ever in the light like diamonds flash;
And in their melody they seem to call
To old Euphrates, as he wanders by,
And spreads his waters to the golden sky.
A group of maidens by the willows bend,
And weave their tresses by the twilight sky,
While ever on the air glad voices blend,
And many a song and laugh are floating by
To mingle with the sound of chiming waters,
That lave the feet of dark-eyed Syrian daughters.
And weave their tresses by the twilight sky,
While ever on the air glad voices blend,
And many a song and laugh are floating by
To mingle with the sound of chiming waters,
That lave the feet of dark-eyed Syrian daughters.
“Lo! here,” cries one, “the captive Mara tends,
Mara, the Jewess, queen-like in her wo;
Though many a victor to her beauty bends,
The smile no more her gentle lips may know.
Not for her own she weeps, but Judah's wrongs,
And pours her sorrows in their mystic songs.
Mara, the Jewess, queen-like in her wo;
Though many a victor to her beauty bends,
The smile no more her gentle lips may know.
Not for her own she weeps, but Judah's wrongs,
And pours her sorrows in their mystic songs.
“Didst ever hear the music strange and high,
The Jewish captives from their harp-strings bring,
While Zion-ward they turn the kindling eye?
Mara, approach; we fain would hear thee sing
A song of Zion—such as once ye sang
When Jordan's waters to the music rang.”
The Jewish captives from their harp-strings bring,
While Zion-ward they turn the kindling eye?
Mara, approach; we fain would hear thee sing
A song of Zion—such as once ye sang
When Jordan's waters to the music rang.”
177
The captive flung her tresses from her brow,
And upward raised her dark and tearless eye,
Clasped her pale hands in agony of wo,
And heaved her breast with many a smothered sigh;
Quick thronging visions o'er her spirit passed—
She lived again where childhood's lot was cast.
And upward raised her dark and tearless eye,
Clasped her pale hands in agony of wo,
And heaved her breast with many a smothered sigh;
Quick thronging visions o'er her spirit passed—
She lived again where childhood's lot was cast.
Lo! sad Judea's vine-clad hills are there,
And fruitful Jordan, with its many streams,
Proud Lebanon, with cedars tall and fair,
And, midst her desolation, sadly gleams
Lone Zion, widowed, childless, and oppressed,
A Rachel, for her first-born son distressed.
And fruitful Jordan, with its many streams,
Proud Lebanon, with cedars tall and fair,
And, midst her desolation, sadly gleams
Lone Zion, widowed, childless, and oppressed,
A Rachel, for her first-born son distressed.
There, 'neath a cottage, where the trailing vine
In many a festoon o'er the lattice clings,
An ancient matron seems alone to pine,
And calls her children, while her arm she flings,
To clasp the shadows that her fancies raise,
The cherished offspring of her happier days.
In many a festoon o'er the lattice clings,
An ancient matron seems alone to pine,
And calls her children, while her arm she flings,
To clasp the shadows that her fancies raise,
The cherished offspring of her happier days.
But what is grief like hers—that matron old,
Who spreads her white locks to the evening sky,
When Zion stands bereft—her altars cold!
And all her exiled children turn their eye
To where the happier swallow builds her nest,
And in the courts of God has found her rest.
Who spreads her white locks to the evening sky,
When Zion stands bereft—her altars cold!
And all her exiled children turn their eye
To where the happier swallow builds her nest,
And in the courts of God has found her rest.
178
O'er Mara's soul the power of music rushed,
Her harp the maidens from the willows bring:
Forth from her lips high thoughts and feelings gushed,
“How can I Zion's songs, a captive, sing?
How sing of Jordan, here by Babel's strand?
How sing of Judah, in this dark, strange land?
Her harp the maidens from the willows bring:
Forth from her lips high thoughts and feelings gushed,
“How can I Zion's songs, a captive, sing?
How sing of Jordan, here by Babel's strand?
How sing of Judah, in this dark, strange land?
