Chapter I: Shall Be Satisfied (3)

We thought of our Zion, and sent her a sigh
By each gentle breeze, that went silently by;
But poured not the strains in the proud Painim's ear,
That God and his angels will hearken to hear!

FRAGMENTS FROM "ESTHER," A POEM.

The monarch of Persia has wrapped o'er his breast
The vesture, whose jewels emblazoned the throne:
His lovely young queen, who in sackcloth is dressed,
Is far from his presence, and weeping alone.

* * * * *

And who in behalf of her people shall sue
For mercy? To whom will the sovereign give ear?
'T is death now to be, in his kingdom, a Jew--
'T is death in his presence uncalled to appear.

The wife of his bosom that peril will take!
The helpless young Jewess, so gentle and fair,
To live with her people, or die for their sake,
Will go to her lord, and her nation declare.

For little he deems that his idolized bride,
The joy of his heart--the delight of his eyes,
Is born of that race whom the Persians deride--
A people, his nation oppress and despise.

There 's wine at the palace, and feasting, and mirth;
In Esther's still chamber there 's fasting, and prayer;
While he with the crown, has the homage of earth,
She calls on her God her doomed people to spare.

She thinks of her fathers in Egypt's dark land--
She thinks of the bush, as in Horeb it burned;
She knows who the hearts of the kings hath in hand,
To turn them, as rivers of water are turned.

To him, for support, and for light to her mind,
She sends up the cries of her soul from the dust;
Then, rising to go to the king, is resigned
To do this and perish, if perish she must.

* * * * *

With fasting and tears she is languid and pale;
But o'er her young face beams the sunrise of soul;
And flesh, though but feeble, and ready to fail,
Is urged to its point by the spirit's control.

The _woman_ within her is timid and faint;
The _holy believer_, unawed and serene;
She goes to the presence, adorned as a _saint_,
With power that has never invested the _queen_.

* * * * *

And now are her people to safety restored--
To peace, and their rights, when resistance had failed:
A woman in weakness, who drew on the Lord
For strength, o'er the mighty of earth hath prevailed.

Fair Jewess, the tears thou hast dropped in the dust,
As pearls, to Jehovah are precious and bright.
The hand, that in sorrow has here been thy trust,
Will crown thee with joy in the kingdom of light.

GONE IN HER BEAUTY.

O! she is gone! the wintry blasts, that sweep
Wild round her mansion, trouble not her sleep:
Gone in her beauty! Fast the drifting snows
Fall cold, but harmless, o'er her deep repose!

Here, in her circle of its gem bereft,
Love hath but tears to fill the place she left.
Sigh calls to sigh, from aching bosoms drawn.
Void gives to void the mournful echo, "_gone!_"

Spring will return, and bring around her door
Sweet opening flowers, their odors there to pour,
Striving to win her forth, who planted them,
Once more to smile that they adorn the stem.

Yet, must they wait her, till they die away:
She was a fairer, lovelier flower than they,
Snapped off in blooming! ere a leaf could fade,
Cast into darkness! wrapped in silent shade!

O! she is gone; and where shall burdened grief
Pour forth her fountains for the soul's relief?
Not to the dust to nourish earthly weeds:
They yield no balsam while the spirit bleeds!

Not unto death let sorrow's waters flow,
But to death's victor may the weeper go!
His risen glory, chasing mortal gloom,
Shows grief a rainbow, bending o'er the tomb.

THE NUN.

Fair penitent, with rosary,
And cross and veil, in gloomy cell,
What guilty deed was done by thee,
To cause thee here immured to dwell?

Come forward, and present thy cause;
That we may clearly judge, and know
If violated human laws
Imprison and afflict thee so:

Or if it be some secret sin,
That haunts thy contrite soul with fears;
And here sequesters thee within
The place of fasting, gloom, and tears?

Art thou the guiltiest of thy race?
Why, thou art human, it is true;
Which is alone enough for grace
To have renewing work to do.

But, can devotion, warm and deep,
Thy duty's bounds so closely set,
That faith may plough, and sow, and reap
By trials shunned, instead of met?

What ray of truth, revealed, would thus
Make of a tender opening soul
A close, dark blue convolvulus,
And give its bloom this inward roll?

Dost thou the never-fading crown
Of life and joy intend to win,
By here supinely sitting down,
Where others but the race begin?

And dost thou think to gain the palm
By hiding from thy Saviour's foes;
Or hope in Gilead's sacred balm
A cure for self-inflicted woes?

I never saw a Nun before;
And therefore claim indulgence now,
If I presume to question more
Than courtesy might, else, allow:

As one, then, who in darkness pleads,
For light, I ask to be informed
How, by a string of pegs and beads,
A soul is raised, or fed, or warmed.

Tell me, thou sober _cabalist_,
What is the potent, hidden charm
Hung on that string, or in its twist
Contorted, for repelling harm?

And is thy spirit kept so faint,
It cannot mount to God above;
But here must substitute a saint,
In image, for a heavenly love?

Has He, who lived and died for us--
Whose gifts are light and liberty,
Left in his Word the _mitimus_
That here confines and fetters thee?

Does He assign a living tomb
For souls, endowed with vital grace;
Or need surrounding convent gloom,
To show the radiance of his face?

And, pensive Nun, now what 's the chart
That he has drawn, and left below,
That by it every pious heart
May follow on the Lord to know?

