Chapter I: Shall Be Satisfied (1)

"I shall be satisfied when I awake in thy likeness."

May I in thy likeness, my Saviour, awake,
And rise, a fair image of thee;
Then I shall be satisfied, when I can break
This prison of clay, and be free.

Can I but come forth to eternity's light,
With thy perfect features to shine,
In raiment unsullied from time's dreary night,
What honor and joy will be mine!

Yes, I shall be satisfied then to have cast
The shadows of nature all by--
When, darkness and dust from the dull eyelid past,
My soul sees with full-opened eye.

How fain would I know the great morn drawing near,
When earth's dreamy visions shall fade,
If I in thy semblance indeed may appear,
And stand in thy beauty arrayed!

To see thee in glory, O Lord, as thou art,
From this mortal, perishing clay
My spirit immortal, in peace would depart,
And, joyous, mount up her bright way.

When on thine own image in me thou hast smiled,
In thy holy mansion, and when
Thy fatherly arms have encircled thy child,
O I shall be satisfied then!

THE PENITENTIAL TEAR.

Thou trembling, pure, and holy thing!
What skill from ocean's depths can bring,
Or toil from out the mine--
What monarch in his diadem,
Or glittering garb, produce a gem,
Whose brightness equals thine?

Thy source is deeper than the caves
Of riven rock, or opening waves,
Invisible as air:
And, though the angel throng above
Behold thee with delight and love,
They ne'er can have thee there.

Nor change, nor age thy sheen can dim;
Thou 'rt now unstained as when with him,
Who dared, in olden time,
Thrice his dear, suffering Lord deny;
Then, melted at the Saviour's eye,
And paid thee for his crime.

Called from the treasures of the soul
By power divine, when thou dost roll
Forth from the mourner's eye,
Thy wearer thou dost then proclaim
The heir of life, who has his name
Writ in the Book on high.

Thou art a pearl, that all may own,
And when thy matchless worth is known
To those, who wear thee here,
They will be changed, and shall behold
The shining gates of heaven unfold,
Bright Penitential Tear!

TEACHINGS OF GOD.

He reigns on high, a glorious King,
In ocean, earth, and air;
He moves and governs every thing,
For God is every where.

The waters at his bidding flow,
The mountain and its flower
Their majesty and beauty show,
As traces of his power.

The lilies by the meadow rills
Are leaning on his hand;
And so the cedar of the hills,
The palm and olive stand.

He formed the birds, that sport along
On light and brilliant wing;
And tuned them with the voice of song
And joy his praise to sing.

This earth is ours, so rich and fair
From him, who made it thus--
Who sends his angels down with care
To minister to us.

The rainbow, with its beauteous dies,
A pledge to man, is lent
By him, who spreads the shining skies
Around him, "as a tent."

The heavens, my child, are full of him!
Yon radiant sun above
Is but an image, cold and dim,
Of his great power and love.

He placed that glorious orb on high,
In splendor there to roll,
To warm the world, to light the eye;
He lights and warms the soul.

And lest the night with sable shade
That azure vault should mar,
He moved his finger there, and made,
At every touch, a star.

With these the moon, his beaming gift,
Here lets her lustre fall,
Our thoughts to win, our hearts to lift
To him, who gave them all.

And he is ours--that Holy One,
Our Father, Guide, and Friend;
In ways untravelled by the sun,
In love that ne'er shall end.

'T is sweet to worship him below,
With his approving eye
To mark the way, our spirits go
To seek his face on high.

THE HERALD'S CRY IN THE DESERT.

"He was not that Light; but was sent to bear witness of that
Light."

ST. JOHN i. 8.

Awake, O ye nations, and, shaking
The slumber of death from your eyes,
Behold the fair morn in its breaking,
The SUN of all glory arise.

He comes, mist and dimness dispelling;
The shadows and clouds flee away:
Ho! all, that in darkness are dwelling,
Spring up, and rejoice in the day!

Ye dying, life's waters revealing,
He 'll show you to fountain and streams:
Ye wounded, for you he brings healing;
Come out and repose in his beams.

Come, all ye disconsolate, hailing
Your King in his beauty and might;
His raiment mount Ebal is veiling;
Mount Gerizim shines with his light.

O praise him, ye weary, in wonder
To feel your hard burdens unbound!
Ye captives, your bars fall asunder;
With shoutings leap forth at the sound.

Your names on his breastplate he 's wearing;
They 're set as the seal of his ring;
Ye nations, your highways preparing,
Receive, and be glad in your King!

OUR FATHER'S WELL.

Come, let 's go back, my brother,
And, by our father's well,
Sit down beside each other,
Life's little dreams to tell.

For there we played together,
In childhood's sunny hours;
Before life's stormy weather
Had killed its morning flowers.

And since no draught we 've tasted,
Its weary journey through,
As we so far have hasted,
Like that our father drew;

I feel, as at a mountain,
I cannot pass nor climb,
Till from that distant fountain
I drink, as in my prime.

My spirit's longing, thirsting,
No waters else can quell;
My heart seems near to bursting
To reach that good old well.

Though all be changed around it,
And though so changed are we,
Just where our father found it,
That pure well spring will be.

In earth, when deeply going,
He reached and smote the rock;
He set its fount to flowing--
It opened at his knock.

The way, he smoothed and stoned it,
A close, round, shadowy cell;
Whoever since has owned it,
It is our father's well!

His prattling son and daughter,
With each an infant's cup,
We waited for the water,
His steady hand drew up.

When we had paused and listened,
Till down the bucket dashed,
O how it, rising, glistened,
And to the sunlight flashed!

And since that moment, never
Has that cool deep been dry;
Its fount is living ever,
While man and seasons die.

Around its mouth is growing
The moss of many a year;
But from its heart is flowing
The water sweet and clear.

