Chapter I: Caught a Bird

I caught a bird: She flitted by,
So near my window lifted high,
She softly ventured in, to spy
What I might be about:
And then, a little wildered thing,
Like many a one without a wing,
She fluttered, struck, and seemed to sing,
"Alas! I can't get out."

She saw her kindred on the tree
Before her, sporting light and free;
But felt a power, she could not see,
Repel and hold her back.
In vain her beak, and breast, and feet
Against the crystal pane were beat:
She could not break the clear deceit,
Nor find her airy track.

The pretty wanderer then I took;
And felt her frame with terror shook:
She gave the sad and piteous look
Of helplessness and fear;
Till quick I spread my hand, to show,
I caught her but to let her go;
And I, perhaps, may never know
A dearer moment here.

She piped a short and sweet adieu,
As, humming on the air, she threw
Her brilliant, buoyant wing, and flew
Away from fear and me:
But, ere the hour of setting sun,
That little constant, grateful one,
Returning, had her hymn begun
In our old rustling tree.

Now do not take the fatal aim,
My tender bird to kill, or maim;
Nor let the fatal shot proclaim
Her anguish, or her fall!
But, would you know the bird I mean,
She is the first that will be seen--
The last--and every one between:
She represents them all!

THE FLOWER OF SHELLS AND SILVER WIRE.

TO ----.

I sought a meet gift, it might please thee to wear
Among the soft locks of thy fine silken hair;
And asked the two deeps for some treasure or gem,
By nature first formed and imbosomed in them.

The mine gave me threads of its fine silver ore;
The ocean cast up its smooth shells to the shore:
Of these I combined the free offering, that now
I bring, and would set o'er thy fair, peaceful brow.

The shells, thou wilt see, are unsullied and white;
The silver is modest, and precious, and bright,--
A type! thy quick fancy will readily see,
Yet thou 'lt not confess what its meaning may be.

And let the gift sometimes recall to thy mind
The friend, by whose hand its pure parts were combined;
But, oftener, that Friend, in whose hand was the skill
The earth and the seas with their treasures to fill!

THE LITTLE BLIND BOY.

O tell me the form of the soft summer air,
That tosses so gently the curls of my hair!
It breathes on my lip, and it fans my warm cheek,
But gives me no answer, though often I speak:
I feel it play o'er me, refreshing and light,
And yet cannot touch it, because I 've no sight!

And music--what is it? and where does it dwell?
I sink, and I mount, with its cadence and swell,
While thrilled to my heart, with its deep-going strain,
Till pleasure excessive seems turning to pain.
Now, what the bright colors of music may be,
Will any one tell me? for I cannot see.

The odors of flowers, that are hovering nigh--
What are they?--on what kind of wings do they fly?
Are not they sweet angels, who come to delight
A poor little boy, that knows nothing of sight?
The sun, moon and stars never enter my mind.
O tell me what light is, because I am blind!

THE SALE OF THE WATER-LILY.

There stood upon the broad high-road,
That o'er a moorland lay,
A widow's low and lone abode,
And close beside the way.

Upon its face the dwelling bore
The signs of times within,
That seemed to say but little more
Than, "_Better days have been!_"

Behind it was the sedgy fen,
With alder, brake, and brush;
And less to serve the wants of men,
Than of the jay and thrush.

And these would sometimes come, and cheer
The widow with a song,
To let her feel a neighbor near,
And wing an hour along.

A pond, supplied by hidden springs,
With lilies bordered round,
Was found among the richest things,
That blessed the widow's ground.

She had, besides, a gentle brook,
That wound the meadow through,
Which from the pond its being took,
And had its treasures too.

Her eldest orphan was a son;
For, children she had three;
She called him, though a little one,
Her hope for days to be.

And well he might be reckoned so,
If, from the tender shoot,
We know the way the branch will grow;
Or, by the flower, the fruit.

His tongue was true, his mind was bright;
His temper smooth and mild:
He was--the parent's chief delight--
A good and pleasant child.

He 'd gather chips and sticks of wood,
The winter fire to make;
And help his mother dress their food,
Or tend the baking cake.

In summer time he 'd kindly lead
His little sisters out,
To pick wild berries on the mead,
And fish the brook for trout.