Far from temptation, in retreat,
Did he consume his earthly days?
With houseless head, and weary feet,
What were his works? and where his ways?

O! get thy spirit's wings unfurled!
Hide not thy candle, if 't is lit:
Be _in_, but be not _of_ the world,
If thou wouldst shine to lighten it.

Come out, and show that face demure;
And see, if, smit on either cheek,
Thy righteous soul would then endure
To turn the other, and be meek.

For, let me tell thee, coy recluse,
If we are gold, we must be tried;
If stones, we must be hewn for use,
Or by the builder cast aside.

The axe and chisel, we must bear,
To give us smoothness, shape, and size,
Are in the world--the furnace there;
For Heaven the gold and silver tries.

If we are salt to salt the earth,
Ah, then, our savor, to be known,
Must be diffused; for what 's the worth
Of salt _en masse_, boxed up alone?

The touchstone, where we must inquire
If we have safely hid our life,
Is found in pitfall, flood, and fire,
Allurements sweet, and bitter strife.

Come out! behold the billowy seas,
The flowery earth, and shining skies:
Say wherefore God created these;
And then, fair Nun, thy beauteous eyes.

Was it for thee to turn and slight
The glorious things he spread to view--
To give earth, ocean, air, and light,
And freedom, for a dismal mew?

O! if beneath some lawless vow
To man, in self-delusion made,
An heir of heaven is brought to bow,
That vow were better broke than paid.

What binds thee here? or who shall set
His name endorsed a pledge for thee,
When Christ has died to pay thy debt,
And burst the tomb to make thee free?

The world's the great arena, where
The fight of faith must well be fought,
And each good warrior seen to wear
The armor for the victory wrought.

How dost thou know but it may be
Thy foe, thy tempter, who has found
This cunning way to corner thee,
To keep thee from the battle-ground?

Come forth, thou timid, hampered one,
And doff that outward, odd disguise,
That cumbers thee, if thou wouldst run,
Or fight the fight, to win the prize.

Come! from the bushel take thy light,
And give its radiance room to play;
Bind on thy shoes and armor tight,
And up, and to the field away!

TREES FOR THE PILGRIM'S WREATH.

Knowing that tribulation worketh patience, and patience
experience, and experience hope; and hope maketh not ashamed.

ROMANS v. 3-5.

Tribulation, if by loss,
Or by thorny gain, the cross,
Thou art not a barren tree;
Seeds of Patience drop from thee.

Patience, bitter from thy root
Upward, till we reach the fruit,
Thou hast golden grains to sow,
Whence Experience full shall grow.

Broad Experience, rank and dark;
Thick in leaves, and rough in bark;
Through thy dubious shade we grope,
Till we grasp the bough of Hope.

Hope, we 're not ashamed, with thee
Showered by drops from Calvary,
When thy branches shoot and bloom
Through a Saviour's broken tomb.

Trees, whereof the pilgrim weaves
For his crown the mingled leaves,
Wreaths of you are rich and bright;
Earth 's the shade, and heaven 's the light.

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 up 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 flexile vine,
No fruit, nor branch, nor leaf, nor bud is mine.
No humming-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 sober suit,
With only top and stem--I 've scarce a root.

Untaught of my beginning and my end,
I know not whence I sprang, or where I tend;
Yet, I will wait and trust, and ne'er presume
To question JUSTICE--I, a frail Mushroom!

THE SPIRIT AND THE MOUNTAIN.

Mountain, with thy firm old foot
Fast beside the sea,
What was in thy keeping put,
Prisoned under thee?

"Hark, and hear the shuddering ground!
Feel it rock and quake!
Struggling fires, beneath me bound,
Strive their chains to break."

Mountain, with a cloudy vest
Girded o'er thy heart,
Does it pierce thine aged breast,
When its lightnings dart?

"No:--beneath me far, the crash
Of the bolt is felt:
Here, the fiery chain and flash
But adorn my belt."

Mountain, with a snowy crown
Stainless on thy brow,
Wilt thou never cast it down--
Never, never bow?

"When the mandate I shall hear
From my Maker's throne,
I will bow and disappear,
Hence to be unknown."

Mountain, holding proud and high
Thine old hoary head,
What is written on the sky,
Thou so long hast read?

"Brighter than the stars and sun
Shining over me,
I behold the name of ONE
Thou must die to see!"

Mountain, bold thine eloquence--
Glowing is thy speech;
Mighty import flashes thence;
What is it to teach?

"Thoughts of Him, before whose breath
I shall melt away;
While of thee, soul--spirit, death
Ne'er shall quench a ray!"

THE FALL OF THE STATUE.

A SCENE OF THE REVOLUTION.

This declaration [of Independence] was received by the people
with transports of joy. Public rejoicings took place in various
parts of the Union. In New York, the statue of George III. was taken
down; and the lead, of which it was composed, was converted into
musket-balls.

GOODRICH'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES.

There stood in New York, when, the times growing warm,
All o'er our fair country had gathered the storm,
Which wore in its coming, so fearful a form,
But left us the rainbow of peace,
An image of royalty, stately and proud--
A leaden old king, where his votaries bowed;
While true friends of Liberty marked it, and vowed
That its honors should speedily cease.