Fond memory near it lingers,
And, like a happy child,
She plucks, with busy fingers,
And wreathes the roses wild.

Yet many a lip, whose burning
Its limpid drops allayed,
Has since, to ashes turning,
Been veiled in silent shade.

Still we are here, and telling
About our infant play;
Where that free spring is welling,
So true, and far away.

But O! the change, my brother!
Our father's head is hoar;
The tender name of mother
Is ours to call no more.

And now, around thee gather
Such little ones as we
Were then, beside our father,
And look to theirs in thee.

While fast our years are wasting,
Their numbers none can tell;
So let us hence be hasting
To find our Father's well.

Come, we will speed us thither,
And from its mossy brink,
To flowers that ne'er shall wither
Look up to heaven and drink.

They spring beside the waters,
Our Father there will give
To all his sons and daughters,
Where they shall drink and live.

THE MOTHER'S DREAM.

"And I will give him the morning star."

REV. ii. 28.

Methought, once more to my wishful eye
My beautiful boy had come:
My sorrow was gone, my cheek was dry,
And gladness around my home.

I saw the form of my dear, lost child!
All kindled with life he came;
And he spake in his own sweet voice, and smiled,
As soon as I called his name.

The garb he wore looked heavenly white,
As the feathery snow comes down,
And warm, as it shone in the softened light
That fell from his dazzling crown.

His eye was bright with a joy serene,
His cheek with a deathless bloom,
That only the eye of my soul hath seen,
When looking beyond the tomb.

The odors of flowers, from the thornless land
Where we deem that our blest ones are,
Seemed borne in his skirts; and his soft right hand
Was holding a radiant star.

His feet, unshod, looked tender and fair,
As the lily's opening bell,
Half veiled in a cloud of glory, as there
Around him, in folds, it fell.

I asked him how he was clothed anew--
Who circled his head with light--
And whence he returned to meet my view
So calm and heavenly bright.

I asked him where he had been so long
Away from his mother's care--
Again to sing me his infant song,
And to kneel by my side in prayer.

He said, "Sweet mother, the song I sing
Is not for an earthly ear:
I touch the harp with a golden string,
For the hosts of heaven to hear.

"It was but a gently fleeting breath,
That severed thy child from thee!
The fearful shadow, in time, called Death,
Hath ministered life to me.

"My voice in an angel choir I lift;
And high are the notes we raise:
I hold the sign of a priceless gift,
And the Giver, who hath our praise.

"'The bright and the morning star' is he,
Who bringeth eternal day!
And, mother, he giveth himself to thee,
To lighten thine earthly way.

"The race is short to a peaceful goal,
And He is never afar,
Who saith of the wise, untiring soul,
'I will give him the morning star!'

"Thy measure of care for me was filled,
And pure to its crystal top;
For Faith, with a steady eye, distilled
And numbered every drop.

"While thou wast teaching my lips to move,
And my heart to rise in prayer,
I learned the way to a world above;
The home of thy child is there!

"The secret prayers, thou didst make for me,
That only thy God hath known,
Arose, like sweet incense, holy and free,
And gathered around his throne.

"My robe was filled with the perfume sweet
To shed upon this world's air,
As I joyful knelt, at my Saviour's feet,
For the glorious crown I wear.

"In that bright, blissful world of ours,
The waters of life I drink:
Behold my feet, as they 've pressed the flowers,
That grow by the fountain's brink!

"No thorn is hidden to wound me there;
There 's nothing of chill, or blight,
Or sighing to blend with the balmy air--
No sorrow--no pain--no night!"

"No _parting_?" I asked, with a burst of joy;
And the lovely illusion broke!
My rapture had banished my beauteous boy--
To a shadowy void I spoke.

But, O! that STAR of the morn still beams
With light to direct my feet
Where, when I have done with my earthly dreams,
The mother and child may meet.

THE WAR-SPIRIT ON BUNKER'S HEIGHT.

The sun walked the skies in the splendor of June,
O'er earth full of promise, and air full of tune;
The broad azure streams calmly rolled to the deep,
Whose waves on its breast stirred like babes in their sleep.

The turf heaved its green to the white vestured flock,
That fed, or reposed in the shade of the rock;
The birds sang their songs by their nests in the bowers;
And the bee hummed with sweets from the fresh opened flowers.

The humming-bird glittered, and whirred o'er the cell,
Where her nectar was stored, from the hill to the dell;
'Mid the bloom and the perfume, that passed on the breeze,
From the rose, and the vine, and the fruit-bearing trees.

It seemed like a gala, when Nature, arrayed
In festival robes, with her treasures displayed,
Reflected the smile of her Maker above,
And offered up hymns of her thanksgiving love.

And yet, in the bosom of man there were fires
Fierce, quenchless and fearful--consuming desires
For right unpossessed, and for lawless domain,
That burned to the soul, and that flamed to the brain.

In the streets there was clanging and gleaming of arms;
In the dwellings, resolve, preparation, alarms;
In the eye of the wife, mother, sister, a tear;
In the face of their soldier, no semblance of fear.

The patriot chieftain had marked out his ground,
To hold, or to fall, if his foe passed the bound:
And now was the hero to close in the strife,
For death as a bondman, or freedom with life.

The war-spirit hovered, and frowned on the height,
His eye flashing lightning--his wings shedding night!
From his wide fiery nostrils rolled volumes of smoke,
And the rocks roared afar, as in thunder he spoke.

At his dread shock of nature, the lamb from its play,
The bee and the bird, in affright fled away;
The branch, flower, and grass, felt the crush and the scath,
And the winds passing by, snuffed the heat of his wrath.

With blood, that, in torrents, he poured down like rain,
He drenched the green turf, that he strewed with the slain,
Till the eminence groaned with the carnage it bore,
And its heart heaved and shuddered at drinking the gore.