He stirred his thoughts for ways to earn
Some little gain; and hence,
Contrived the silver pond to turn,
In part, to silver pence.

He found the lilies blooming there
So spicy sweet to smell,
And to the eye so pure and fair,
He plucked them up to sell.

He could not to the market go:
He had too young a head,
The distant city's ways to know;
The route he could not tread.

But, when the coming coach-wheels rolled,
To pass his humble cot,
His bunch of lilies to be sold
Was ready on the spot.

He 'd stand beside the way, and hold
His treasures up to show,
That looked like yellow stars of gold
Just set in leaves of snow.

"O buy my lilies!" he would say;
"You 'll find them new and sweet:
So fresh from out the pond are they,
I have n't dried my feet!"

And then he showed the dust that clung
Upon his garment's hem,
Where late the water-drops had hung,
When he had gathered them.

And while the carriage checked its pace,
To take the lilies in,
His artless orphan tongue and face
Some bright return would win.

For many a noble stranger's hand,
With open purse, was seen,
To cast a coin upon the sand,
Or on the sloping green.

And many a smiling lady threw
The child a silver piece;
And thus, as fast as lilies grew,
He saw his wealth increase.

While little more--and little more,
Was gathered by their sale,
His widowed mother's frugal store
Would never wholly fail.

For He, who made, and feeds the bird,
Her little children fed.
He knew her trust: her cry he heard;
And answered it with bread.

And thus, protected by the Power,
Who made the lily fair,
Her orphans, like the meadow flower,
Grew up in beauty there.

Her son, the good and prudent boy,
Who wisely thus began,
Was long the aged widow's joy;
And lived an honored man.

He had a ship, for which he chose
"The LILY" as a name,
To keep in memory whence he rose,
And how his fortune came.

He had a lily carved and set,
Her emblem, on her stem;
And she was called, by all she met,
A beauteous ocean gem.

She bore sweet spices, treasures bright;
And, on the waters wide,
Her sails, as lily-leaves, were white:
Her name was well applied.

Her feeling owner never spurned
The faces of the poor;
And found that all he gave returned
In blessing rich and sure.

The God, who, by the lily-pond,
Had drawn his heart above,
In after life preserved the bond
Of grateful, holy love.

THE SILVER BIRDSNEST.

We were shown a beautiful specimen of the ingenuity of birds, a
few days since, by Dr. Cook, of this borough. It was a birdsnest
made entirely of silver wires, beautifully woven together. The nest
was found on a sycamore tree, on the Condorus, by Dr. Francis Beard,
of York county. It was the nest of a hanging-bird; and the material
was probably obtained from a soldier's epaulet, which it had found.

WESTCHESTER VILLAGE RECORD.

_Spring of 1838._

A stranded soldier's epaulet,
The waters cast ashore,
A little winged rover met,
And eyed it o'er and o'er.
The silver bright so pleased her sight,
On that lone, idle vest,
She knew not why she should deny
Herself a silver nest.

The shining wire she pecked and twirled;
Then bore it to her bough,
Where, on a flowery twig 't was curled--
The bird can show you how:--
But, when enough of that bright stuff
The cunning builder bore
Her house to make, she would not take,
Nor did she covet more.

And when the little artisan,
While neither pride nor guilt
Had entered in her pretty plan,
Her resting-place had built;
With here and there a plume to spare,
About her own light form,
Of these, inlaid with skill, she made
A lining soft and warm.

But, do you think the tender brood
She fondled there, and fed,
Were prouder, when they understood
The sheen about their bed?
Do you suppose they ever rose
Of higher powers possessed,
Because they knew they peeped and grew
Within a silver nest?

THE QUAKER FLOWER.

A TRIFOLIUM FROM THE GRAVE OF PENN.

I have a little Quaker flower,
That hath a kind of spirit power
To hold me captive, hour by hour,
In pleasant musing lost;
'T was plucked for me in distant land,
And by another's friendly hand,
From turf where I may never stand;
Then yon wild ocean crossed.

A modest foreigner it came,
Bearing a sweet, but humble name;
Yet worthy of a glorious fame
Among the sons of men;
For O the pretty stranger grew:
It drank the ether and the dew,
And from light received its hue
Upon the grave of PENN!