And when our brave statesmen the article signed,
Declaring us free, with pure freedom of mind,
Columbia's true sons, feeling strongly inclined
To learn how the statue was based,
Assembled forthwith; and, besieging it, found
That the king in head, body and limb was quite sound,
And had of good lead in him many a pound,
Which might be more usefully placed.

Then, "Down with the ponderous George the Third!"
From a mingling of voices together, was heard,
With shoutings aloud, as they gave out the word,
"Down with it! let it come down!
We 'll soon transform his grave highness of lead,
And turn him to balls from the feet to the head;
And then shall the mouths of our muskets be fed
With him of the throne and the crown.

"So now for the fall! for our Sages have met,
And their names to a broad Declaration have set,
That they are resolved, from this moment, to get
Of the king independent and free;
And to give by their valor a nation her birth,
Or to empty their veins, a free gift to the earth,
In Liberty's name, to betoken her worth
To us and the millions to be.

"Columbia's wrongs have gone to the skies;
'T is time that her blood and her spirit should rise
Above her oppressors, till tyranny flies,
And leaves her unfettered, to bear
The flag of a nation instead of a chain--
The palm of her triumph, 'mid weakness and pain,
O'er them that were mighty, but struggled in vain
To force her their shackles to wear.

"And, no leaden monarch will we have to stand
Proclaiming our vassalage here, in the land
Of lovely Manhattan! We 'll each lend a hand
To give him a jerk or a pull,
And flat to the ground, in a trice, as we bring
His dignified form, it shall merrily ding,
To sound all around how we honor the king,
And pay our respects to John Bull.

"This, this is the season for trying men's souls,
The nerves of their arms, and the worth of their polls!
So, we 'll have his Majesty _over the coals_,
And make him the first that shall _run_:
When, heated to melting, he hides in the mould,
We 'll hold him there still, till new-shapen and cold;
Then, off he shall go, like a tale that is told,
In the voice of the thundering gun!

"The discomposed Sovereign with us shall unite,
And fly at his friends for our cause in the fight,
To scatter his subjects--to purchase our right--
The land of oppression to clear.
And he, to whom, whizzing, his monarch shall come,
In the form of a ball, 'mid the noise of the drum,
The flashes and smoke, will have finished the sum
Of his deeds as a royalist here!"

Then, flat to the earth was his Eminence cast!
The dust rose above him, and mounted the blast,
While a bevy of Rome's feathered sentinels passed,
Raised their wings, and huzzaed as he fell!
But, how the proud royalist felt, when the lead
Of his late British Majesty came at his head,
While some dropped before it, and some turned and fled,
Is more than a _Yankee_ can tell.

THE BIRD'S MATERNAL CARE.

The following is but versified statement of a touching, literal
fact that occurred not long since a few rods from my own door.

A shadowy tree, that grew beside
Its city owner's door,
Its branches threw so high and wide,
That many a bird could sing, and hide
Among the leaves it bore.

A robin came, and built her nest
In that green rustling tree.
At evening, there she sank to rest
And furled her weary wings, as blest
As little bird could be.

Upon her side her drowsy head,
Beneath her folded wing,
She pillowed, while the night-hours fled;
When morning flushed the east with red,
She 'd wake, and mount, and sing.

Five pretty eggs of azure hue,
In that soft nest she laid.
So clear and vivid was their blue,
Like polished balls they shone to view,
Of purest sapphire made.

And many a day she brooded o'er
Those treasures, till they grew,
In what the shells contained before,
To something different--something more--
Young birds came peeping through!

Five little baby birds were there,
In that fond robin's nest,
All callow; and their mother's care
Was now to find their daily fare,
And shield them with her breast.

Her tiny game, or berries ripe
From some far distant stem
She 'd bring them; then her beak she 'd wipe,
And sit upon a twig, and pipe
A mother's tune to them.

At length, the owner of the tree
One dismal, stormy day,
His window from the shade to free,
The better in his room to see,
Some branches lopped away.

He dropped the very bough that hung
A curtain o'er the nest.
The sun burnt through the clouds, and flung
His fire the helpless brood among,
Till they were sore oppressed.

Their tender mother then was seen
To stand on weary feet,
Where now they missed the leafy green,
With one wing raised her babes to screen
From sultry noontide heat.

And, patient there, she day by day,
Upon her nest's round edge,
Stood up to keep the sun away,
While, shaded thus, her nestlings lay
Till time their forms could fledge.

Then, when the master of the tree
Beheld what love and care
Within a mother bird could be,
He wished in vain that he could see
The bough still living there.

Thus, thoughtless we may often pain
Or grieve a feeling heart,
Wherein the anguish must remain,
While we may wish, but wish in vain,
To lay or lull the smart.

A good destroyed 's a fearful thing,
And so 's a good undone!
We, serving self, on self may bring
A heavier ill--a keener sting
Than what we sought to shun.

'T is little acts of good or ill,
That make our vast account.
No _one_, though great, does _all_ God's will
Small drops the caves of ocean fill;
And sands compose the mount.

SONG.

Little bird, little bird, with thy beautiful eye.
Looking as if 't were cut out of a star,
How do I know but it once was on high,
Beaming through evening, sublime from afar?

I cannot say what thy Maker divine,
When he composed thee an optic so bright,
Making the skill of his finger to shine,
Drew from those high upper regions of light.

Little bird, little bird, with thy spirit-like wings,
Fleet as the air,--as the rainbow in hues,
How can I tell but the Ruler of kings
Formed them by those his blest ministers use?