While the breath of the war-spirit scented the air,
The rivers looked wild in reflecting his glare;
And ocean's cold bosom was torn, as he gave
The flap of his pinion to trouble its wave.

The village besieged, wrapped in flames from his breath,
Looked up to the hill, where he revelled with death,
And swelled with the essence of life he had shed,
To sweeten their cup, and the banquet to spread.

O War-spirit! War-spirit, when didst thou bring
Such trophies of beauty before the pale king,
Since walking on Gilboa's height, in thy power,
Of Israel's valiant to mow down the flower?

Mourn, wail, O ye people! and spread wide the pall,
Whose deep sable fringe down the hill-sides shall fall!
Your brethren's warm blood cries aloud from the ground,
That hosts, like Philistia's, in triumph surround.

The lovely, the pleasant have perished! Alas!
Where they fell may there hence be no dew on the grass!
Let a monument there, towards the heavens rear its head,
From a base, that shall cover the spot where they bled!

Ah, War-spirit! War-spirit, deep was the gloom,
Though heaven was unclouded, and earth all in bloom,
When thou, at the onset, that young summer's day,
Didst strike so much valor to darkness away!

And yet, by that thunder, the land is awake:
'T was the crack of her yoke when beginning to break!
And out of that gloom is her glory to spread;
Her living be franchised, immortal her dead.

For up from that summit an eagle shall rise,
To breast the thick clouds, till he sails the blue skies;
And drop, while he bathes at the fountain of light,
A plume from his pinion their story to write.

It shall fall where they fell, on the still purple sward,
Full and warm with the sunbeams their deeds to record;
And move o'er the scroll in the hand of the free,
While the wing where it grew spans the earth and the sea.

THE INNER SELF.

While others lie composed in sleep,
Close wrapped in shade and silence deep,
And starry hosts and angels keep
Their vigils o'er the night,
I have a curious work to do,
A secret door to venture through,
A wondrous being then to view;
If I can stand the sight.

I now take up the sacred key,
Unlock my breast, and pass to see
The inmost, true, essential ME:
And lo! I here have found,
Enclosed within its shrine, the heart,
Myself, my thinking, reasoning part:
But say, my spirit, what thou art,
And whence, and whither bound!

'T is but with wonder, reverence, fear
And shrinking, that I thus draw near
The majesty, that meets me here,
My soul, unveiled, in thee!
I cannot give thy form, or hue,
Or measure, or proportions true;
But feel myself myself subdue,
Thou deepening mystery.

Not all the earth, nor air, nor sea
Could furnish food to nourish thee;
Nor welling founts, nor rivers free,
The spirit's thirst allay:
Nor silver web, nor cloth of gold,
Nor stuffs, that time can e'er unfold,
Nor pearls, nor gems this world may hold,
Compose thee an array.

Yet all the fibres of my frame
Own that from thee their feeling came;
And, at the slightest touch, will claim
Thy closest sympathy.
Thou art their life, their light, their spring,
Informing them in every thing,
But how they are allied, and cling,
My nobler self, to thee.

And do I thus the power survey,
Whom all my meaner powers obey?
Hand, foot and tongue and eye--are they
The servants of thy will?
And when they pause, repose to take,
Dost thou, untiring and awake,
Thy pinions spread, and swiftly make
Thy wide excursions still?

What art thou, never slumbering soul,
To stretch thy wings from pole to pole--
To span the globe--to mark its roll--
Its elements to see,
Conspiring thus, to prophesy
Its end to come before thine eye,
Whilst thou canst fire and flood defy,
Nor ever cease to be?

And, swifter than an eagle flies,
Or arrows dart, dost thou arise
Through air and space, and scale the skies,
'Mid shining spheres to roam:
And with thy conscious rank elate,
Dost stand and watch at heaven's bright gate,
For glimpses of that rich estate
Where thou may'st claim thy home.

Thence, near the pit dost thou go down,
To spy the difference 'twixt the crown
Of life, and that dread withering frown,
Which blights a spirit there.
Then, on eternity's dark brink,
Between them dost thou pause, and think,
And ask, if thou shalt soar or sink--
To joy or wo the heir.

Too blind to trace thy being's plan,
Too small my nobler part to span,
I end my quest where it began,
And from myself retire.
I hence must own within my breast
A power of unknown powers possessed--
A flame, not long to be repressed,
Of clear immortal fire.

TIME.

Time, with thy kind and never-wearying powers,
Giving whate'er we fondly count as ours;
Life, love, hope, faith, the sun, the stars and flowers;
All that to man is dear to thee we owe!
Yet does he call thee, slayer, robber, thief,
And stern, as of his foes thou wert the chief,
Filling his path with ruins, pain and grief,
Without one tender blessing to bestow!

Nature we laud, when thou, paternal Time,
Hast given maturity, as well as prime,
To all her works, in every age and clime,
Since the first floweret on her bosom grew.
Light from the darkness doth thy hand unfold:
Beauty from dust we in thy deeds behold:
The frail, the dimmed, the withered, worn and old
Thy breath dissolves, that they may shine anew.

The city flames, and melts the tottering wall;
Again she rises fairer for the fall.
Thou beckonest back the flood! and at thy call,
From crust-capped mounts, volcanic splendors pour.
The absent sun his way to morning bends;
The waning star to thy command attends,
Fills out and burns; and man to dust descends,
In hope to live, when thou shalt be no more.

The leaves are scattered, yet the waiting tree
Shall have them brought, in verdure, back by thee;
The flower has vanished, but the trusting bee
Will find her cell again with sweetness stored.
The seed may perish, yet the germ will rise;
The grain is ripened while its sheathing dies.
The fruits of earth, the glories of the skies
Forth by thy bounteous hand to man are poured.