“Oh Zion! if I cease for thee
My earliest vows to pay—
If for thy sad and ruined walls
I ever cease to pray—
If I no more thy sacred courts
With holy reverence prize,
Or Zion-ward shall cease to turn
My ever-longing eyes—
Or if the splendor round me thrown
Shall move this Jewish heart,
And make me cease to prize thy joy
Above all other art—
Or should I cease for Zion's courts
To pray on bended knee,
Or dare to bow to these blind gods,
Forgetful, Lord, of thee,
Oh may this hand no more with skill
This sacred harp-string sweep,
And may this tongue cleave to my mouth
In death's cold, silent sleep.”
My earliest vows to pay—
If for thy sad and ruined walls
I ever cease to pray—
If I no more thy sacred courts
With holy reverence prize,
Or Zion-ward shall cease to turn
My ever-longing eyes—
Or if the splendor round me thrown
Shall move this Jewish heart,
And make me cease to prize thy joy
Above all other art—
Or should I cease for Zion's courts
To pray on bended knee,
Or dare to bow to these blind gods,
Forgetful, Lord, of thee,
Oh may this hand no more with skill
This sacred harp-string sweep,
And may this tongue cleave to my mouth
In death's cold, silent sleep.”
179
SONG. I.
The bird the summer air that skims,
A pathway leaves in space,
Though it were vain the path it leaves,
With human eye to trace;
The blossom that awhile looks up
In gladness to the eye,
Makes for its own bright, fragrant cup,
A home within the sky.
A pathway leaves in space,
Though it were vain the path it leaves,
With human eye to trace;
The blossom that awhile looks up
In gladness to the eye,
Makes for its own bright, fragrant cup,
A home within the sky.
The bird flies on to other skies
Its pathway all forgot,
The flower yields up its many dies,
The place as it were not;
And thus, 'tis thus will love depart,
Nor leave behind a trace,
Save urn-like from the broken heart,
An incense marks the place.
Its pathway all forgot,
The flower yields up its many dies,
The place as it were not;
And thus, 'tis thus will love depart,
Nor leave behind a trace,
Save urn-like from the broken heart,
An incense marks the place.
180
SONG. II.
Thou art free as the air, I prithee away,
Like a bee overburdened with sweets,
Who roving mid blossoms, a moment will stay,
To sip of each one that it meets.
Like a bee overburdened with sweets,
Who roving mid blossoms, a moment will stay,
To sip of each one that it meets.
I would not detain thee if lured to depart,
Thou cravest a love light and free,
The rapture, the thrill, the doubt of the heart,
Then why tarry longer with me?
Thou cravest a love light and free,
The rapture, the thrill, the doubt of the heart,
Then why tarry longer with me?
I spurn from me vows which another may share,
The smile that is lavished on all—
This proud heart may battle with death or despair,
It will not be longer thy thrall.
The smile that is lavished on all—
This proud heart may battle with death or despair,
It will not be longer thy thrall.
Go revel in smiles—I blame thee, no never!
Win hearts that are fickle as thine,
And forget, oh forget, both now and for ever,
The truth and the fervor of mine.
Win hearts that are fickle as thine,
And forget, oh forget, both now and for ever,
The truth and the fervor of mine.
181
SONG. III.
Whisper love at star-light hour
When the hush is deep around,
And the dew upon the flower,
Calleth incense from the ground.
Whisper love when recent tears
Dim the lustre of the eye,
When the smile delaying fears,
Sorrow may be lurking nigh.
When the hush is deep around,
And the dew upon the flower,
Calleth incense from the ground.
Whisper love when recent tears
Dim the lustre of the eye,
When the smile delaying fears,
Sorrow may be lurking nigh.
Whisper love at holiest eve,
When the lips are fresh from prayer,
Never woman may deceive
Him who kneels beside her there.
Truth is hid in every star,
Grief hath no deluding tone,
And the holiness of prayer
Blends two spirits into one.
When the lips are fresh from prayer,
Never woman may deceive
Him who kneels beside her there.
Truth is hid in every star,
Grief hath no deluding tone,
And the holiness of prayer
Blends two spirits into one.
182
THE BROOK.
“Whither away, thou merry brook,
Whither away so fast!
With dainty feet through the meadow green,
And a smile as you hurry past.”
The brook leaped on in idle mirth,
And dimpled with saucy glee;
The daisy kissed in lovingness,
And made with the willow free.
Whither away so fast!
With dainty feet through the meadow green,
And a smile as you hurry past.”
The brook leaped on in idle mirth,
And dimpled with saucy glee;
The daisy kissed in lovingness,
And made with the willow free.