Were not the fancy-like tints of thy plume,
Was not the delicate down of thy breast,
Caught from the flowers that in Paradise bloom,--
Plucked from the couch where the weary ones rest?

Little bird, little bird, with thy musical voice
Tuned like a seraph's, deep, flowing, and clear,
Was not thy melody, touching and choice,
Taught by some angel, who visited here?

What, what, pretty fairy! so soon must thou go,
Fleet as a vision, without a reply,
Just like all other bright treasures below,
Charming a moment, to change or to fly?

THE WHITE MOTH.

Beware, pretty Moth, so unsullied and white,
Beware of the lamp's dazzling rays!
It is not a drop of the sun! but a light
That shines to allure little rovers by night;
Away! there is death in the blaze.

O why didst thou come from thy covert of green,
The vine, round my window so bright;
And pop in to know what was here to be seen,
Forsaking thy shield, and escaping thy screen,
And hazarding life by the flight?

The down on thy limbs and thy bosom so pure
That flame would most fatally singe:
And nothing thy beautiful wings can insure
From harm and from pain beyond mending or cure,
If caught by their delicate fringe.

Return, giddy wanderer, safe to the vine;
And breathe in the fresh evening air;
Go, look at the stars, as they twinkle and shine;
And cling to a leaf, or the tendrils that twine,
My soft little eavesdropper, there!

And then, by a song I will sing, thou shalt know,
Why thus I have lifted my arm
To scare thee away from thy luminous foe.
That threw out its beams, as a snare, and a show
To tempt the unwary to harm.

For, I through the day, have been guarded by One,
Who, greater and wiser than I,
Has pitied my frailty; and forced me to shun
Illusive temptations, where I might have run
The peril of sporting to die.

'T was kindness from Him, to whose care I commend
Myself through the darkness of night,
That taught me so quick to come in, as a friend,
Between thee and evil, thy life to defend;
Pretty Moth, so unsullied and white.

EDWARD AND CHARLES.

The brothers went out with their father to ride,
Where they looked for the flowers, that, along the way-side,
So lately were blooming and fair;
But their delicate heads by the frost had been nipped;
Their stalks by the blast were all twisted and stripped;
And nothing but ruin was there.

"Oh! how the rude autumn has spoiled the green hills!"
Exclaimed little Charles, "and has choked the bright rills
With leaves that are faded and dead!
The few on the trees are fast losing their hold,
And leaving the branches so naked and cold,
That the beautiful birds have all fled."

"I know," replied Edward, "the country has lost
A great many charms by the touch of the frost,
Which used to appear to the eye;
But then, it has opened the chestnut-burr too,
The walnut released from the case where it grew;
And now is our _Thanksgiving_ nigh!

"Oh! what do you think we shall do on that day?"
"I guess," answered Charles, "we shall all go away
To Grandpa's; and there find enough
Of turkeys, plum-puddings, and pies by the dozens,
For Grandpa' and Grandma', aunts, uncles and cousins;
And at night we 'll all play blind-man's-buff.

"Perhaps we 'll get Grandpa' to tell us some stories
About the old times, with their _Wigs_ and their _Tories_;
And what sort of men they could be;
When some spread their tables without any cloth,
With basins and spoons, and the fuming bean-broth
Which they took for their coffee and tea.

"They 'd queer kind of sights, I have heard Grandma' say,
About in their streets; for, if not every day,
At least it was nothing uncommon,
To see them pile on the poor back of one horse
A saddle and _pillion_; and what was still worse,
Up mounted a man and a woman!

"The lady held on by the driver; and so,
Away about town at full trot would they go;
Or perhaps to a great country marriage--
To Thanksgiving-supper--to husking, or ball;
Or quilting; for thus did they take nearly all
Their rides, on an animal carriage.

"I know not what _huskings_ and _quiltings_ may be;
But Grandma' will tell; and perhaps let us see
Some things, she has, long laid away:--
That stiff damask gown, with its sharp-pointed waist,
The hoop, the craped-cushion, and buckles of paste,
Which they wore in her grandparents' day.

"She says they had buttons as large as our dollars,
To wear on their coats with their square, standing collars:
And then, there 's a droll sort, of hat,
Which Mary once fixed me one like, out of paper,
And said she believed 't was called, _three-cornered scraper_;
Perhaps, too, she 'll let us see that.

"Oh! a glorious time we shall have! If they knew
At the South, what it is, I guess they 'd have one too;
But I have heard somebody say,
That, there, they call all the New England folks _Bumpkins_,
Because we eat puddings, and pies made of pumpkins
And have our good Thanksgiving-day."

"I think, brother Charles," returned Edward, "at least,
That they might go to church, if they do n't like the feast;
For to me it is much the best part,
To hear the sweet anthems of praise, that we give
To Him, on whose bounty we constantly live:--
It is feasting the ear and the heart.

"From Him, who has brought us another year round,
Who gives every blessing, wherewith we are crowned,
Their gratitude who can withhold?
And now how I wish I could know all the poor
Their Thanksgiving-stores had already secure,
Their fuel, and clothes for the cold!"

"I 'm glad," said their father, "to hear such a wish;
But wishes alone, can fill nobody's dish,
Or clothe them, or build them a fire.
And now I will give you the money, my sons.
Which I promised, you know, for your drum and your guns,
To spend in the way you desire."