We owe thee still for gifts far more divine--
The key to joys it never can be thine
To give or take; and heavenly light to shine
When we must enter that dark, shadowy vale,
Where nought of earth the pathway can illume,
Or lend one ray to shoot across the gloom,
That gathers round the threshold of the tomb,
When thou must there, first and forever, fail.

Then, why does man so oft forget that he
Owes all he is, and all he hopes to be,
When thou and he are severed, but to thee?
Why does he slay thee piecemeal, day by day?
Shut out in exile from thine empire, there,
In that unknown, dread, boundless country, where
Is no retreat, no inn, how will he bear
To have thy spectre haunt the endless way?

Man's wisest study is to know thy worth
And his relations to thee from his birth;
To bring his course o'er this uneven earth,
In a clear sunset, to a quiet close.
Then, as a weary traveller is undressed,
While gently thou the spirit may'st divest
Of her worn garment, there remains a rest,
And she goes franchised to that blest repose.

And now, O Time, as one more hasty year
Of thine is gone, thou hast another here!
Grateful we hail it, though the bitter tear
May have put out the light of joy that shone
On many a face; though tender, sundered ties
Have changed to chords that vibrate but with sighs,
In many a stricken breast where sorrow lies,
Draining the life-stream, while that year has flown.

Countless the blessings showered in its flight;
And seeming evils, turned and viewed aright,
May prove but passing clouds, and lined with light.
Our trust, deceived in earthly things, may teach
The restless, eager spirit to forego
Her crushing grasp on hollow hopes, that grow
Like fragile reeds, to mock her hold below;
And after higher, holier joys to reach.

TIME, then our nobler aspirations raise!
Since few, and short, and fleeting are our days;
And since, so peaceful are her pleasant ways,
Teach us to wisdom to apply the heart:
So that, when thou hast safely led us through
Thy kingdom, with a brighter land in view,
Calm at thy bourn, and with a kind adieu,
We may, as friends, shake hands with thee and part.

MY HEAD.

"The day is come I never thought to see!
Strange revolutions of my farm and me."

DRYDEN'S VIRGIL.

My head! my head! the day is come
I never, never thought to see;
When all, with fingers and a thumb,
May to thy chambers have a key!

That is, if thou wouldst but submit
To come beneath the learned touch,
And let the judge in judgment sit
Upon thy bumps, that prove so much.

I used to think our heads might let
Their own contents, at will, be shown;
I never thought mankind could get
An outward way to make them known.

But now the sapient hand has cut
The matter short, and all may tell
Thy value, as they 'd prize a nut,
And know the kernel by the shell.

If half the light, that has been thrown
_On_ heads, were only poured _within_,
Thou wouldst not thus be left to own
The darkness that is now thy sin.

But, while the world is in a blaze
Of purely phrenologic light,
Thou, wildered thing, art in a maze,
And destitute of faith and sight.

They use a thousand meaning words
Thou couldst not utter or define,
Of which, to tell the truth, three thirds
Were gravel, in a mouth like thine.

They hold me out an empty skull,
To show the powers of living brains:
'T is just like feeling of the hull,
To tell what goods the ship contains.

And, whether nature or mishap
Have raised the bump, 't is all the same;
The sage's crown, or dunce's cap
Must be awarded as its claim.

This hobby, that so many sit,
And manage with such ease and grace,
I dare not try with rein or bit,
It seems so of the donkey race.

And yet, my head, no doubt, 't is all
A fault of thine, a want of sight,
That so much said by Combe and Gall
And Spurzheim cannot turn thee right.

I know not what thy case may be,--
If thou art hollow, or opaque;
I only know thou canst not see,
And faith declines one step to take.

This burst of light has turned thee numb,
Depriving thee of every sense;
So now, if tried, thou must be dumb,
Nor say one word in self-defence!

THE WHEAT FIELD.

Field of wheat, so full and fair,
Shining, with thy sunny hair
Lightly waving either way,
Graceful as the breezes play--
Looking like a summer sea;
How I love to gaze at thee!
Pleasant art thou to the sight;
And to thought a rich delight.
Then, thy voice is music sweet,
Softly sighing field of wheat.

Pointing upward to the sky,
Rising straight, and aiming high,
Every stalk is seen to shoot
As an arrow, from the root.
Like a well-trained company,
All in uniform agree,
From the footing to the ear;
All in order strict appear.
Marshalled by a skilful hand,
All together bow, or stand
Still, within the proper bound:
None o'ersteps the given ground,
With its tribute held to pay,
At his nod whom they obey,
Each the gems, that stud its crown,
Will ere long, for man, lay down.
Thou with promise art replete
Of the precious sheaves of wheat.

How thy strength in weakness lies!
Not a robber bird, that flies,
Finds support whereby to put
On a stalk her lawless foot.
Not a predatory beak
Plunges down, thy stores to seek,
Where the guard of silver spears
Keeps the fruit, and decks the ears.
No vain insect, that could do
Harm to thee, dares venture through
Such an armory, or eat
Off the sheath to take the wheat.

What a study do we find
Opened here for eye and mind!
In it who can offer less,
Than to wonder, and confess,
That on this high-favored ground,
Faith is blest, and hope is crowned.
Charity her arms may spread
Wide from it, with gifts of bread.
Wisdom, power, and goodness meet
In the bounteous field of wheat.

THE LITTLE TRAVELLER.

I am the tiniest child of earth,
But still, I would like to be known to fame,
Though next to nothing I had my birth,
And lowest of all is my lowly name.

Yet, if so humble my native place,
I this can say, in family pride,
That I 'm of the world's most numerous race,
And made by the Maker of all beside.