I heard its laugh adown the glen,
And over the rocky steep,
Away where the old tree's roots were bare
In the waters dark and deep;
The sunshine flashed upon its face,
And played with flickering leaf.
Well pleased to dally in its path,
Though the tarrying were brief.
And over the rocky steep,
Away where the old tree's roots were bare
In the waters dark and deep;
The sunshine flashed upon its face,
And played with flickering leaf.
Well pleased to dally in its path,
Though the tarrying were brief.
“Now stay thy feet, O restless one,
Where droops the spreading tree,
And let thy liquid voice reveal
Thy story unto me.”
The flashing pebbles lightly rung,
As the gushing music fell,
The chiming music of the brook,
From out the woody dell.
Where droops the spreading tree,
And let thy liquid voice reveal
Thy story unto me.”
183
As the gushing music fell,
The chiming music of the brook,
From out the woody dell.
“My mountain home was bleak and high
A rugged spot and drear;
With searching wind and raging storm,
And moonlight, cold and clear.
I longed for a greeting cheery as mine,
For a fond and answering look;
But none were in that solitude
To bless the little brook.
A rugged spot and drear;
With searching wind and raging storm,
And moonlight, cold and clear.
I longed for a greeting cheery as mine,
For a fond and answering look;
But none were in that solitude
To bless the little brook.
“The blended hum of pleasant sounds
Came up from the vale below,
And I wished that mine were a lowly lot,
To lapse, and sing as I go;
That gentle things, with loving eyes,
Along my path should glide,
And blossoms, in their loveliness,
Come nestling to my side.
Came up from the vale below,
And I wished that mine were a lowly lot,
To lapse, and sing as I go;
That gentle things, with loving eyes,
Along my path should glide,
And blossoms, in their loveliness,
Come nestling to my side.
“I leaped me down; my rainbow robe
Hung shivering to the sight,
And the thrill of freedom gave to me
New impulse of delight.
A joyous welcome the sunshine gave,
The bird and the swaying tree;
The spear-like grass and blossom start
With joy at sight of me.
Hung shivering to the sight,
And the thrill of freedom gave to me
New impulse of delight.
A joyous welcome the sunshine gave,
The bird and the swaying tree;
The spear-like grass and blossom start
With joy at sight of me.
184
“The swallow comes with its bit of clay,
When the busy spring is here,
And twittering bears the moistened gift,
A nest on the eaves to rear.
The twinkling feet of flock and herd
Have trodden a path to me,
And the fox and the squirrel come to drink
In the shade of the alder tree.
When the busy spring is here,
And twittering bears the moistened gift,
A nest on the eaves to rear.
The twinkling feet of flock and herd
Have trodden a path to me,
And the fox and the squirrel come to drink
In the shade of the alder tree.
“The sunburnt child, with its rounded foot,
Comes hither with me to play,
And I feel the thrill of his lightsome heart,
As he dashes the merry spray.
I turn the mill with answering glee,
As the merry spokes go round,
And the gray rock takes the echo up,
Rejoicing in the sound.
Comes hither with me to play,
And I feel the thrill of his lightsome heart,
As he dashes the merry spray.
I turn the mill with answering glee,
As the merry spokes go round,
And the gray rock takes the echo up,
Rejoicing in the sound.
“The old man bathes his scattered locks,
And drops me a silent tear;
For he sees a wrinkled, care-worn face
Look up from the waters clear.
Then I sing in his car the very song
He heard in years gone by,
The old man's heart is glad again,
And a joy lights up his eye.”
And drops me a silent tear;
For he sees a wrinkled, care-worn face
Look up from the waters clear.
Then I sing in his car the very song
He heard in years gone by,
The old man's heart is glad again,
And a joy lights up his eye.”
Enough, enough, thou homily brook;
I'll treasure thy teachings well,
And I will yield a heartfelt tear
Thy crystal drops to swell;
Will bear like thee a kindly love
For the lowly things of earth,
Remembering still that high and pure
Is the home of the spirit's birth.
I'll treasure thy teachings well,
And I will yield a heartfelt tear
Thy crystal drops to swell;
185
For the lowly things of earth,
Remembering still that high and pure
Is the home of the spirit's birth.