It sprang from out that hallowed ground,
Unclosed its eye, and smiled around,
Upon the verdure of the mound,
Where WILLIAM's ashes rest;
Where low the dust in quiet lies
Of him, among the good and wise
On earth, so meek, and in the skies
So high among the blest.

And had my flower a living root,
Or seed wherefrom a germ might shoot
For one young plant to be the fruit
Of that small vital part,
Fair PENN-SYLVANIA, it should be,
My friendly offering made to thee--
Set, to thy father's memory,
On thy kind Quaker heart.

But, ah! my precious flower is dead:
The snow-white sheet beneath its head,
And on its tender bosom spread,
Shows that its life is o'er:
And though each floweret of the gem,
And every leaf, is on the stem,
I cannot spare thee one of them,
Because there 'll grow no more.

I therefore bid my fancy weave
This simple wreath, which thou 'lt receive
In lieu thereof; and thence believe
My fervent wish to be
That Heaven, to overflowing still,
With purest bliss thy cup may fill,
And guard thee safe from every ill,
Whilst thou rememberest me!

THE HUMMING-BIRD'S ANGER.

"Small as the humming-bird is, it has great courage and violent
passions. If it find a flower that has been deprived of its honey,
it will pluck it off, throw it on the ground, and sometimes tear it
to pieces."

BUFFON.

On light little wings, as the humming-birds fly,
With plumes many-hued as the bow of the sky,
Suspended in ether, they shine in the light,
As jewels of nature, high-finished and bright.

Their delicate forms are so buoyant and small,
They hang o'er the flowers, as too airy to fall,
Upborne on their beautiful pinions, that seem
Like glittering vapor, or parts of a dream.

The humming-bird feeds upon honey, and so,
Of course, 't is a sweet little creature, you know:
But sweet little creatures have sometimes, they say,
A great deal that 's bitter or sour to betray.

And often the humming-bird's delicate breast
Is found of a very high temper possessed:
Such essence of anger within it is pent,
'T would burst, did no safety-valve give it a vent.

Displeased, it will seem a bright vial of wrath,
Uncorked by its heat the offender to scath;
And taking occasion to let off its ire,
'T is startling to witness how high it will fire.

A humming-bird once o'er a trumpet-flower hung,
And darted that sharp little member, the tongue,
At once through the tube to its cell for the sweet
It felt, at the bottom, most certain to meet.

But, finding that some other child of the air,
To rifle the store, had already been there,
And no drop of honey for her to draw up,
Her vengeance was poured on the destitute cup.

She flew in a passion that heightened her power,
And, cuffing and shaking the innocent flower,
Its tender corolla in shred after shred
She hastily stripped, then she snapped off its head.

A delicate ruin on earth as it lay,
That bright little fury went humming away,
With gossamer softness, and fair to the eye,
Like some living brilliant just dropped from the sky.

And since, when that curious bird I behold
Arrayed in rich colors, and dusted with gold,
I cannot but think of the wrath and the spite,
She has in reserve, though they 're kept out of sight.

These two-footed, beautiful, passionate things,
If plumeless or plumy, without or with wings,
Should go to the glass, or the painter, and sit
When anger is just at the height of its fit.

THE SABBATH.

Day of days, the dearest, best,
Hallowed by Jehovah's rest!
When his six-days' work was done,
Holy rose the seventh sun.

When creation's pillars stood,
And the Lord pronounced them good,
Morning stars together sang--
Heaven with Sabbath praises rang.

Earth in pristine beauty shone,
Like a gem, before his throne,
While he marked thee, as his claim--
And he sealed thee with his name.

Choice of God, thou blessed day!
At thy dawn the grave gave way
To the power of him within,
Who had, sinless, bled for sin.

Thine the radiance to illume
First, for man, the dismal tomb,
When its bars their weakness owned,
There revealing death dethroned.

Then the Sun of righteousness
Rose, a darkened world to bless,
Bringing up from mortal night,
Immortality and light.

Day of glory! day of power!
Sacred be thine ev'ry hour!
Emblem, earnest of the rest
That remaineth for the blest!

When at last it shall appear
How they loved and kept thee here,
To a temple in the skies,
Fair, eternal, they shall rise.

Not a sigh of grief or care
Shall mingle with their praises there;
Then their sweet reward shall be
An eternity of thee.