Although I 'm so poor, I have nought to lose;
Still I 'm so little I can't be lost:
I journey about wherever I choose,
And those, who carry me, bear the cost.

The most forgiving of earthly things,
I often cling to my deadly foe;
And, spite of the cruelest flirts and flings,
Arise by the force that has cast me low.

When beauty has trodden me under foot,
I 've quietly risen her face to seek,
Embraced her forehead, or calmly put
Myself to rest in her dimpled cheek.

I 've ridden to war on the soldier's plume;
But startled, and sprung at the wild affray,
The sights of horror, of fire and fume,
And fled on the wing of the winds away.

I 've visited courts, and been ushered in
By the proudest guest of the stately scene;
I 've touched his majesty's bosom-pin,
And the nuptial ring of his lofty queen.

At the royal board, in the grand parade,
I 've oft been one familiar and free:
The fairest lady has smiled, and laid
Her delicate, gloveless hand on me.

Philosopher, poet, the learned, the sage,
Never declines a call from me;
And all, of every rank and age,
Admit me into their _coterie_.

I visit the lions of every where,
If human, or brute, and can testify
To what they do, to what they wear,
To wonders none ever beheld but I!

And now, reviewing the things I 've done,
Forgetting my name, my rank and birth,
I begin to think I am number one
Of the great and manifold things of earth.

I 've still much more, that I yet might tell,
Which modesty bids me here withhold;
For fear with my travels I seem to swell,
grow, for an ATOM OF DUST, too bold!

THE ENTANGLED FLY.

Ah, thou unfortunate!
Poor, silly fly,
Caught in the spider's web,
Hung there to die!
What could have tempted thee?
What led thee there,
For thy foe, thus to throw
Around thee the snare?

Struggling and crying so
Ne'er can unweave
From thee the silken threads,
Laid to deceive.
Sorrow for wandering
Comes now in vain;
And, with one thus undone,
Grief adds to pain.

Yet, I will rescue thee,
Unwary thing!
Thou may'st again be off,
High on the wing,
If thou wilt promise me,
Hence to be found
Never more, as before,
On evil ground.

Trust not the flatterer
Skilled to ensnare:
He is a wily one;
Think, and beware.
Down to his dusky ways
No more descend!
Little fly, thou and I
Both want a friend.

Man hath an enemy,
Whose snare is laid
Softly and silently,
Deep in the shade.
Light, by the tempter shunned,
Only can show
Where, secure, free, and pure,
Our feet may go.

THE PEACH BLOSSOMS.

Come here! come here! cousin Mary, and see
What fair, ripe peaches there are on the tree--
On the very same bough that was given to me
By father, one day last spring.
When it looked so beautiful, all in the blow,
And I wanted to pluck it, he told me, you know,
I might, but that waiting a few months would show
The fruit, that patience might bring.

And as I perceived, by the sound of his voice,
And the look of his eye, it was clearly his choice
That it should not be touched, I have now to rejoice
That I told him we 'd let it remain;
For, had it been gathered when full in the flower,
Its blossoms had withered, perhaps, in an hour,
And nothing on earth could have given the power
That would make them flourish again.

But now, of a fruit so delicious and sweet
I 've enough for myself and my playmates a treat;
And they tell me, besides, that the kernels secrete
What, if planted, will make other trees:
For the shell will come open to let down the root;
A sprout will spring up, whence the branches will shoot;
There 'll be buds, leaves, and blossoms; and then comes the fruit--
Such beautiful peaches as these!

And Nature, they say, like a mighty machine,
Has a wheel in a wheel, which, if aught comes between,
It ruins her work, as it might have been seen,
Had it not given patience this trial.
From this, I 'll be careful to keep it in mind,
When the blossoms I love, that there lingers behind
A better reward, that the trusting shall find
For a trifling self-denial.

THE BROKEN PIPE.

Come here, little Willie:
Why, what is the trouble?
"I 've broke my new pipe, ma'--
I can't make a bubble!"

Well, do n't weep for that, child,
But brighten your face,
And tell how the grievous
Disaster took place.

"Why, Puss came along;
And, said I, 'Now she 'll think
That white, frothy water
Is milk she may drink.'

"So I set it before her,
And plunged her mouth in,
When up came both paws,
And clung fast to my chin.

"Then I gave her a blow
With my pipe; and it flew
At once into pieces!
O what shall I do?

"I can't make a bubble!
I wish naughty Kit
Had been a mile off:
See! there 's blood on me yet!"

I 'm sorry, my boy; yet
Your loss is but just;
You first deceived Pussy,
And trifled with trust.

In this, when you failed,
You compelled her; and thence
The wound on your face,
From poor Kit's self-defence.

Then, when you grew cruel
And beat her, you know
Your pipe and yourself
Fared the worst for the blow.

Let this lesson teach you,
Hence never to stoop
To make man, or brute,
That may trust you, a dupe.

And when you have power,
It should not be abused,
Oppressing the weaker,
Nor strength be misused.

For, often, unkindness
Returns whence it came;
And ever deceit must
Be followed by shame.

Remember this, William,
And here end your sorrow;
I 'll buy you a pipe,
To blow bubbles, to-morrow.

VIVY VAIN.

Miss Vain was all given to dress--
Too fond of gay clothing; and so,
She 'd gad about town
Just to show a new gown,
As a train-band their color to show.

Her head being empty and light,
Whene'er she obtained a new hat,
With pride in her air,
She 'd go round, here and there,
For all whom she knew to see that.

Her folly was chiefly in this:
More highly she valued fine looks,
Than virtue, or truth,
Or devoting her youth
To usefulness, friendship, or books.

Her passion for show was unchecked;
And therefore, it happened one day,
Arrayed in bright hues,
And with new hat and shoes,
Miss Vain walked abroad for display.

