The cold stone and iron--the brick and the lime:
And all, but the surer foundation to lay
For comfort to give in the drear winter time.
I lay you, against this old Winter, a charm.
To make him, at least, keep himself out of doors!
'Twould melt--should he enter--his hard hand and arm.
When loud for admission he threatens and roars.
If gratitude then should come, warming your _heart_,
As peaceful you sit by your warm _fireside_;
Perhaps it may teach you some good to impart
To those, where the gifts you enjoy are denied.
For He in whose favor all blessedness is;
And out of whose kingdom no treasure is sure,
Was poor when on earth;--and the poor still are his:
His charge to his friends is "_Remember the poor_."
Nor would his disciple be higher than He,
Who once on the dwellings of men, for his bread,
In lowliness wrought! but contentedly, we
Will work by the light that our Master has shed.
=Song of the Bees=
We watch for the light of the morn to break,
And color the eastern sky
With its blended hues of saffron and lake;
Then say to each other, "Awake! awake!
For our winter's honey is all to make,
And our bread for a long supply!"
Then off we hie to the hill and the dell--
To the field, the meadow, and bower:
In the columbine's horn we love to dwell,--
To dip in the lily with snow-white bell,--
To search the balm in its odorous cell,
The mint, and rosemary flower.
We suck the bloom of the eglantine,--
Of the pointed thistle and brier;
And follow the track of the wandering vine,
Whether it trail on the earth, supine,
Or round the aspiring tree-top twine,
And reach for a state still higher.
As each, on the good of the others bent,
Is busy, and cares for all,
We hope for an evening with hearts content,--
That Winter may find us without lament
For a Summer that's gone, with its hours misspent,
And a harvest that's past recall!
=The Summer is Come=
CHILDHOOD'S RURAL SONG.
The Summer is come
With the insect's hum,
And the birds that merrily sing.
And sweet are the hours,
And the fruits and flowers,
That Summer has come to bring.
All nature is glad,
And the earth is clad
In her brightest and best array:
So, we with delight
Will our songs unite,
Our tribute of joy to pay.
The swallow is out,
And she sails about
In air, for the careless fly:
Then she takes a sip
With her horny lip
As she skims where the waters lie.
And the lamb bounds light
In his fleece of white,
But he doesn't know what to think,
In the streamlet clear,
Where he sees appear
His face as he stoops to drink.
For, never before
Has he gambolled o'er
The summer-dressed, flowery earth;
And he skips in play,
As he fain would say
"'Tis a season of feast and mirth."
And we have to-day
Been rambling away
To gather the flowers most fair,
Which we sat beneath
An old oak to wreath
While fanned by the balmy air.
Now the sun goes down
Like a golden crown
That's sliding behind a hill;
So we dance the while
To his farewell smile;
And well dance as the dews distil.
Then, we'll dance to-night
While the fire-fly's light
Is sparkling among the grass;
And we'll step our tune
To the silver moon,
As over the green we pass.
O, Summer is sweet!
But her joys are fleet;
We catch them but on the wing:
Yet never the less
Would our hearts confess
The blessings she comes to bring.
=The Morning-Glory=
Come here and sit thee down by me!
I've read a tale, I'll tell to thee;
And precious will the moral be,
Though simple is the story.
It is about a brilliant flower,
With beauty scarce possessed of power
Its opening to survive an hour--
An airy Morning-Glory.
'Tis common parlance names it thus;
But 'twas a gay convolvulus:
Yet we'll not stop to here discuss
Its species or its genus.
We'll just suppose a blooming vine
With many leaf and bud to shine,
And curling tendrils thrown to twine
And form a bower, between us.
And we'll suppose a happy boy,
With face lit up by hope and joy,
Who thinks that nothing shall destroy
His vine, his pride and pleasure,
Is standing near, with kindling eye,
As if its very look would pry
The cup apart, therein to spy
The growing floral treasure.
And now the petal, twisted tight,
Above the calyx peers to sight
With apex tipped with purple, bright
As if the rainbow dyed it.
