Chapter II: Part 2

Farewell, farewell, my dearest brother,
Thou must be absent for awhile,
May no dark clouds around thee gather,
May health and fortune on thee smile.

In fancy's dreams, I'll oft be with thee,
On thy fond heart my image bear,
And while I hope again to meet thee,
The pleasing thought my heart shall cheer.

TO W.H.D.

AN ADOPTED BROTHER.

The home of thy childhood thou didst not forget,
The friends which dwelt with thee are dear to thee yet,
Thy warm friendly greeting betokens it now,
The smile of pure friendship still beams from thy brow.

I knew that thy heart was so faithful and true,
Thou wouldst not forget, though thou bad'st us adieu;
For thou didst rejoice with us when we were blest,
And sympathize with us, however distressed.

Say, wilt thou remember us, while thou dost live,
And cherish our virtues, our frailties forgive?
O think of us always, where'er thou dost roam,
For thy living image dwells ever at home.

But there is a home which is better than this,
The inmates all drink at the fountain of bliss;
A friend, than a father or mother more dear,
More close than a brother, this friend will adhere.

Wouldst find that blest home? go, and follow the road,
Which Christ and the prophets have marked out, to God;
The Spirit will teach you, and guide, lest you stray,
While legions of angels shall throng round your way.

LINES

TO A FRIEND IN AFFLICTION.
AN ACROSTIC.

D ark frowning clouds obscure thy sky,
E ach future prospect fades;
B ut there's a kind protector nigh,
O n him rely for aid.
R ich treasures are locked up in store,
A ffliction turns the key;
H ow oft when dreadful thunders roar,
M ay showers bid famine flee.
O sister, never yield to fears
W hen tempests roar aloud,
E 'en then, the bow of hope appears,
R ich hues bedeck yon cloud.

LINES TO A SISTER.

Susan, I long again to greet thee,
Fain would I clasp thee in my arms,
While that bland smile o'erspread thy features,
Which to thy brow adds nameless charms.

Dear sister, I can still remember
When first I clasped thee to my breast;
I viewed thee as a priceless treasure,
Bestowed to make life's pathway blest.

Although a little tiny creature,
Devoid of friendship, love, or care,
Yet, I highly prized the casket,
I knew a sister's heart throbbed there.

And when I heard, in lisping accents,
Affection flowing from thy tongue,
With strange delight, I listened to it,
As though some little cherub sung.

When in the garden thou wast straying,
To play among thy fragrant flowers,
I thought that Flora's fairest blossoms
Would vainly strive to vie with ours.

Dear sister, canst not thou remember,
When I'd been absent for awhile,
With what a boyant step thou'dst meet me,
And greet me with thy sunny smile?

And, when fatigued, I sought retirement,
Or left thee for a few short hours,
Oft them wouldst steal into my chamber
And strew my couch with fragrant flowers.

I trust that flame is not extinguished,
Although our duty bade us part;
I trust it still is burning brightly
Upon the altar of thy heart.

O come, and join the fireside circle
Around the old paternal hearth;
Come, let thy smiles and songs delight us,
They are like sunlight to the earth.

The little birds are singing sweetly;
The verdant fields perfume the air;
Our garden walks would be most pleasant,
If Susan's voice was ringing there.

Adieu, dear sister, for the present,
But tell me, wilt thou not be here
Ere the wintry winds are sighing
Requiems o'er a dying year?

TO MY BROTHER.

THE SCENES OF OUR CHILDHOOD.

Far back, through the vista of long buried years,
I look through this valley of sorrow and tears;
Like pictures, in bright glowing colors displayed,
The scenes of my life's rosy morn are portrayed.

An image, the foreground presents to my sight,
Which shed o'er my pathway its radiant light;
An image of him who first held my soft hand,
And shouted with joy when his sister could stand;

From him, I first caught the sweet magical art
Of turning to language, the thoughts of my heart;
When first to the school-house he went as my guide.
His heart swelled with pleasure, affection and pride.

Delighted, we ranged o'er the hillside, in spring,
And listened with rapture to hear the birds sing;
Then stopped in the pasture to see the lambs play,
As frolicsome, cheerful, and happy as they.

We ranged o'er the meadow, the forest, and bowers,
Picked berries for mother, and gathered wild flowers,
Dear brother, how oft by the rosebush we sat,
While you caught the butterflies under your hat.