The brothers went home, thinking o'er by the way,
For how many comforts this money might pay,
In something for clothing or food:
At length they resolved, if their mother would spend it
For what she thought best, they would get her to send it
Where she thought it would do the most good.

MUSIC OF THE CRICKETS.

I cannot to the city go,
Where all in sound and sight,
Declares that nature does not know,
Or do a thing aright.
To granite wall, and tower, and dome
My heart could never cling;
Its simple strings are tied to home--
To where the crickets sing.

I 'm certain I was never made
To run a city race,
Along a human palisade,
That 's ever shifting place.
The bustle, fashion, art and show
Were each a weary thing;
Amid them, I should sigh to go
And hear the crickets sing.

If there, I might no longer be
Myself, as now I seem,
But lose my own identity,
And walk, as in a dream;
Or else, with din and crowd oppressed,
I 'd wish for sparrow's wing.
To fly away, and be at rest,
Where free the crickets sing.

The fire-fly, rising from the grass
A winged and living light,
I would not give for all the gas,
That spoils their city sight.
Not all the pomp and etiquette
Of citizen or king,
Shall make my rustic heart forget
The song, the crickets sing.

I find in hall and gallery,
Their figures tame and faint,
To my wild bird, and brook, and tree,
Without a touch of paint.
And from the sweetest instrument
Of pipe, or key, or string,
I 'd turn away, and feel content
To hear the crickets sing.

O! who could paint the placid moon,
That 's beaming through the bough
Of yon high elm, or play the tune,
That sounds beneath it now?
Not all the silver of the mine,
Nor human power could bring
Another moon like her to shine,
Or make a cricket sing.

I know that, when the crickets trill
Their plaintive strains by night,
They tell us that, from vale and hill,
The summer takes her flight.
And were there no renewing Power,
'T would be a mournful thing,
To think of fading leaf and flower;
And hear the crickets sing.

But, why should change with sadness dim
Our eye, when thought can range
Through time and space, and fly to him,
Who is without a change?
For he, who meted out the year,
Will give another spring:
He rolls at once the shining sphere,
And makes the cricket sing.

And when another autumn strips
The summer leaves away,
If cold and silent be the lips
That breathed and moved to-day,
The time I 've passed with nature's God
Will cause no spirit sting,
Though I 've adored him from the sod
Whereon the crickets sing.

CHILDHOOD'S DREAM.

Give me back, give me back but my one infant dream,
As it passed on the turf by my dear native stream,
Where I slept from my play, while the wind tossed my hair,
Till its ringlets, unbound, clasped the violets there.

O return, fleeting time, the soft moments that flew
By the calm sinking sun, and the fall of the dew,
When, refreshing as light, and as dew to the flower
O'er my young spirit came the blest dream of that hour!

I remember the song of the bird, and the breeze
With the perfumes it swept from the bloom of the trees,
As my eyes gently closed; but the visions that stole
Through my fancy's green bowers, come no more to my soul!

They were sweet but to pass, as the odors that fled
From the young flowers I crushed, while they pillowed my head;
And like them, when they flew on the wings of the air,
They are gone, and have left not a trace to tell where!

They were clear as the sun in his mild, setting rays;
They were pure as the stars, soon to kindle and blaze;
But they 're gone! I have lost the dear dream of that sleep,
As a bright planet drowned in the vast ether deep.

Yet the face of my mother, through tears as she smiled,
When she found, gently raised, and led home her lost child--
I shall see that loved face by time's stream evermore,
Till I follow her home, where life's dreamings are o'er.

THE FRUIT-TREE BLOSSOM.

My flower, thou art as sweet to me.
Thy form as full and fair--
As rich a fruit shall follow thee,
As if thou hadst denied the bee
The pure and precious gift, that he
Wafts joyous through the air.

The spices from thy bosom flow
As freely round thee now,
As if withheld an hour ago.
Bestowing, thou canst still bestow;
Though, whence thy gifts thou may'st not know,
Or giving, tell me how.

And future good, we yet shall find,
Was hidden in thy heart;
Its witness shall be left behind,
When thou like all thy tender kind,
Thy minutes summed, shalt be resigned
Forever to depart.

Thy ruin I would not forestall;
Yet soon, I know, to thee
Must come, what happens once to all:--
Thy life will fail, and thou must fall--
Must fade and perish, past recall,
To vanish from the tree.

Then, on the bough where thou wast sent
To pass thy fleeting days,
At work for which thine hours were lent,
In silent, balmy, mild content,
A rich and shining monument
To thee will nature raise.

Now, not in pride--in purpose high,
Awhile in beauty shine;
And speak, through man's admiring eye,
Forbidding every passer by
To wish to live, or dare to die
With object less than thine.

THE PLYMOUTH APPLE DECLINED.

Visiting at the house of a friend in Boston, I was shown an apple
which he told me had been sent to him from Plymouth, and was the
fruit of a tree that was planted by Peregrine White, the first child
born of Pilgrim parents in New England. I praised the apple for its
beauty, and the venerable associations connected with it. He wished
me to keep it; but, as he had no other of the tree, I declined the
gift.

I wanted the apple, when offered to me
By its generous owner, but thought it not right
To take it, because it had grown on a tree,
That sprang from a seed sown by PEREGRINE WHITE.
And he, who thus proffered it, had none beside it;
While diffidence checked the words,--"Let us divide it."