While on the air it vacillates,
Its owner's bosom palpitates
To see it open, as he waits
Impatient close beside it.
Another rising sun has thrown
Its beams upon the vine, and shown
The splendid Morning-Glory blown,
As if some little fairy,
When early from his couch he went,
On some ethereal journey bent,
Had there inverted left his tent
Of purple, high and airy.
And many a fair and shining flower
As bright as this adorned the bower,
Displayed like jewels in an hour,
Where'er the vine was clinging.
As each corolla lost its twist,
The zephyr fanned, the sunbeam kissed
The little vase of amethyst;
And round it birds were singing.
And now the little boy comes out
To see his vine. He gives a shout,
And sings and laughs, and jumps about
Like one two-thirds demented.
His little playmates, one, two, three,
Come round the beauteous vine to see,
And each cries, "Give a flower to me,
And I'll go off contented."
But "No," the selfish owner cried,
And pushed his comrades all aside,
While walking round his bower with pride,
"Not one of you shall sever
A floweret from the stem so gay;
I own them, not to give away!
I'll come to see them every day;
And keep them mine for ever!"
So, when at noon from school he came,
To see his vine was first his aim:
But oh! his feelings who can name,
As mute he stood and eyed it?
For not a flower could he behold,
While each corolla, inward rolled,
Appeared as shrivelled, dead, and old
As if a fire had dried it.
"Alas!" the selfish owner said,
"My Glories----oh! they all are dead!
And all my little friends have fled
Aggrieved! for I've abused them.
They'll keep away, and but deride
My sorrow, when they hear my pride
Is gone;--that quick the pleasures died
Which rudely I refused them!"
=The Old Cotter and his Cow=
My good old Cow,
I scarce know how
Again we've wintered over;
With my scant fare,
And thine so spare--
No dainty dish, nor clover!
We both were old,
And keen the cold;
While poorly housed we found us;
And by the blast
That, whistling, passed,
The snows were sifted round us.
While, many a day.
Few locks of hay
Were most thy crib presented,
A patient Cow,
And kind wast thou,
And with thy mite contented.
But though the storms
Have chilled our forms,
And we've been pinched together,
The dark, blue day
Is passed away;
We've reached the warm spring weather!
The bounteous earth
Is shooting forth
Her grass and flowers so gayly;
Thou now canst feed
Along the mead,
While food is growing daily.
The soft, sweet breeze
Through budding trees
Now fans my brow so hoary:
And these old eyes
Find new supplies
Of light from nature's glory.
Though poor my cot,
And low my lot,
With thee, my richest treasure,
I take my cup,
And looking up,
Bless Him who gives my measure.
=The Speckled One=
Poor speckled one! none else will deign
To waft thy name around;
So, let me take it on my strain,
To give it air and sound.
Yes--air and sound, low child of earth!
For these are oft the things
That give a name its greatest worth,
Its gorgeous plumes and wings.
But do not shun me thus, and hop
Affrighted from my way!
Dismiss thy terrors--turn and stop;
And hear what I may say.
Meek, harmless thing, afraid of man?
This truly should not be.
Then calmly pause, and let me scan
My Maker's work in thee.
For both of us to Him belong;
We're fellow-creatures here;
And power should not be armed with wrong,
Nor weakness filled with fear.
I know it is thy humble lot
To burrow in a hole--
To have a form I envy not,
And that without a soul.
In motion, attitude and limb
I see thee void of grace;
And that a look supremely grim,
Reigns o'er thy solemn face.
But thou for this art not to blame;
Nor should it make us load
With obloquy, and scorn, and shame
The honest name of TOAD.
For, though so low on nature's scale--
In presence so uncouth,
Thou ne'er hast told an evil tale,
Of falsehood, or of truth.
Thy thoughts are ne'er on malice bent--
Nor hands to mischief prone;
Nor yet thy heart to discontent;
Though spurned, and poor and lone.
No coveting nor envy burns
In thy bright golden eye,
That calm and innocently turns
On all below the sky.