With gay happy hearts to the woodland we strayed,
When autumn its rich pensive beauty displayed;
The robin was chanting her sweet farewell song,
While blithe little squirrels went skipping along.

Those bright little rogues which the husbandmen scorn,
Sly'd into their holes with their cheeks full of corn;
The clear mellow sunlight, in quivering streams,
Sent through the tall tree tops its roseate beams.

Jack Frost and October, when evenings grew cold,
Had drest up the forest in crimson and gold;
The bright leaves were borne on the wings of the breeze,
While we picked up beach-nuts from under the trees.

When trees were all leafless, and snow-clad the ground,
Sweet pleasures at home in our cottage we found;
'Round our bright blazing fire, we'd work, read, or play,
And find sweet employment to fill up each day.

And when evening came, the old hearth we'd surround,
While you cracked the nuts, which in autumn we found,
I tended my kittens, and made up their bed,
You made them a yoke and a nice little sled.

We heard the hens cackle, and thought we were blest,
You flew to the hayloft, and found a full nest,
Then caught up the treasure, and smiled as you run,
With a hat full of eggs, and a head full of fun.

We ran on the snow-crust like fleet nimble deer,
Until our fair cheeks would like rosebuds appear.
I never was lonesome, and never afraid,
If Hiram, my brother, for company stayed.

O, then we were happy in winter or spring,
Yes, happier far than the happiest king.
You grew up to manhood, and left your old home,
But may you he happy wherever you roam.

I ne'er can forget how it made my heart grieve,
When you of the precious old homestead took leave;
I feared that with business and cares overrun,
You'd soon cease to love me as once you had done;

And earth would be shrouded in sadness and gloom,
If I, in your heart, could not always find room.
Though care leaves a shadow on thy manly brow,
Thy heart's warm affections are mirrored there now.

But when you are with me a brief space to stay,
I'm all the while thinking you'll soon go away;
Yet we shall soon meet in a far distant land,
God grant it may be at the Savior's right hand.

MY BROTHER IN THE TEMPEST.

'Twas summer, and a sultry day
Was drawing to a close,
One cloud, along the northwest lay,
Which tardily arose.

Along a winding path we strayed,
Which through the forest led,
While not one gentle zephyr swayed
The branches overhead.

Deep mutt'ring thunders soon were heard,
Dark shadows gathered round;
The trees, at intervals, were stirred
By gusts of threat'ning sound.

The hurricane arose in wrath,
The rain in torrents poured;
Huge trees were flung across our path,
Loud crashing thunders roared.

When vivid lightnings round us blazed,
He told me not to fear;
My little trembling hand he seized,
And checked the rising tear.

Loud thunders through the forest pealed;
He smiled, and cheered me on,
Exclaiming, "we'll soon reach the field,
Then all the danger's gone."

But soon, in hurried tones he said,
"Run, sister, run with me,
Look! look! directly o'er your head,
Behold that falling tree!"

But, while I heard the warning sound
Rise o'er the raging storm,
Its double trunk had clasped around
My little trembling form.

Why did my brother linger there,
Nor strive to gain the field?
Torn branches filled the darkened air,
Huge trees above us reeled.

Like some stern warrior on the field,
'Midst danger, death, and strife,
He stood, determined not to yield,
Until he saved my life.

That awful tempest, and thy care,
My mem'ry still retains,
Engraved upon those tablets fair,
'Twill live while life remains.

LINES

ADDRESSED TO AN ABSENT SISTER.

Dear sister, though absent, your image is bright,
It dwells in my heart and prompts me to write;
Your health, is it blooming, your spirits in cheer?
You know 'twould rejoice me, such tidings to hear.

The din of the village, and hum of the mill,
Can they charm my sister like our quiet vale?
Does our little cottage seem humble and mean,
Embosomed with trees, and surrounded with green?

Like father and mother, are those where you dwell?
Like brothers and sisters who love you so well?
Or do you look forward and sigh for that hour,
When we shall all meet in your jessamine bower?

Where vines that you planted, will wave o'er your head,
And nature's green carpet sweet odors will shed;
Each cool breeze is playing with flowers growing near,
Which sister has planted, our spirits to cheer.