Now Peregrine White was the first _white_, you know,
Who drew his first breath in New England--the child,
Whose parents were making to bud and to blow,
With its earliest blossoms, America's wild:
But he with the fruit never questioned me, whether
We might partake of the apple together.

Though a fabled divinity once had let fall
An apple of gold, where his favorites thronged,
Inscribed, "Of the fair, to the fairest of all!"
It was not to me this whole apple belonged:
My friend was no god--and then I, but a woman;
I thought that to halve it were just about human.

The whole I declined; still I did not deny
A wish that, unuttered, was strong in my heart;
And from it _entire_, while averting my eye,
I own I was secretly coveting _part_;
And had he divided the offering presented,
Preserving one half, I had come off contented.

Had Solomon been there to put in a word,
His wisdom had brought the debate to an end,
Deciding at once, by the edge of his sword,
This contest of kindness between friend and friend:
Yet he with the apple was quite too short-sighted
To see how I might in a half have delighted.

I hope that next autumn he 'll go where it grew,
And, if not forbidden the fruit, that he 'll reach
And pluck a fair apple, then cut it in two,
And tell me at once that _a half is for each_.
Of friendship's best gift how the worth may be lightened
By having it whole, when, if shared, how 't were heightened!

THE HALF APPLE.

A year after the foregoing poem was written, a nice little casket
was sent me, at the distance of thirty-five miles, which, on
opening, I found to contain the half of an apple like the one I had
seen the previous autumn.

The half of an apple, well-flavored and fair,
Which shows by division such soundness of heart,
I gratefully hold; and acknowledge the care
And kindness of him, who retains t 'other part.

The fruit, that would perish, I taste with delight,
The seed taking out to lay cautiously by,
Because it encloses, concealed from my sight,
An emblem of that, which in us cannot die.

Its elements, when 't is laid low in the earth,
If good, will arise in fresh verdure and bloom;
As man's deathless soul seeks the world of its birth,
When what it once dwelt in lies dark in the tomb.

The little memento I 'll hide in the ground,
For Nature, its mother, to tenderly rear;
And bright be its blossoms--its fruit fair and sound,
When I and the giver no more shall be here!

For, when I depart, and some good, living deed
Would fain leave behind, in remembrance of me,
At least, be it said that I planted a seed,
That others might gather the fruit from the tree!

THE HORTICULTURIST'S TABLE-HYMN.

From him, who was lord of the fruits and the flowers,
That in Paradise grew, ere he lost its possession--
Who breathed in the balm, and reposed in the bowers
Of our garden ancestral, we claim our profession.
And fruits rich and bright
Bless our taste and our sight
As e'er gave our father in Eden delight:
Our fount clear as that, which he drank from, here flows;
Where green grows the myrtle, and blushing the rose.

While some sit in clouds but to murmur, or grieve
That earth has her wormwood, her pitfalls, and brambles;
We smile, and go forth her rich gifts to receive,
Where the boughs drop their purple and gold on our rambles.
Untiring and free,
As we work, like the bee,
We bear off a sweet from each plant, shrub, and tree:
Where some gather thorns but to torture the flesh,
Ripe clusters we pluck, and our spirits refresh.

Yet, not to self only, we draw from the soil
The treasures that Heaven in its vitals hath hidden;
For thus to lock up the fair fruits of our toil
Were bliss half possessed, and a sin all forbidden.
Like morning's first ray,
When it spreads into day,
Our hearts must flow out, until self melts away!
Our joys, in the bosoms around us when sown,
Spring up and bloom out, throwing sweets to our own.

And this makes the world all a garden to us,
Where He, who has walled it, his glory is shedding:
His smile is its sun; and beholding it thus,
We gratefully feast, while his bounty is spreading.
Our spirits grow bright
As they bathe in his light,
That beams on the board where in joy we unite:
And the sparks, which we take to enkindle our mirth,
Are blessings from heaven showering down on the earth.

And now that we meet, and the chain is of _flowers_,
Which binds us together, may sadness ne'er blight them,
Till those, who _must_ break from a compact like ours,
Ascend where the ties of the blest reunite them!
May each, who is here,
At the banquet appear,
Where Life fills the wine-cup, and Love makes it clear;
And Gilead's balm in its freshness shall flow
On the wounds, which the _pruning-knife_ gave us below!

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.

Thou mournful bird, when shadows fell
At yester-eve on hill and dell,
I heard thee of thy sorrows tell;
And, as the dews distil,
Again, amid this twilight gray,
I hear thee pour thy solemn lay,
With only one sad thing to say,
Still crying, "Whip-poor-will."

O who has grieved thee, gentle bird,
That now thy vesper note is heard
And with thy melting, triple word
Thus dropping from thy bill?
How could they rudely whip at thee,
To scare thee from thy native tree,
And send thee moaning back to me
Repeating, "Whip-poor-will?"

And wherefore did they whip thee so,
To give thy voice this sound of wo,
Which comes so plaintively to show
That they have used thee ill?
Didst thou go through the woods alone,
Where brambly snares had thickly grown
When thou wast taught thy piteous tone
And story, "Whip-poor-will?"

There have they made thee all the day
In silence hide thyself away,
To lose the light, the flash, the play
Of sun, and fount, and rill?
And didst thou now steal out, afraid
Of midnight in the coppice shade,
That here thy tender plaint is made
Again, sad Whip-poor-will?