Thy cautious tongue and sober lip
No words of folly pass,
Nor, are they found to taste and sip
The madness of the glass.
Thy frugal meal is often drawn
From earth, and wood, and stone;
And when thy means by these are gone,
Thou seem'st to live on none.
I hear that in an earthen jar
Sealed close, shut up alive,
From food, drink, air, sun, moon and star,
Thou'lt live and even thrive:--
And that no moan, or murmuring sound
Will issue from the lid
Of thy dark dwelling under ground,
When it is deeply hid.
Thou hast, as 'twere, a secret shelf,
Whereon is a supply
Of nourishment, within thyself,
Concealed from mortal eye.
Methinks this self-sustaining art
'Twere well for us to know,
To keep us up in flesh and heart,
When outer means grow low.
Could we contain our riches thus,
On such mysterious shelves,
Why, none could rob or beggar us;
Unless we lost ourselves!
But ah! my Toadie, there's the rub,
With every human breast--
To live as in the cynic's tub,
And yet be self-possessed!
For, how to let no boast get round
Beyond our tub, to show
That we in head and heart are sound,
Is one great thing to know.
And yet, the prison-staves and hoop
To let no murmur through,
However hard we find the coop,
Is greater still to do.
Then go, thou sage, resigned and calm,
Amid thy low estate;
And to thy burrow bear the palm
For victory over fate.
We conquer, when we meekly bear
The lot we cannot shape;
And hug to death the ills and care
From which there's no escape.
=The Blind Musician=
"Ah! who comes here?" old Raymond cried,
As lone he sat by the highway-side,
Where Frisk jumped up at his knee in play;
And his white locks went to the air astray;--
While his worn-out hat lay on the ground,
And his light violin gave forth no sound--
"Ah! who comes here with voice so kind
To the ear of a poor old man who's blind?"
'Twas a gladsome troop of bright young boys,
With hearts all full of their play-day joys,
As their baskets were of nuts and cake,
And fruits, a pic-nic treat to make.
For they were out for the fields and flowers--
For the grassy lane, and the woodland bowers;
And the course they took first led them by
Where the lone one sat with a sightless eye.
They saw he'd a worn and hungry look;
And each from his basket promptly took
A part of its precious pic-nic store,
And tried the others to get before,
As on with their ready gifts they ran,
To reach them forth to the poor old man;
And said, "Good Sir, take this and eat
While resting thus on your mossy seat."
"Heaven bless you, little children dear!"
Old Raymond cried, with a starting tear,
As they took their cup to the fountain's brink,
And brought him back some clear, cool drink.
And Frisk looked up with a grateful eye,
As to him they dropped some crust of pie:
For he, good dog, was his master's guide,
By a cord to the ring of his collar tied.
"And now, would you like to hear me play,"
Said the traveller, "ere you go your way?
O, I did not think that aught so soon
Could have put my poor old heart in tune.
But you have touched it at the spring,
And it seems as if it could dance and sing.
Your kindness makes my spirit light,
Till I hardly feel that I've lost my sight!"
He took up his violin and bow,
And made his voice to their music flow;
And the children, listening sat around
As if by a spell to the circle bound.
While thus they were fastened to the spot,
And their first pursuit almost forgot,
They felt they could ask no pleasure more,
And their picnic frolic at once gave o'er.
And there they staid till the sun went down,
When they led the old Raymond safe to town;
While Frisk went sporting all the way,
To speak his thanks by his joyous play.
They found him a room with a table spread,
And a pillow to rest his hoary head.
Then feeling their time and pence well-spent,
They all went back to their homes content.
=The Lame House=
O, I cannot bring to mind
When I've had a look so kind,
Gentle lady, as thine eye
Gives me, while I'm limping by!
Then, thy little boy appears
To regard me but with tears.
Think'st thou he would like to know
What has brought my state so low?
When not half so old as he,
I was bounding, light and free,
By my happy mother's side,
Ere my mouth the bit had tried,
Or my head had felt the rein
Drawn, my spirits to restrain.