186
THE SLEEP OF PLANTS.
[_]
The leaves of plants are observed to take a different position in the night season, being folded over the germ, and the whole presenting the appearance of rest. A species of the acacia, the common locust, is a beautiful example of this; whence a child once prettily said, “It is n't time to go to bed, till the acacia goes to sleep!” Linnæus elegantly terms this property, “The sleep of plants.”
Away, pretty zephyr, away, away,
The flowerets all are sleeping,
The moon is out with her silver ray,
The stars, too, watch are keeping;
It is all in vain, thou silly thing,
To lavish the incense from thy wing;
The flowerets all are sleeping,
The moon is out with her silver ray,
The stars, too, watch are keeping;
It is all in vain, thou silly thing,
To lavish the incense from thy wing;
They will not awake from love of thee,
Gay idler from sunny skies,
Who dippest thy wing in the glassy sea,
Stealing along with quick surprise,
Bending the grass, and bowing the grain,
A moment here, and away again.
Gay idler from sunny skies,
Who dippest thy wing in the glassy sea,
Stealing along with quick surprise,
Bending the grass, and bowing the grain,
A moment here, and away again.
Nay! toss the leaves, it is useless all,
For closed is each dewy eye,
The insect-hum, and the water-fall,
Are singing their lullaby;
And each in folding its mantle up,
An incense pressed from its perfumed cup.
For closed is each dewy eye,
The insect-hum, and the water-fall,
187
And each in folding its mantle up,
An incense pressed from its perfumed cup.
The blushing bud is but lightly stirred,
The pendent leaf is at rest,
And all will sleep, till the little bird
Springs up from its dewy nest;
And then the blossom its head will raise,
To greet the morn with a look of praise.
The pendent leaf is at rest,
And all will sleep, till the little bird
Springs up from its dewy nest;
And then the blossom its head will raise,
To greet the morn with a look of praise.
188
THE FLOWER OF INNOCENCE,
HOUSTONIA CÆRULEA.
It comes when wakes the pleasant spring,
When first the earth is green,
Four white or pale blue leaves it hath,
With yellow heart between.
When first the earth is green,
Four white or pale blue leaves it hath,
With yellow heart between.
It grows about a heap of stones,
For there the dew will stay,
It springs beside the dusty road,
Where children are at play.
For there the dew will stay,
It springs beside the dusty road,
Where children are at play.
It dots with stars the grassy bank
That slopes adown the brook,
And there it takes a deeper blue,
And there a gayer look.
That slopes adown the brook,
And there it takes a deeper blue,
And there a gayer look.
On upland sod when doomed to bloom,
Its leaves are small and white,
As if it shrank within itself,
And paled amid the light.
Its leaves are small and white,
As if it shrank within itself,
And paled amid the light.
189
A dweller in a common path,
With myriads of its kind,
Yet doth its unpretending grace
A oneness bring to mind:
With myriads of its kind,
Yet doth its unpretending grace
A oneness bring to mind:
Like household charities that seem
So native to the heart,
That we forget, in seeing all,
That each is fair apart.
So native to the heart,
That we forget, in seeing all,
That each is fair apart.
We call thee Innocence, sweet one,
And well it thee beseems,
For thou art cherished in the heart,
With childhood's sinless dreams.
And well it thee beseems,
For thou art cherished in the heart,
With childhood's sinless dreams.
190
THE OLD MAN.
Old man, gray man, who sittest there
In the shadow of the tree,
The winds at play in thy scattered hair,
What may thy visions be?
Vacant, and lone, and aimless, thou,
God pity thee, thou old man, now.
In the shadow of the tree,
The winds at play in thy scattered hair,
What may thy visions be?
Vacant, and lone, and aimless, thou,
God pity thee, thou old man, now.
There is no sound by the cottage hearth,
To thrill thy heart again,
Thy dull ear greeteth no voice of mirth,
Thine eye may seek in vain
The kindly look of the loving heart;
Too soon do such from the earth depart.
To thrill thy heart again,
Thy dull ear greeteth no voice of mirth,
Thine eye may seek in vain
The kindly look of the loving heart;
Too soon do such from the earth depart.
Thou shakest, old man, thy hoary head,
The flitting past to recall;
Let it fade, let it fade, thy heart is dead,
Why shouldst thou lift the pall?