The trembling stars and lunar gleam,
That fitful in the thicket beam,
Perhaps would make poor Willie dream
His foes were round him still.
And in the copse-wood, dark and deep,
A waving flower, or leaflet's sweep
Might startle thee, in troubled sleep
To murmur, "Whip-poor-will!"

My bird, there 's mystery in thy strain--
A power I might resist in vain,
With mournful joy--with pleasing pain
My inmost soul to thrill.
'T is memory stirs to wet my eye
By waking shades of days gone by,
When first, a child, I heard the cry
So solemn, "Whip-poor-will."

I call thee bird, yet thou may'st be
A spirit! for I cannot see--
I ne'er could catch a glimpse of thee;
And undiscovered still
The vision form, that might appear,
Wert thou to sight revealed as clear,
As is thy presence to mine ear,
Mysterious Whip-poor-will.

THE AUTUMN ROSE-BUD.

Come out, pretty Rose-Bud, my lone, timid one!
Come forth from thy green leaves, and peep at the sun;
For little he does, in these dull autumn hours,
At height'ning of beauty, or laughing with flowers.

His beams, on thy tender young cheek as he plays,
Will give it a blush that no other can raise;
Thy fine silken petals they 'll softly unfold,
And fill their pure centre with spices and gold.

I would not instruct thee in coveting wealth;
But beauty, we know, is the offspring of health;
And health, the fair daughter of freedom, is bright
With feasting on breezes, and drinking the light.

Then come, pretty bud; from thy covert look out,
And see what the glad, golden sun is about:
His shafts, should they strike thee, will only impart
A grace to thy form, and a sweet to thy heart.

TO L. A. E. ON HER WEDDING-DAY.

That I _will_ "be near" on thy "bridal day"--
Be with thee before we are ten hours older,
This hasty messenger comes to say,
And bringing its witness,--a pearly _folder_.

And this, perhaps, as a pointed sign,
By the light upon Hymen's altar burning,
May signify, to a heart like thine,
"What a leaf to-day in thy life is turning!"

May the lines for thy future reading there,
With no sad characters dark or frowning,
In every letter be bright and fair,
To thee and to him thou to-day art crowning.

Accept the token, and let it prove,
As long as thou hence shalt remain its owner,
When thou must be at a far remove
From her, memorial of the donor.

Thou 'lt see engraved on its handle-part,
The form of a pen, with its top of feather--
A type of the wings that heart and heart
May find, when absent, to fly together.

I send thee an opening, thornless rose,
Harmless and soft as the peaceful turtle;
With an emerald sprig from a branch that grows
On the single stalk of my true green myrtle.

I bound them about with a silver thread;
But, ere thy hand is the cord untwining,
The rose will have drooped, or its leaves be shed,
While the myrtle still is freshly shining.

But I _will_ "be near" in thy bridal hour,
This, "Wednesday, evening, at half past seven,"
And give at the nuptials my holier dower,--
A prayer for a smile on them from Heaven.

TO MRS. H. F. L.

To think of thee, my Hannah--
To sit and think of thee,
Is to my heart like manna,
Or balsam from the tree.

For, first, its tendrils feeding,
It gives them strength to cling;
And then, if pained or bleeding,
It soothes the wound or sting.

To thine, a fount of feeling
The warmest and the best,
'T is sweet to seem revealing
The secrets of my breast.

Of half its care and trouble,
My bosom, thus beguiled,
Feels every joy is double,
When on it thou hast smiled.

'T is dark and stormy weather--
Our first October day;
But we are here together,
Though thou art far away.

For still I feel thee near me--
I see thy soft black eye--
I fancy thou canst hear me,
And I thy sweet reply.

And yet, my friend, my dearest,
This moment, where art thou?
What envied eye is nearest,
To look upon thee now?

Is thine own Hannah present,
In spirit, still with thee?
And dost thou find it pleasant
To feel alone with me?

Then we are never parted!
Nor distance, place, nor scene,
The whole and faithful-hearted
Shall ever come between.

And when earth's changeful weather,
Its joys and sorrows cease,
O may we dwell together
In deathless love and peace!

MUSIC.