But I'm now so worn and old,
Half my sorrows can't be told.
When my services began,
How I loved my master, man!
I was pampered and caressed,--
Housed, and fed upon the best.
Many looked with hearts elate
At my graceful form and gait,--
At my smooth and glossy hair
Combed and brushed with daily care.
Studded trappings then I wore,
And with pride my master bore,--
Glad his kindness to repay
In my free, but silent way.
Then was found no nimble steed
That could equal me in speed,
So untiring, and so fleet
Were these now, old, aching feet.
But my troubles soon drew nigh:
Less of kindness marked his eye,
When my strength began to fail;
And he put me off at sale.
Constant changes were my fate,
Far too grievous to relate.
Yet I've been, to say the least,
Through them all a patient beast.
Older--weaker--still I grew:
Kind attentions all withdrew!
Little food, and less repose;
Harder burdens--heavier blows,--
These became my hapless lot,
Till I sunk upon the spot!
This maimed limb beneath me bent
With the pain it underwent.
Now I'm useless, old, and poor,
They have made my sentence sure;
And to-morrow is the day,
Set for me to limp away,
To some far, sequestered place,
There at once to end my race.
I stood by, and heard their plot--
Soon my woes shall be forgot!
Gentle lady, when I'm dead
By the blow upon my head,
Proving thus, the truest friend,
Him who brings me to my end;
Wilt thou bid them dig a grave
For their faithful, patient slave;
Then, my mournful story trace,
Asking mercy for my race?
=Humility; or, The Mushroom's Soliloquy.=
O, what, and whence am I, 'mid damps and dust,
And darkness, into sudden being thrust?
What was I yesterday? and what will be,
Perchance, to-morrow, seen or heard of me?
Poor--lone--unfriended--ignorant--forlorn,
To bear the new, full glory of the morn,--
Beneath the garden wall I stand aside,
With all before me beauty, show, and pride.
Ah! why did Nature shoot me thus to light,
A thing unfit for use--unfit for sight;
Less like her work than like a piece of Art,
Whirled out and trimmed--exact in every part?
Unlike the graceful shrub, and flexible vine,
No fruit--no branch--nor leaf, nor bud, is mine.
No singing bird, nor butterfly, nor bee
Will come to cheer, caress, or flatter me.
No beauteous flower adorns my humble head,
No spicy odors on the air I shed;
But here I'm stationed, in my sombre suit,
With only top and stem--I've scarce a root!
Untaught of my beginning or my end,
I know not whence I sprung, or where I tend:
Yet I will wait, and trust; nor dare presume
To question Justice--I, a frail Mushroom!
=The Lost Nestlings.=
"Have you seen my darling nestlings?"
A mother-robin cried,
"I cannot, cannot find them,
Though I've sought them far and wide.
"I left them well this morning,
When I went to seek their food;
But I found, upon returning,
I'd a nest without a brood.
"O have you nought to tell me,
That will ease my aching breast,
About my tender offspring
That I left within the nest?
"I have called them in the bushes,
And the rolling stream beside;
Yet they come not at my bidding;--
I'm afraid they all have died!"
"I can tell you all about them;"
Said a little wanton boy
"For 'twas I that had the pleasure
Your nestlings to destroy.
"But I didn't think their mother
Her little ones would miss;
Or ever come to hail me
With a wailing sound, like this.
"I didn't know your bosom
Was formed to suffer woe,
And to mourn your murdered children,
Or I had not grieved you so.
"I am sorry that I've taken
The lives I can't restore;
And this regret shall teach me
To do the like no more.
"I ever shall remember
The wailing sound I've heard!
No more I'll kill a nestling,
To pain a mother-bird!"
=The Bat's Flight By Daylight An Allegory=.
A Bat one morn from his covert flew,
To show the world what a Bat could do,
By soaring off on a lofty flight,
In the open day, by the sun's clear light!
He quite forgot that he had for wings
But a pair of monstrous, plumeless things;
That, more than half like a fish's fin,
With a warp of bone, and a woof of skin,
Were only fit in the dark to fly,
In view of a bat's or an owlet's eye.