What is now to thee the bustle and strife,
That lured thee on in thy early life?
The flitting past to recall;
Let it fade, let it fade, thy heart is dead,
Why shouldst thou lift the pall?
What is now to thee the bustle and strife,
That lured thee on in thy early life?
191
Let the record fade—it is naught to thee,
Its mission hath long been o'er,
'T would puzzle thy brain, could these strange things be
Revealed to thy sight once more,
Thou wouldst wonder and ask if this were all,
That kept thy spirit so long in thrall.
Its mission hath long been o'er,
'T would puzzle thy brain, could these strange things be
Revealed to thy sight once more,
Thou wouldst wonder and ask if this were all,
That kept thy spirit so long in thrall.
It is well for thee, that blunted now
Are the pangs that pierced thee through,
The griefs that have blanched thy sunken brow,
Vain hopes thy young heart knew;
'T is a blessed thing, old man, for thee,
That lost is the page of memory.
Are the pangs that pierced thee through,
The griefs that have blanched thy sunken brow,
Vain hopes thy young heart knew;
'T is a blessed thing, old man, for thee,
That lost is the page of memory.
192
THE DROWNED MARINER.
A mariner sat on the shrouds one night,
The wind was piping free,
Now bright, now dimmed was the moonlight pale,
And the phosphor gleamed in the wake of the whale,
As he floundered in the sea;
The scud was flying athwart the sky,
The gathering winds went whistling by,
And the wave as it towered, then fell in spray,
Looked an emerald wall in the moonlight ray.
The wind was piping free,
Now bright, now dimmed was the moonlight pale,
And the phosphor gleamed in the wake of the whale,
As he floundered in the sea;
The scud was flying athwart the sky,
The gathering winds went whistling by,
And the wave as it towered, then fell in spray,
Looked an emerald wall in the moonlight ray.
The mariner swayed and rocked on the mast,
But the tumult pleased him well,
Down the yawning wave his eye he cast,
And the monsters watched as they hurried past,
Or lightly rose and fell;
For their broad, damp fins were under the tide,
And they lashed as they passed the vessel's side,
And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim,
Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him.
But the tumult pleased him well,
Down the yawning wave his eye he cast,
And the monsters watched as they hurried past,
Or lightly rose and fell;
For their broad, damp fins were under the tide,
And they lashed as they passed the vessel's side,
And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim,
Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him.
193
Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes
Like an uncurbed steed along,
A sheet of flame is the spray she throws,
As her gallant prow the water plows—
But the ship is fleet and strong:
The topsails are reefed and the sails are furled,
And onward she sweeps o'er the watery world,
And dippeth her spars in the surging flood;
But there came no chill to the mariner's blood.
Like an uncurbed steed along,
A sheet of flame is the spray she throws,
As her gallant prow the water plows—
But the ship is fleet and strong:
The topsails are reefed and the sails are furled,
And onward she sweeps o'er the watery world,
And dippeth her spars in the surging flood;
But there came no chill to the mariner's blood.
Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease,
And holds him by the shroud;
And as she careens to the crowding breeze,
The gaping deep the mariner sees,
And the surging heareth loud.
Was that a face, looking up at him,
With its pallid cheek and its cold eyes dim?
Did it beckon him down? did it call his name?
Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came.
And holds him by the shroud;
And as she careens to the crowding breeze,
The gaping deep the mariner sees,
And the surging heareth loud.
Was that a face, looking up at him,
With its pallid cheek and its cold eyes dim?
Did it beckon him down? did it call his name?
Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came.
The mariner looked, and he saw with dread,
A face he knew too well;
And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead,
And its long hair out on the wave was spread.
Was there a tale to tell?
The stout ship rocked with a reeling speed,
And the mariner groaned, as well he need,
For ever down, as she plunged on her side,
The dead face gleamed from the briny tide.
A face he knew too well;
And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead,
And its long hair out on the wave was spread.
Was there a tale to tell?
The stout ship rocked with a reeling speed,
And the mariner groaned, as well he need,
For ever down, as she plunged on her side,
The dead face gleamed from the briny tide.
194
Bethink thee, mariner, well of the past,
A voice calls loud for thee—
There's a stifled prayer, the first, the last,
The plunging ship on her beam is cast,
Oh, where shall thy burial be?