She took the most populous streets,
To cause but aversion in those,
Who saw how she 'd prinked,
And to bystanders winked,
While the boys cried, "Halloo! there she goes!"

It chanced, that, in passing one way,
She came near a pool, and a green
With fence close and high;
And, as Vivy drew nigh,
A donkey stood near it unseen.

He put his mouth over its top,
The moment she came by his place;
And gave a loud bray
In her ear, when, away
She sprang, shrieked, and fell on her face.

She thought she was swallowed alive,
Awhile upon earth lying flat;
And the terrible sound
Seemed to furrow the ground,
She embraced in her fine gown and hat.

She gathered herself up, and ran,
Yet heeded not whither or whence,
To flee from the roar,
That continued to pour
Behind her, from over the fence.

In passing a slope near the pool,
She slipped and rolled down to its brim;
The geese gave a shout,
And at length hissed her out
Of the bounds, where they 'd gathered to swim.

In turning a corner, she met
Abruptly, the horns of a cow
That mooed, while the cur,
At her heels, turned from her,
And aimed at Miss Vain his "bow-wow."

Then Vivy's bright ribbons and skirt,
As she flew, flirted high on the wind;
The children at play,
Paused to see one so gay,
And all in a flutter behind.

A group of glad schoolboys came by:
Said they, "So it seems, that to-day,
Miss Vain carries marks
At which the dog barks,
And that make sober Long-Ears to bray."

And when, all bedraggled and pale,
Poor Vivy approached her own door,
She went, swift and straight
As a dart, through the gate,
Abhorring the gay gear she wore.

She sat down, and thought of the scene
With humiliation and tears:
The words, and the noise
Of the brutes and the boys
Were echoing still in her ears.

She reasoned, and came at the cause,
Resolving that cause to remove;
And thence, her desire
Was for modest attire,
And her heart and her mind to improve.

And soon, all who knew her before
Remarked on the change and the gain
In mind, and in mien,
And in dress, that were seen
In the once flashy Miss Vivy Vain.

THE MOCKING BIRD.

A Mocking Bird was he,
In a bushy, blooming tree,
Imbosomed by the foliage and flower.
And there he sat and sang,
Till all around him rang,
With sounds, from out the merry mimic's bower.

The little satirist
Piped, chattered, shrieked, and hissed;
He then would moan, and whistle, quack, and caw;
Then, carol, drawl, and croak,
As if he 'd pass a joke
On every other winged one he saw.

Together he would catch
A gay and plaintive snatch,
And mingle notes of half the feathered throng.
For well the mocker knew,
Of every thing that flew,
To imitate the manner and the song.

The other birds drew near,
And paused awhile to hear
How well he gave their voices and their airs.
And some became amused;
While some, disturbed, refused
To own the sounds that others said were theirs.

The sensitive were shocked,
To find their honors mocked
By one so pert and voluble as he;
They knew not if 't was done
In earnest or in fun;
And fluttered off in silence from the tree.

The silliest grew vain,
To think a song or strain
Of theirs, however weak, or loud, or hoarse,
Was worthy to be heard
Repeated by the bird;
For of his wit they could not feel the force.

The charitable said,
"Poor fellow! if his head
Is turned, or cracked, or has no talent left;
But feels the want of powers,
And plumes itself from ours,
Why, we shall not be losers by the theft."

The haughty said, "He thus,
It seems, would mimic us,
And steal our songs, to pass them for his own!
But if he only quotes
In honor of our notes,
We then were quite as honored, let alone."

The wisest said, "If foe,
Or friend, we still may know
By him, wherein our greatest failing lies.
So, let us not be moved,
Since first to be improved
By every thing, becomes the truly wise."

THE BIRD'S HOME.

O where is thy home, sweet bird,
With the song, and the bright, glossy plume?
"I 'll tell thee where I rest,
If thou wilt not rob my nest;--
I built among the sweet apple bloom."

But what 's in thy nest, bright bird?
What 's there, in the snug, downy cell?
"If thou wilt not rob the tree;
Nor go too near, to see
My quiet little home, I will tell."

O! I will not thy trust betray,
But closely thy secret I will keep.
"I 've three little tender things,
That have never used their wings!
I left them there, at home, fast asleep."

Then, why art thou here, my bird,
Away from thy young, helpless brood?
"To pay thee with a song,
Just to let me pass along,
Nor harm me, as I look for their food!"

THE BIRD UNCAGED.

She opened the cage, and away there flew
A bright little bird, as a short adieu
It hastily whistled, and passed the door,
And felt that its sorrowful hours were o'er.

An anthem of freedom it seemed to sing;
To utter its joy for an outspread wing,--
That now it could sport in the boundless air,
And might go any and every where.

And Anna rejoiced in her bird's delight;
But her eye was wet, as she marked its flight;
Till, this was the song that she seemed to hear;
And, merrily warbled, it dried the tear:

"I had a mistress, and she was kind,
In all, but keeping her bird confined;
She ministered food and drink to me,
But, O I was pining for liberty!

"My fluttering bosom she loved to smooth;
While the heart within it, she could not soothe:
I sickened and longed for the wildwood breeze,
My feathery kindred, and fresh green trees.

"A prisoner there, with a useless wing,
I looked with sorrow on every thing;
I lost my voice, and forgot my song,
And mourned in silence, the whole day long.

"But I will go back, with a mellower pipe,
And sing, when the cherries are round and ripe;
On the topmost bough, as I lock my feet,
To help myself, in my leafy seat.

"My merriest notes shall there be heard,
To draw her eye to her franchised bird;
The burden, then, of my song shall be,
'Earth for the wingless! but air for me!'"

DAME BIDDY.

Dame Biddy abode in a coop,
Because it so chanced, that dame Biddy
Had round her a family group
Of chicks, young, and helpless and giddy.