He sallied forth from his hidden hole,
And passed the door of his neighbor, Mole,
Who shrugged, and said, "Of the two so blind
The wisest, surely, stays behind!"
But he could not cope with the glare of day:
He lost his sight, and he missed his way;--
He wheeled on his flapping wings, till, "bump!"
His head went, hard on the farm-yard pump.
Then, stunned and posed, as he met the ground,
A stir and a shout in the yard went round;
For its tenants thought they had one come there,
That seemed not of water, earth, or air.
The Hen, "Cut, cut, cut-dah-cut!" cried,
For all to cut at the thing she spied;
While the taunting Duck said, "Quack, quack, quack!"
As her muddy mouth to the pool went back,
For something denser than sound, to show
Her sage disgust, at the quack to throw.
The old Turk strutted, and gobbled aloud,
Till he gathered around him a babbling crowd;
When each proud neck in the whole doomed group
Was poked with a condescending stoop,
And a pointed beak, at the prostrate Bat,
Which they eyed askance, as to ask, "What's _that_?"
But none could tell; and the poults moved off,
In their _select circle_ to leer and scoff.
The Goslings skulked; but their wise mamma,
She hissed, and screamed, till the Lambs cried, "Ba-a!"
When up from his straw sprang the gaping Calf,
With a gawky leap and a clammy laugh.
He stared--retreated--and off he went,
The wondrous news in his voice to vent,--
That he had discovered a _monster_ there--
A _bird four-footed, and clothed with hair_!
And had dashed his heel at the sight so odd,
It looked, he thought, like a _heathen god_!
The scuddling Chicks cried, "Peep, peep, peep!
For Boss looks high, but not very deep!
It is not a fowl! 'tis the worst of things,--
low, mean beast, with the use of wings,
So noiseless round on the air to skim,
You know not when you are safe from him."
There stood by, some of the bristly tribe,
Who felt so touched by the peeper's gibe,
Their backs were up; for they thought, at least,
It aimed at them the _low, mean beast:_
And they challenged Chick to her tiny face,
In their sharp, high notes, and their awful base.
Then old Chanticleer to his mount withdrew,
And gave from his rostrum a loud halloo.
He blew his clarion strong and shrill,
Till he turned all eyes to his height, the hill;
When he noised it round with his loudest crow,
That 't was none of the _plumed_ ones brought so low.
And, "Bow-wow-wow!" went the sentry Cur;
But he soon strolled off in a grave demur,
When he saw on the wonder, _hair_, like his,
_Two ears_, and a kind of _doubtful phiz;_
And he deemed it prudent to pause, and hark
In silence, for fear that the sight might _bark_!
At last came Puss, with a cautious pat
To feel the pulse of the quivering Bat,
That had not, under her tender paw,
A limb to move, nor a breath to draw!
Then she called her kit for a mother's gift,
And stilled its mew with the racy lift.
When Mole of the awful death was told,
"Alas!" cried she, "he had grown too bold--
Too vain and proud! Had he only kept,
Like the _prudent Mole_, in his nest, and slept.
Or worked underground, where none could see,
He might have still been alive, like me!"
While thus, so early the poor Bat died,
A cry, that it was but the fall of pride,
And signs of mirth, or of scorn, were all
He had from those who beheld his fall.
They each could triumph, and each condemn;
But no kind pity was shown by them.
And now, should we, as a mirror, place
This story out for the world to face,
How many, think you, would there perceive
Likeness to children of Adam and Eve?
=Idle Jack.=
See mischievous and idle Jack!
How fast he flies, nor dares look back!
He seized Horatio's pretty cart,
And broke and threw it part from part;
The body here, and there the wheels;
And now, by taking to his heels,
He makes the Scripture proverb true,--
_The wicked flee when none pursue._.
Oh! Jack's a worthless, wicked boy,
Who seems but evil to enjoy.
He often racks his naughty brain
Inventing ways of giving pain.