Bethink thee of oaths that were lightly spoken,
Bethink thee of vows that were lightly broken,
Bethink thee of all that is dear to thee—
For thou art alone on the raging sea:
A voice calls loud for thee—
There's a stifled prayer, the first, the last,
The plunging ship on her beam is cast,
Oh, where shall thy burial be?
Bethink thee of oaths that were lightly spoken,
Bethink thee of vows that were lightly broken,
Bethink thee of all that is dear to thee—
For thou art alone on the raging sea:
Alone in the dark, alone on the wave,
To buffet the storm alone—
To struggle aghast at thy watery grave,
To struggle, and feel there is none to save—
God shield thee, helpless one!
The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past,
The trembling hands on the deep are cast,
The white brow gleams a moment more,
Then slowly sinks—the struggle is o'er.
To buffet the storm alone—
To struggle aghast at thy watery grave,
To struggle, and feel there is none to save—
God shield thee, helpless one!
The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past,
The trembling hands on the deep are cast,
The white brow gleams a moment more,
Then slowly sinks—the struggle is o'er.
Down, down where the storm is hushed to sleep,
Where the sea its dirge shall swell,
Where the amber drops for thee shall weep,
And the rose-lipped shell her music keep,
There thou shalt slumber well.
The gem and the pearl lie heaped at thy side,
They fell from the neck of the beautiful bride,
From the strong man's hand, from the maiden's brow,
As they slowly sunk to the wave below.
Where the sea its dirge shall swell,
Where the amber drops for thee shall weep,
And the rose-lipped shell her music keep,
There thou shalt slumber well.
The gem and the pearl lie heaped at thy side,
They fell from the neck of the beautiful bride,
From the strong man's hand, from the maiden's brow,
As they slowly sunk to the wave below.
195
A peopled home is the ocean bed,
The mother and child are there—
The fervent youth and the hoary head,
The maid, with her floating locks outspread,
The babe with its silken hair,
As the water moveth they lightly sway,
And the tranquil lights on their features play;
And there is each cherished and beautiful form,
Away from decay, and away from the storm.
The mother and child are there—
The fervent youth and the hoary head,
The maid, with her floating locks outspread,
The babe with its silken hair,
As the water moveth they lightly sway,
And the tranquil lights on their features play;
And there is each cherished and beautiful form,
Away from decay, and away from the storm.
196
THE SUMMONS ANSWERED.
“To sleep—perchance to dream.”
Shakspere.
Shakspere.
Stout men and bold were the bacchanals three,
Who left the inn that night—
And they were trolling a merry glee
Out under the clear starlight.
To steady themselves their home to reach,
They placed a hand on the shoulder of each—
In friendly mood were they;
The white owl starts with a quivering screech
At the midnight roundelay.
Who left the inn that night—
And they were trolling a merry glee
Out under the clear starlight.
To steady themselves their home to reach,
They placed a hand on the shoulder of each—
In friendly mood were they;
The white owl starts with a quivering screech
At the midnight roundelay.
Waning and dim is the cloudless moon—
The solemn trees move not;
Yet the dry leaf stirs, where it hangs alone,
On the autumn branch to shiver and moan,
A thing wellnigh forgot.
The slippery leaves are damp to the tread,
Yet they crush beneath the foot,
With a sound that now is a sound of dread,
That blends with the white owl's hoot.
The solemn trees move not;
Yet the dry leaf stirs, where it hangs alone,
On the autumn branch to shiver and moan,
A thing wellnigh forgot.
The slippery leaves are damp to the tread,
Yet they crush beneath the foot,
With a sound that now is a sound of dread,
That blends with the white owl's hoot.
197
Long is the lane that the bacchanals go,
And they have ceased the song—
For the still night stilleth their hearts also,
And whispereth of wrong;
The thin moon shineth dim below
On a moss-green oaken door—
Above is the shivering, withered grass,
Beneath is a mouldy floor;
But the dead are hushed by prayer and mass,
And they will stir no more.
And they have ceased the song—
For the still night stilleth their hearts also,
And whispereth of wrong;
The thin moon shineth dim below
On a moss-green oaken door—
Above is the shivering, withered grass,
Beneath is a mouldy floor;
But the dead are hushed by prayer and mass,
And they will stir no more.