Music? A blessed angel! She was born
Within the palace of the King of kings--
A favorite near his throne. In that glad child
Of Love and Joy, he made their spirits one;
And her, the heir to everlasting life!
When his bright hosts would give him highest praise,
They send her forward with her dulcet voice,
To pour their holy rapture in his ear.
When the young earth to being started forth,
Music lay sleeping in a bower of heaven.
A crystal fountain, close beside her, gushed
With living waters; and the sparkling cup
For her pure draught, stood on its emerald brink.
While o'er her brow a tender halo shone,
Kissed by the nodding buds, her head reclined
Upon a flowery pillow. At her ear,
The soft leaves whispered. On her half-closed lips
The gentle air strewed spices, wooing them.
Dropped o'er its radiant orb, the long-fringed lid
Veiled the deep inspiration of her eye;
But on her cheek the rose-tint came and went,
At the quick pulse that fluttered in her breast,
And spoke a wakeful spirit. In her sleep,
With one fair hand thrown o'er its silent strings,
Close to her heart she clasped her golden lyre,
To slumber with her, while she fondly dreamed
Of the sweet uses she might make of it
To numbers yet untried.
When, suddenly,
A shout of joy from all the sons of God,
Rang through his courts: and then the thrilling call,
"Wake! sister Music, wake, and hail with us,
A new-created sphere!"
She woke! She rose--
She moved among the morning stars, and gave
The birth-song of a world.
Our infant globe,
With life's first pulse, rolled in its ether bed,
Robed with the sunlight, mantled by the moon,
Or tenderly embraced by stellar rays:
Death, with his pale, cold finger, had not touched
Its beauty then. No stain of guilt was here,
And so, no cloud of sorrow cast a shade,
Or rained its bitter drops on fruit or flower.
As earth, on every side, shone fair to heaven,
Not knowing yet whereto she was ordained,
Music, from her celestial walks looked down,
And thought, how sweetly she could wake the hills,
Sing through the silent forests--in the vales--
Beside the silver waters pour her sounds;
And multiply her numbers by the rocks!
She longed to give it voice to speak to God;
And, being told of her blest ministry,
Bathed in a flood of glory, till her wings
Dripped with effulgence, as they spread, and poised,
And passed the pearly gates in earthward flight.
Made viewless by the circumambient air,
And scattering voices to its feathered tribes,
As down she hastened to the shining sphere,
The happy angel reached the beauteous earth.
At her electric touch, young nature smiled,
And kindled into rapture; then broke forth
With thousand, thousand songs.
The green turf woke;
The sea-shells hummed along the vocal shore,
The busy bee, upon his honeyed flower.
Osier and reed became Eolian lyres.
Trees bore sweet minstrels; while rock, hill, and dell
Sang to each other in a joyous round.
MAN, that mysterious instrument of God,
When the warm soul of new-descended power
Breathed on his heart-strings, lifted up his voice,
Chanting, "JEHOVAH!"
Since that blessed hour,
While still her home is heaven, Music has ne'er
This darkened world forsaken. She delights,
Though man may lose, or keep the paths of peace,
To soothe, to cheer, to light and warm his heart;
And lends her wings to waft it to the skies.
She throws a lustre o'er Devotion's face--
Drinks off the tear from Sorrow's languid eye--
Tames wild Despair--brings Hope a brighter bloom--
Lulls Hate to rest--Love's ruffled bosom smooths;
Pours honey into many a bitter cup;
And often gives the black and heavy hour
A downy breast and pinions tipped with light.
She steals all balmy through the prisoner's grates,
Making that sad one half forget their use.
With holy spell she binds the exile's heart,
And pours her oil upon its hidden wounds.
Kings are her lovers--cottagers her loves:
The hero and the pilgrim walk with her.
Her voice is sweet by cradled infancy,
And from the pillow of the dying saint,
When a glad spirit borrows her light wings
To practise for the skies, ere it unfolds
Its own, and breaks its tenure to the clay.
True, by man's wanderings for his tempter's lure,
Music is often drawn to scenes unmeet
For purity like hers; and made to bear
Unhallowed burdens; or, to join in rites
To turpitude in fellest places held.
Yet, like the sun, whose beaming vesture, trailed
O'er all things staining, still defies a stain;
And is at night withdrawn, and girded up,
Warm and untarnished for the morning skies--
She comes unsullied from her baser walks,
Sighs at the darkness, guilt and wo of earth;
Breathes Zion's air, and, warmed with heavenly fire,
Mounts to her glorious home!
'T was she, who bore
The first grand offering of the free, on high,
When to the shore, through Egypt's solemn sea,
The franchised Hebrews passed with feet dry-shod,
And p├Žans gave to their Deliverer there.
She cheered the wanderers on; and when they crossed
Over old Jordan, to the strong-armed foe,
Still she was with them; and her single breath
Laid the proud Painim's city-walls in dust!
In native light, she walked Judea's hills,
And sipped the dew of Hermon from its flower
Before the Sun of righteousness arose.
The Prophet chose her to unseal his lips,
Ere God spake through them; and the Prophetess,
To lift the heart's pure gift from her's to Heaven.
When Israel's king was troubled, her soft hand
Put close, but gently, to his gloomy breast,
Reached the dark spirit there, and laid it still,
Bound by the chords a shepherd minstrel swept.
And since, her countless thousands she has brought
To heaven's mild kingdom, happy captives led,
By those sweet glowing strings of David's lyre.
But oh! her richest, dearest notes to man,
In strains aerial over Bethlehem poured,
When HE, whose brightness is the light of heaven,
To earth descending for a mortal's form,
Laid by his glory, save one radiant mark,
That moved through space, and o'er the infant hung,
He summoned Music to attend him here,
Announcing peace below!
He called her, too,
To sweeten that sad supper, and to twine
Her mantle round him, and his few, grieved friends
To join their mournful spirits with the hymn,
Ere to the Mount of Olives he went out
So sorrowful.
And now, his blessed word,
A sacred pledge, is left to dying man,
Then at his second coming in his power,
Music shall still be with him; and her voice
Sound through the tombs and wake the dead to life!

Transcriber's Notes

Original spelling has been retained except in the following case:
In the poem "The Pilgrim's Way Song" on page 29 "thrist" has been
corrected to "thirst" (To drink, and to thirst never more.)
The deviation between some items in the table of contents and the
actual headings have also been retained.

End of Project Gutenberg's Mother's Dream and Other Poems, by Hannah F. Gould