He loves to torture butterflies--
To dust the kitten's tender eyes--
To break the cricket's slender limb;
And pain to them is sport to him.
He sometimes to your garden comes,
To crush the flowers and steal the plums--
The melons tries with thievish gripe,
To find the one that's nearest ripe--
His pocket fills with grapes or pears,
No matter how their owner fares;
When, by its lawless, robber track,
You trace the foot of idle Jack.
Whenever Jack is sent to school,
He, playing truant, plays the fool:
Or else he goes, with sloven looks
And hands unclean, to spoil the books--
To spill the ink, or make a noise,
Disturbing good and studious boys;
Till all who find what Jack's about
Within the school, must wish him out.
If ever Jack at church appears,
He knows not, cares not, what he hears.
While others to the word attend,
He has a pencil-point to mend--
An apple, or his nails to pare,
Or cracks a nut in time of prayer,
Till many wish that Jack would come,
A better boy, or stay at home.
In short, he shows, beyond a doubt,
That, if he does not turn about,
And mend his morals and his ways,
He yet must come to evil days;
And of a life of wasted time--
Of idleness, and vice, and crime,
To meet, perhaps, a felon's end,
With neither man, nor God his friend.
=David and Goliath=.
Young David was a ruddy lad
With silken, sunny locks,
The youngest son that Jesse had:
He kept his father's flocks.
Goliath was a Philistine,
A giant, huge and high;
He lifted, like a towering pine,
His head towards the sky.
He was the foe of Israel's race.
A mighty warrior, too;
And on he strode from place to place,
And many a man he slew.
So Saul, the king of Israel then,
Proclaimed it to and fro,
That most he'd favor of his men
The one, who'd kill the foe.
Yet all, who saw this foe draw near,
Would feel their courage fail;
For not an arrow, sword, or spear,
Could pierce the giant's mail.
But Jesse's son conceived a way,
That would deliverance bring;
Whereby he might Goliath slay,
And thus relieve the king.
Then quick he laid his shepherd's crook
Upon a grassy bank;
And off he waded in the brook
From which the lambkins drank.
He culled and fitted to his sling
Five pebbles, smooth and round;
And one of these he meant should bring
The giant to the ground.
"I've killed a lion and a bear,"
Said he, "and now I'll slay
The Philistine, and by the hair
I'll bring his head away!"
Then onward to the battle-field
The youthful hero sped;
He knew Goliath by his shield,
And by his towering head.
But when, with only sling and staff,
The giant saw him come,
In triumph he began to laugh;
Yet David struck him dumb.
He fell! 'twas David's puny hand
That caused his overthrow!
Though long the terror of the land,
A pebble laid him low.
The blood from out his forehead gushed.
He rolled, and writhed, and roared:
The little hero on him rushed,
And drew his ponderous sword.
Before its owner's dying eye
He held the gleaming point
Upon his throbbing neck to try;
Then severed cord and joint.
He took the head, and carried it
And laid it down by Saul;
And showed him where the pebble hit
That caused the giant's fall.
The lad, who had Goliath slain
With pebbles and a sling,
Was raised in after years to reign
As Israel's second king!
'Twas not the courage, skill, or might
Which David had, alone,
That helped him Israel's foe to fight
And conquer, with a stone.
But, when the shepherd stripling went
The giant thus to kill,
God used him as an instrument
His purpose to fulfil!
=Escape of the Doves=.
Come back, pretty Doves! O, come back from the tree.
You bright little fugitive things!
We could not have thought you so ready and free
In using your beautiful wings.
We didn't suppose, when we lifted the lid,
To see if you knew how to fly,
You'd all flutter off in a moment, and bid
The basket for ever good-by!
Come down, and we'll feast you on insects and seeds;--
You sha'nt have occasion to roam--
We'll give you all things that a bird ever needs,
To make it contented at home.
Then come, pretty Doves! O, return for our sakes,
And don't keep away from us thus;
Or, when your old slumbering master awakes,
'Twill be a sad moment for us!