THE DEPARTING SPIRIT.

Hush! let the sigh in escaping be stopped:
Be the dim chamber all silently trod!
Let not the tear, that is rounded, be dropt!
Oh! 't is a spirit returning to God!

Angels are softly untwining the strings,
Loosing its ties to the beautiful clay;
Lo! they have lifted their hovering wings:
Joyous they waft her in triumph away!

Sorrow not now, o'er the spiritless form,
While on its features death's lilies unfold:
Break not the heart for another so warm,
Stopt in its pulse by a finger so cold.

Time ne'er shall whiten a lock of that hair,
Silken and full, round the forehead, that shines.
Age shall not come, nor the finger of care,
Marking that brow with their deep-going lines.

Ne'er will those lips be unsealed by the sigh:
Anguish will never that bosom invade:
Tears roll no more from that calm sleeping eye:
Peace o'er the clay her smooth mantle has laid.

Plant a young flower, in beauty to spread,
Tender and pure, where the dust shall repose.
Look then from earth, whence the bright spirit fled,
Up, where to gladness and glory it rose.

SONNET.

Spare, ruthless fowler, spare
That harmless robin's breast!
Its downy vesture do not tear;
But leave the life-blood circling there,
Again to warm her nest;
For she is hastening home with food
Provided for her callow brood.

Her tender offspring see,
Were now thy shot to fly,
Left, as thy helpless babes would be,
'Reft of their mother and of thee,
To moan, and pine, and die.
Then let her pass unhurt along;
And she will thank thee with a song.

FATHER, HEAR!

Thou, whose power assumes the form,
Now, of this wild wintry storm,
Let it still in mercy be
Shown upon the raging sea!
O! for him, who tosses there,
Father, hear this midnight prayer!

Solemn darkness shrouds the world;
While, with mighty wings unfurled,
Thus the winds in fury sweep
O'er the land, and o'er the deep,
Thou, whose thought from death can save,
Guard the life that 's on the wave!

Cold and dreary is the night;
Snow-clouds wrap the beacon-light;
Rocks and ices, like a host
Armed for battle, bar the coast;
For the coming bark appear!
Guide her! save her! Father, hear!

THE PILGRIM'S WAY SONG.

I 'm bound to the house of my Father;
O draw not my feet from the way;
Nor stop me these wild flowers to gather!
They droop at my touch, and decay.
I think of the flowers, that are blooming
In beauty unfading above,
The wings of the angels perfuming,
Who fly down on errands of love.

Of earth's shallow waters the drinking
Is powerless my thirst to allay;
Their taste is of tears, while we 're sinking
Beside them, where quicksands betray.
I long, from that fount ever-living,
That flows by my Father's own door,
With waters so sweet and life-giving,
To drink, and to thirst never more.

The gold of his bright, happy dwelling
Makes all lower gold to look dim;
Its treasures, all treasures excelling,
Shine forth to allure me to Him.
The pearls of this world while I 'm treading
In dust, where as pebbles they lie,
I seek the rich pearl, that is shedding
Its lustre so pure from on high.

For pains my torn spirit is feeling,
No balsam from earth it receives:
I go to the tree, that hath healing
To drop on my wounds from its leaves.
A child that is weary with roaming,
Returning in gladness to see
A home and a parent, I 'm coming--
My Father, I hasten to thee!

THE RISING MONUMENT.

Rise in thy solemn grandeur, calm and slow,
As well befits thy purpose and thy place:
Great Speaker! rise, not suddenly, to show
The earth forever sacred at thy base.

Strong as the rocky frame-work of the globe,
Proportioned fair, in altitude sublime,
With freedom's glory round thee as a robe,
Rise gently--then defy the power of time.

To future ages, from thy lofty site,
Speak in thy mighty eloquence, and tell
That where thou art, on Bunker's hallowed height,
Our WARREN and his valiant brethren fell.

Say, it was here the vital current flowed,
Purpling the turf, amid the mortal strife
For man's great birthright, from the breasts, that glowed
With love of country, more than love of life.

Thou hast thy growth of blood, that, gushing warm
From patriot bosoms, set their spirits free:
All, who behold, shall venerate thy form,
And bow before thy genius, LIBERTY.