There paused the three at “the dead of night,”
'T were strange to tell the why—
The shadows crept in the wan moonlight,
Yet they lingered there, and felt no fright,
Till one more bold drew nigh,
And loud he knocked, and an oath he swore;
Aghast then fled the two—
For slowly opened the moss-green door,
And within a hand him drew.
'T were strange to tell the why—
The shadows crept in the wan moonlight,
Yet they lingered there, and felt no fright,
Till one more bold drew nigh,
And loud he knocked, and an oath he swore;
Aghast then fled the two—
For slowly opened the moss-green door,
And within a hand him drew.
Damp, damp is the room—a glow-worm ray
The reeking vault revealing,
Shows where the dead in their old shrouds lay,
Solemn and hushed in their slow decay,
The worm around them stealing,
With a stillness, stillness pulseless there—
A stillness deep and cold:
How still and lone is the heavy air,
Where the dead their slumber hold!
The reeking vault revealing,
Shows where the dead in their old shrouds lay,
Solemn and hushed in their slow decay,
The worm around them stealing,
With a stillness, stillness pulseless there—
A stillness deep and cold:
How still and lone is the heavy air,
Where the dead their slumber hold!
198
He sat him down on a mouldy seat,
No strength had he to flee;
And the white worm crawled to Richard's feet,
He felt its touch on his fingers meet,
Small heart had he for glee;
And the stillness, stillness deeper crept;
It seemed on his heart to lie.
All night with the dead young Richard slept,
Yet awake was the inner eye.
No strength had he to flee;
And the white worm crawled to Richard's feet,
He felt its touch on his fingers meet,
Small heart had he for glee;
And the stillness, stillness deeper crept;
It seemed on his heart to lie.
All night with the dead young Richard slept,
Yet awake was the inner eye.
The dead moved not, but dreamless slept,
With their faces upward turned;
They who had wearisome vigils kept,
Hoping and loving, though all was wrecked,
No more with tenderness yearned.
Pleasant they slept, from their sorrow at rest,
And Richard feared them not;
For the anguish borne in his own dark breast,
Seemed a far more dreary lot.
With their faces upward turned;
They who had wearisome vigils kept,
Hoping and loving, though all was wrecked,
No more with tenderness yearned.
Pleasant they slept, from their sorrow at rest,
And Richard feared them not;
For the anguish borne in his own dark breast,
Seemed a far more dreary lot.
This restless life, with its little fears,
Its hopes, that fade so soon,
With its yearning tenderness and tears—
And the burning agony, that sears—
The sun gone down at noon;
The spirit crushed to its prison wall,
Mindless of all beside;
This young Richard saw, and felt it all—
Well might the dead abide!
Its hopes, that fade so soon,
With its yearning tenderness and tears—
And the burning agony, that sears—
The sun gone down at noon;
The spirit crushed to its prison wall,
Mindless of all beside;
This young Richard saw, and felt it all—
Well might the dead abide!
199
The crimson light in the east is high,
The hoar-frost coldly gleams,
And Richard, chilled to the heart wellnigh,
Hath raised his wildered and bloodshot eye,
From that long night of dreams;
He shudders to think of the reckless band,
And the fearful oath he swore;
But most, when he thinks of the clay-cold hand
That opened the old tomb door.
The hoar-frost coldly gleams,
And Richard, chilled to the heart wellnigh,
Hath raised his wildered and bloodshot eye,
From that long night of dreams;
He shudders to think of the reckless band,
And the fearful oath he swore;
But most, when he thinks of the clay-cold hand
That opened the old tomb door.
200
THE TWICE-TOLD SEAL.
THE MOTTO BEING “GOD BLESS YOU.”
The letter was a common one,
A business letter too,
Announcing some commission done,
And thence its words were few.
I read it idly, tossed it by,
And then a pretty seal
And kindly motto met my eye,
That gave my heart to feel
A business letter too,
Announcing some commission done,
And thence its words were few.