And when she had freedom to roam,
She fancied the life of a ranger;
And led off her brood, far from home,
To fall into mischief or danger.

She 'd trail through the grass to be mown,
And call all her children to follow;
And scratch up the seeds that were sown,
Then, lie in their places and wallow.

She 'd go where the corn in the hill,
Its first little blade had been shooting,
And try, by the strength of her bill,
To learn if the kernel was rooting.

And when she went out on a walk
Of pleasure, through thicket and brambles,
The covetous eye of a hawk
Delighted in marking her rambles.

"I spy," to himself he would say,
"A prize of which I 'll be the winner!"
So down would he pounce on his prey,
And bear off a chicken for dinner.

The poor frighted matron, that heard
The cry of her youngling in dying,
Would scream at the merciless bird,
That high with his booty was flying.

But shrieks could not ease her distress,
Nor grief her lost darling recover.
She now had a chicken the less,
For acting the part of a rover.

And there lay the feathers, all torn,
And flying one way and another,
That still her dear child might have worn,
Had she been more wise as a mother.

Her owner then thought he must teach
Dame Biddy a little subjection;
And cooped her up, out of the reach
Of hawking, with time for reflection.

And, throwing a net o'er a pile
Of brush-wood that near her was lying,
He hoped to its meshes to wile
The fowler, that o'er her was flying.

For Hawk, not forgetting his fare,
And having a taste to renew it,
Sailed round near the coop, high in air,
With cruel intention, to view it.

The owner then said, "Master Hawk,
If you love my chickens so dearly,
Come down to my yard for a walk,
That you may address them more nearly."

But, "No," thought the sharp-taloned foe
Of Biddy, "my circuit is higher!
If I to his premises go,
'T will be when I see he 's not nigh her."

The Farmer strewed barley, and toled
The chickens the brush to run under,
And left them, while Hawk growing bold,
Thus tempted, came near for his plunder.

As closer and closer he drew,
With appetite stronger and stronger,
He found he 'd but one thing to do,
And plunged, to defer it no longer.

But now had he come to a pause,
At once in the net-work entangled,
While through it his head and his claws
In hopeless vacuity dangled.

The chicks saw him hang overhead,
Where they for their barley had huddled;
And all in a flutter they fled,
And soon through the coop holes had scuddled.

The farmer came out to his snare.
He saw the bold captive was in it;
And said, "If this play be unfair,
Remember, I did not begin it!"

He then put a cork on his beak,
The airy assassin disarming,
Unspurred him, and rendered him weak,
By blunting each talent for harming.

And into the coop he was thrown:
The chickens hid under their mother,
For he, by his feathers was known
As he, who had murdered their brother.

Dame Biddy, beholding his plight,
Determined to show him no quarter,
In action gave vent to her spite;
As motherly tenderness taught her.

She shouted, and blustered; and then
Attacked the poor captive unfriended;
And you, (who have witnessed a hen
In anger,) may guess how it ended.

She made him a touching address,
If pecking and scratching could do it,
Till, sinking in silent distress,
He perished before she got through it.

We would not, however, convey
A thought like approving the fury,
That gave, in this summary way,
Punition, without judge or jury.

Whenever thus given, it tends
To lessen the angry bestower;
The _fowl_ that inflicts it, descends--
The _featherless_ biped, still lower.

THE ENVIOUS LOBSTER.

A Lobster from the water came,
And saw another, just the same
In form and size; but gayly clad
In scarlet clothing; while she had
No other raiment to her back
Than her old suit of greenish black.

"So ho!" she cried, "'t is very fine!
Your dress was yesterday like mine;
And in the mud below the sea,
You lived, a crawling thing, like me.
But now, because you 've come ashore,
You 've grown so proud, that what you wore--
Your strong old suit of bottle-green,
You think improper to be seen.
To tell the truth, I don 't see why
You should be better dressed than I.
And I should like a suit of red
As bright as yours, from feet to head.
I think I' m quite as good as you,
And might be clothed in scarlet, too."

"Will you be boiled?" her owner said,
"To be arrayed in glowing red?
Come here, my discontented miss,
And hear the scalding kettle hiss!
Will you go in, and there be boiled,
To have your dress, so old and soiled,
Exchanged for one of scarlet hue?"
"Yes," cried the lobster, "that I 'll do,
And twice as much, if needs must be,
To be as gayly clad as she."
Then, in she made a fatal dive,
And never more was seen alive!

Now, if you ever chance to know
Of one as fond of dress and show
As that vain lobster, and withal
As envious, you 'll perhaps recall
To mind her folly, and the plight
In which she reappeared to sight.
She had obtained a bright array,
But for it, thrown herself away!
Her life and death were best untold,
But for the moral they unfold!

KIT WITH THE ROSE.

A rose tree stood in the parlor,
When kit came frolicking by;
So up went her feet on the window-seat,
To a rose, that had caught her eye.

She gave it a cuff, and it trembled
Beneath her ominous paw;
And while it shook, with a threatening look
She coveted what she saw.

Thought she, "What a beautiful toss-ball,
If I could but give it a snap,
Now all are out, nor thinking about
Their rose, or the least mishap!"

She twisted the stem, and she twirled it;
And, seizing the flower it bore
With the timely aid of her teeth, she made
A leap to the parlor floor.

And over the carpet she tossed it,
All fresh in its morning bloom,
Till shattered and rent, its leaves were sent
To every side of the room.

At length, with her sport grown weary,
She laid herself down to sun,
Inclining to doze, forgetting the rose
And the mischief she had done.

By and by her young mistress entered,
And uttered a piteous cry,
When she saw the fate of what had so late
Delighted her watchful eye.

But where was the one, who had spoiled it,
Concealing his guilty face?
She had not a clue whereby to pursue
The rogue to his lurking-place.