Here fell the hero and his brave compeers,
Who fought and died to break a people's chain:
The place is sacred to Columbia's tears.
Poured o'er the victims for a nation slain.

Yet from her starry brow a glory streams,
Turning to gems those holy drops of grief,
As after evening showers, the morn's clear beams
Show diamonds hung on grass, and flower and leaf.

Upright and firm, as were the patriot souls,
That from thy native spot arose to God,
Stand thou and hold, long as our planet rolls,
This last high place by Freedom's martyrs trod.

Let thy majestic shadow walk the ground,
Calm as the sun, and constant as his light;
And by the moon, amid the dews, be found
The sentinel, who guards it through the night.

And may the air around thee ever be
To heaven-born Liberty as vital breath;
But, like the breeze that sweeps the Upas tree,
To Bondage and Oppression certain death!

A beauteous prospect spreads for thy survey;
City and dome, and spire look up to thee:
The solemn forest and the mountains gray
Stand distant to salute thy majesty.

And ocean, in his numbers deep and strong,
While the bright shore beneath thy ken he laves,
Will sing to thee an everlasting song
Of freedom, with his never-conquered waves.

Rise then, and stand unshaken, till the skies
Above thee are about to pass away;
But, when the dead around thee are to rise,
Melt in the burning splendors of the day!

For then will He, "whose right it is to reign,"
Who hath on earth a kingdom pure to save,
Come with his angels, calling up the slain
To freedom, and annihilate the grave.

A NAME IN THE SAND.

Alone I walked the ocean strand;
A pearly shell was in my hand:
I stooped, and wrote upon the sand
My name--the year--the day.
As onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast:
A wave came rolling high and fast,
And washed my lines away.

And so, methought, 't will shortly be
With every mark on earth from me;
A wave of dark oblivion's sea
Will sweep across the place,
Where I have trod the sandy shore
Of time, and been to be no more,
Of me--my day--the name I bore,
To leave nor track, nor trace.

And yet, with Him, who counts the sands,
And holds the waters in his hands,
I know a lasting record stands,
Inscribed against my name,
Of all, this mortal part has wrought;
Of all, this thinking soul has thought;
And from these fleeting moments caught
For glory, or for shame.

THE CHILD OF A YEAR AND A DAY.

To grief the night-hours keeping,
A mournful mother lay
Upon her pillow, weeping--
Her babe had passed away.

When she had clasped her treasure
A year and yet a day,
Of time 't was all its measure--
'T was gone, like morning's ray!

The jewel, Heaven had shown her,
Of worth surpassing gold,
Was lent her, by its Owner--
'T was never earth's to hold.

Then, fondly hovering o'er her,
A bright young angel hung;
And warm the love it bore her,
And sweet the song it sung:

"O mother, why this weeping?
Let all thy sorrow cease:
My infant form is sleeping,
Where nought can break its peace.

"And he, who once was blessing
Such little children here,
My spirit now possessing,
Will hold me ever dear.

"I never knew the dreading
Of death's all-conquering blow;
My mortal raiment shedding,
I rose above the foe.

"Where sickness cannot pain me--
Where comes nor grief nor night--
Where sin shall never stain me,
I dwell, a child of light.

"While many a pilgrim hoary
Treads long earth's weary way,
I have eternal glory
For one short year and day."

Yet that sweet angel singing
Its mother could not hear,
For grief her heart was wringing--
She 'd but a mortal ear.

She could not see the beaming
Of his celestial crown;
For fast her tears were streaming;
Her soul to dust bowed down.

A voice from heaven then falling
In soothing tones to her,
As of a Father, calling,
Revealed the Comforter.

And, lifting up her lowly
And sorrow-laden eye,
She saw the King all holy
Upon the throne Most High.

Where shining hosts were pouring
Their praises forth to Him,
She saw her child adoring,
Amid the Seraphim.

THE BELIEVER'S MOUNTAINS.

Not to the mount, where fire and smoke
Jehovah's face concealed,
When loud to wandering man he spoke,
To make his law revealed--
Not to the awful splendor there
Can turn my fearful eye:
To hear its thunderings, and to dare
Its lightnings, were to die.

Not on the mount where Moses stood,
The promised land to see
Across the waves of Jordan's flood,
Is yet the place for me.
My spirit could not bear to take
That fair and glorious view,
Nor dare her wondrous launch to make,
To try the waters through.