I read it idly, tossed it by,
And then a pretty seal
And kindly motto met my eye,
That gave my heart to feel
A something more than business air,
As if for gentle dame
A dash of chivalry were there,
Half blended with her name,
And made the slightest office seem
A genial one to do—
It might have been a woman's dream,
Which she from knighthood drew;
As if for gentle dame
A dash of chivalry were there,
Half blended with her name,
And made the slightest office seem
A genial one to do—
It might have been a woman's dream,
Which she from knighthood drew;
It might have been; perchance the seal
Was carelessly applied—
“God bless you,” has a look of zeal,
Of earnest truth beside—
I lingered on the words awhile;
They alway touch the heart,
And oft, too oft, a tear beguile,
When the beloved depart.
Was carelessly applied—
“God bless you,” has a look of zeal,
Of earnest truth beside—
201
They alway touch the heart,
And oft, too oft, a tear beguile,
When the beloved depart.
Days passed away the seal once more
I read with sweet surprise—
Not careless now, if so before,
“God bless you” meets mine eyes;
Some gentle hand the words again
Beneath the seal repeats,
And my heart feels nor idle, vain,
The blessing that it meets.
I read with sweet surprise—
Not careless now, if so before,
“God bless you” meets mine eyes;
Some gentle hand the words again
Beneath the seal repeats,
And my heart feels nor idle, vain,
The blessing that it meets.
I know not whose the gentle hand,
If ever pressed in mine,
If often met in social band
Where honor, truth combine;
I only feel, howe'er unknown,
Though drear life's path may be,
A quiet joy that there is one
Who thus remembers me.
If ever pressed in mine,
If often met in social band
Where honor, truth combine;
I only feel, howe'er unknown,
Though drear life's path may be,
A quiet joy that there is one
Who thus remembers me.
202
THE VOICE OF THE AGE.
THE SIGNERS OF THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE.
Thou mighty ocean! meetly art thou made,A type of human ages—thy great voice
The tumult of a people roused to act—
Thy waves incessant beating to the shore,
Weak in their first assay, yet gathering strength
And volume as they rise, till one vast wave
Surging with mountain-height o'er-leaps the strand,
A semblance fitting man's progressive thought.
Ages on ages doth he onward toil,
The dim lights shielding that his pathway cheer—
Crushing with his gyved hands the clanking chain
That might reveal the progress of his feet,
Until his hour is come, and then like thee
He leapeth to the rock, amid the roar
Of breakers, on the vantage ground he stands
With planted foot, assured of his own strength.
203
God-like although ye were, Freedom's last hope,
Her “forlorn-hope,” prayer-armed, and marshalled forth
Her banner to uphold, and firmly plant
Upon the citadel of human rights,
I honor ye far less than man's great thought.
Ye did become his utterance—ye his voice.
Emerging from his gloom, with giant force;
He spurned the barriers in his pathway hid,
And tore the shackle from the free-born limb—
His proud brow bearing free to the free heaven,
And as he moved a sound tumultuous rose—
For his great spirit cried, yet words had not—
It shouted to the mountain and the wave—
That fetterless were left—the wild old woods,
And the free dweller there—to winds that go
And wait no bidding. 'Twas the uncurbed voice
Of nature calling fiercely for her own,
It was the beating of the human mind,
Against the battlements of power.
Then were ye marshalled forth, and man's great cry
A language found. Ye stood upon the vantage field,
His arm had won, and like a trumpet tone
Your voice became the utterance of his thought.
Man fixed his footing there, and he grew calm
In his own might—the strong limb stronger grew—
204
A calm and measured flow, that told of health.
And thus upon the citadel of thought
Ye proudly stood the voice of human-kind,
And ye are made immortal—thus should be—
Ye have become the watch-word of the free—
And long, O! long, shall man's great soul move on,
Concentring thought, like wave succeeding wave,
To seize on higher truths and holier rights
Ere such as ye shall speak—and then afar
In the long lapse of ages shall arise,
From some high battlement which he hath won,
A trumpet cry, which ye shall answer back
With hearty cheers, that stronger heights are gained.
[_]
The above poem is one of those things, which a writer at all capable of separating the conceptions of his own mind from the suggestiveness of another, is puzzled to know how to dispose of. It was written immediately after an animated discussion with a nobly-endowed friend, to whom the writer is willing to acknowledge many a mental obligation, and the thought therein contained belongs less to herself, than to her companion.
| The poetical writings of Elizabeth Oakes Smith | |