Thought kit, "I 'll keep still till 't is over,
And none will suspect it was I."
For the puss awoke, when her mistress spoke,
And she well understood the cry.

But, mewing at length for her dinner,
Kit's mouth confessed the whole truth:
It opened so wide, that her mistress spied
A rose-leaf pierced by her tooth.

Then kit was expelled from the parlor
All covered with shame. And those
Inclined, like her, in secret to err,
Should remember kit with the rose.

THE STORM IN THE FOREST.

The storm in the forest is rending and sweeping;
While tree after tree bows its stately green head;
The flowerets beneath them are bending and weeping;
And leaves, torn and trembling, all round them are spread.

The bird that had roamed, till she thinks her benighted,
Dismayed, hastens back to her home in the wood;
And flags not a wing, till her bosom, affrighted,
Has laid its warm down o'er her own little brood.

And they, since that fond one so quickly has found them,
To shelter their heads from the rain and the blast,
Shall fearless repose, while the bolts burst around them;
And lie calm and safe, till the darkness is past.

Hast thou, too, not felt, when the tempest was drearest,
And rending thy covert, or shaking thy rest,
Thine own blessed angel that moment the nearest--
Thy screen in his pinion--thy shield in his breast?

When clouds frowned the darkest, and perils beset thee,
Till each prop of earth seemed to bend, or to break,
Did e'er thy good angel turn off, and forget thee?
The mother her little ones, then, may forsake!

Ah, no! thou shalt feel thy protector the surer--
The sun, in returning, more cheering and warm;
And all things around thee, seem fresher and purer,
And touched with new glory, because of the storm!

THE UPROOTED ELM.

Alas! alas! my good old tree,
A fatal change is past on thee!
And now thine aged form I see,
All helpless, lying low:
The rending tempest, in its flight
'Mid darkness of the wintry night,
Hath struck thee, passing in its might,
And felled thee at a blow.

And never more the blooming spring
Shall to thy boughs rich verdure bring,
Or her gay birds, to flit and sing
Where their first plumage grew;
For thou, so long, so fondly made
My eye's delight, my summer shade,
Here, as a lifeless king, art laid
In state, for all to view.

Thy noble trunk and reverend head,
Defined on that cold, snow-white bed,
And those old arms, so widely spread,
Thy hopelessness declare:
Thy roots, in earth concealed so long--
That struck so deep, with hold so strong,
Upturned with many a broken prong,
Are quivering high in air.

But yester-eve I saw thee stand,
With lofty front, with aspect grand,
Where thou hadst braved the ruthless hand
Of time, and spread, and towered;
And stood the rain, the hail, the blast,
Till more than hundred years had passed:
To fall so suddenly at last,
Forever overpowered!

Yet, while I sadly ponder o'er
What now thou art, and wast before,
Were sighs to rise, and tears to pour,
Like summer winds and rain;
Not all the sighs and drops of grief
Could bring to thee one bud or leaf;
Thou liest so like a stricken chief,
By one swift arrow slain.

But may'st thou prove an emblem true
Of what the spoiler's hand shall do
With one, who pensive here would view
A shadowy type in thee!
Let not the conqueror piecemeal slay,
With power by power in slow decay;
But strike, and all in ashes lay!
Farewell, my good old tree!

THROUGH THE CLOUDS.

Through the clouds that veil the sky,
Come, O sun, and sweetly smile!
Show thy glory to mine eye,
So my heart may beam the while.

Come, and chase this day of night,
For the world is sadly dim.
To thy blessed face of light
Let my spirit sing her hymn.

Now, in silence and alone,
I, to pass the heavy hour,
Sit and fancy nature's moan
After thy reviving power.

Blasts of wildered, wandering air,
Asking where thy face can be,
Chill and cheerless, every where,
Sighing, wailing, seek for thee.

Mourning o'er the earth is spread;
Bud and flower look pale with grief.
Sick, the plant has hung its head;
Dulness weighs on every leaf.

Not a bird is heard to sing.
Reft of thine inspiring ray.
As a lyre of every string,
Each from sight is hid away.

Sable clouds, that veil the blue
Of the skies, their shadows throw
Here, until their sombre hue
Gives a cast to all below.

Come, O sun, and through the gloom
Let thy beaming vesture fall!
Bringing music, joy and bloom,
Spread thy mantle o'er us all.

What were there on earth to love--
What were beauteous, bright, or dear,
Wert thou not so true above,
And thy holy influence here?

MY ROSE TREE.

Rose tree, O! my beauteous rose tree,
Often have I longed to know
How thy tender leaves were moulded--
How thy buds are burst, and blow.

I have watered, sunned, and trained thee,
And have watched thee many an hour,
Yet I never could discover
How a bud becomes a flower.

So, last night I thought about thee
On my pillow, till, at last,
I was gone in quiet slumber;
And a dream before me passed.

In it, I beheld my rose tree
Stripped of flower, and bud and leaf;
While thy naked stalk and branches
Filled me with surprise and grief.

Then, methought, I wept to see thee
Spoiled of all that made thee dear,
Till a band of smiling angels
Mildly shining, hovered near.

Gently as they gathered round thee,
All in silence, one of them
Laid his soft, fair fingers on thee,
Pulling leaves from out the stem.

One by one thy twigs he furnished
With a dress of foliage green;
While another angel followed,
Bringing buds the leaves between.

Then came one the buds to open;
He their silken rolls unsheathed,
While the one who tints the roses,
Through their loosened foldings breathed.

Then the angel of the odors
Filled each golden-bottomed cell,
Till, between the parting petals,
Free on air the fragrance fell.

Lifting then their shining pinions,
Quick the angels passed from sight;
Leaving, where aloft they vanished,
But a stream of fading light.