Not to the mount where Christ appeared
At once so heavenly bright;
While they, who heard the Father, feared,
And fell before the light--
Not there, my Saviour ever nigh,
Do I his footsteps trace:
His closer followers far, than I,
Attain that higher place.

But, to the mount without a name,
Where Jesus sat and taught,
I daily would assert my claim,
To share the bread he brought.
His words before that multitude
Dropt to his chosen few,
Are manna for my morning food,
My soul's sweet evening dew.

If to Temptation's mount I go,
That mount _exceeding high_,
My Lord, again rebuke our foe,
And bid the tempter fly.
No kingdom may I seek, but thine;
And let my glory be
A light, reflected pure from thine--
My portion, life with thee!

Oft to the mount of midnight shade,
Of solitude and prayer,
Ascend, my soul, be not afraid
Thy Guide to follow there.
The height and stillness of the scene,
When thou that path hast trod,
Forbids this world to rush between
A spirit and her God.

The mount whereon my Saviour stood,
And o'er the city wept--
Where fell his wo-wrung drops of blood,
While his disciples slept--
There may I go, yet not to sleep
Till Jesus be betrayed;
But, as he went, to pray and weep
O'er sufferings sin hath made.

And to the solemn, shuddering mount,
Where Christ received the cup
Of death, to offer us a fount
Of life, must I go up.
And I must look upon his wo,
On that empurpled tree,
To learn how vast a debt I owe,
By what he paid for me.

Thence to the mount of Galilee
May I the way pursue,
With joy my risen Lord to see,
Ere he ascends from view.
For lo! the heavens their gates unfold
To take their coming King:
His angels harp on strings of gold,
And "Hallelujah!" sing.

Now on Mount Zion may I seek
My shield--my strong, high tower;
And thence, though here so dark and weak,
Be clothed with light and power.
Then at that holy mountain's top,
My soul, no more to roam,
Unfurl thy wings--thine ashes drop;
And gain thy glorious home.

THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING.

A solemn night is o'er Jerusalem;
Nature astonished, shrouds herself in gloom;
For he, who was the babe of Bethlehem,
Is now a victim slain, and in the tomb!

The blood, which started with the agony
That in the garden forced his swelling veins,
In crimson streams has poured on Calvary;
A rocky cavern holds his pale remains.

He walked with men, serene in holiness,
The meek, the merciful, through taunts and strife;
The front of pride he met with lowliness,
And bowed to death to lift his foes to life.

Fast as their sins grew bold and multiplied,
His bitter cup was filling to the brim.
Here doth he lie, the pale, the crucified,
With damps and shadows gathered over him.

The dismal night moves on but heavily,
While they, who came the sepulchre to keep
With bristling spears, the Roman soldiery,
Would fain resign their glittering arms for sleep.

Yet they must wake or die; the sentinel
Must keep his constant vigils round the spot
Where he shall find the watch of Israel:
The life, the spirit moves, and heeds him not.

Within the grave, that power victorious
O'er death and darkness, far from mortal sight,
Hath wrought the body bright and glorious
For resurrection by the morning light.

And lo! the shades of night are vanishing;
The guard behold, as comes the dawning day,
Her dubious gloom and dimness banishing,
The stone that barred the tomb is rolled away.

But, where 's the form that in the drapery,
Which wraps the dead, lay, spiritless and cold,
Within the vault so still and shadowy,
That, as a prison-guard, they came to hold?

That form is gone; its cast-off covering,
The sad habiliments of death, are here,
With burial odors round them hovering,
And white-robed angels calmly sitting near.

But, see the garden, fair and flowering,
Where new-born lilies worship from their stalks;
And boughs with blossoms bend, embowering
The dewy pathway! there the Saviour walks.

The guilty city still is slumbering,
While he is risen from the broken tomb;
As one his vines and fruit trees numbering,
He breathes the incense of their opening bloom.

The moon, now fading in the occident,
Is not so mild, so heavenly fair as he.
The sun, just rising in the orient,
Hath less of glory than in him we see.

Nature, that, for his death and burial,
Hath put on darkness, as a mourning weed,
Arrayed in light as for a festival,
Proclaims afar, "The Lord is risen indeed!"