Your roses and lilacs, among the pine trees,
Are swarming with butterflies, humbirds, and bees;
I view them each morning, all spark'ling with dew,
And fancy they're emblems of sisters like you.

Come home and do housework, tend poultry and flowers,
At noontide recline in our cool shady bowers;
Could not such employment still yield you delight,
Where birds are all singing from morning till night?

Soon summer is coming, your flow'rets will bloom,
And spread new enchantments around your old home;
Our grove by the river in beauty is drest,
The Whippowil's notes sweetly soothe us to rest.

The sun, in mild splendor, sinks down in the west,
Encircling with glory the old mountain's crest;
The clouds o'er his head glow with purple and gold,
The river is catching the tinge of each fold.

The scene would be lovely, if sister was here,
But now I'm so lonely, it looks sad and drear;
The beauties of nature are losing their charms,
No more to divert me, till clasped in your arms.

But I'm growing weary, I'll draw to a close,
And seek for refreshment in needful repose;
If this, from a sister can give you delight,
Retire to your chamber, this evening, and write.

Adieu, my dear sister, until your return
Sweet home will be dreary, and almost forlorn;
May God be your guide, your supporter and stay,
Directing your footsteps, wherever you stray.

A MORNING SCENE

ON A SISTER'S WEDDING DAY.

Dear sister, when they called thee bride,
That sound, my spirits deeply tried;
My heart, at that one little word,
Through every trembling fibre stirred.

I'd still a place within thy heart,
But oh, I felt it hard to part;
And that long dreaded hour had come,
When thou must leave thy childhood's home.

But that sad morn; a pleasant sight
Cast o'er the future gleams of light;
I listened, and the voice of prayer
Ascended on the morning air.

'Twas then, I thought the heavenly dove
Gave us a token of his love,
For, in the western heavens, now
Appeared a bright resplendent bow.

'Twas lovely as that arch displayed
When Noah by the altar prayed;
That sacred scene could but impart
A gleam of sunshine to my heart.

O, 'twas a consecrated hour,
When, through that sweet refreshing shower
The morning sunbeams brightly smiled,
And whispered, trust thy Father, child.

TO THE WHIPPOWIL.

Vernal songster, thou art here,
With the flowers thou dost appear;
Yes, sweet little Whippowil,
Thou art singing by the rill;
Where the silver moonbeam plays
Thou dost chant thy hymn of praise;
Thy shrill voice I love to hear,
And I'd have thee warble near.
Come, sweet bird, the moonlight shines
Through the verdant row of pines,
Standing by our cottage door,
Come, where thou hast sang before,
When I heard thy thrilling note
On the twilight breezes float,
Ming'ling with the cheerful song
Of our happy fireside throng.
Loved ones, that to me are dear,
No more tune their voices here;
Some have sought a distant home,
Gone, 'midst other scenes to roam;
One is racked with wasting pain,
And may never sing again;
While I hear thy feeble moan,
I can never sing alone;
Still, we welcome blooming spring,
But there's no one here to sing.
Come then, little singing bird,
Let thy cheerful voice be heard;
Come, and pour thy melting lays
Where thou didst in better days;
Strive each drooping heart to cheer,
Strive to dry the falling tear,
Strive to soothe each throbbing breast,
Hushing troubled minds to rest.

"My harp is on the willows hung.
And the strings all out of tune,"

And dost thou listen for a song,
From this frail harp, neglected long?
My harp, alas! is drenched in tears,
Rent by contending hopes and fears.
Pale trembling fingers sweep the strings
Whene'er my muse, in sadness, sings;
For, prostrate now, before me lays
The playmate of bright joyous days;
She was my early childhood's pet,
Nor can my bleeding heart forget
That love, which has, in later years
Shared all my pastimes, hopes, and fears.
Long has pale death beside her stood,
And poured his arrows like a flood,
Whilst I have tried, with beating heart,
To steal the poison from each dart;
But oft I fear, lest these dread showers
Will baffle all our feeble powers,
And death's cold hand, will rend apart
The tie that binds her to my heart.
Long I've refused to leave her side,
Lest there should aught remain untried,
Which might her wasting form restore,
And tinge her cheek with bloom once more.
Oft by her couch, the livelong night,
I've watched, till morn's unwelcome light,
Like some vain babbler, must reveal
The tears, which I would fain conceal;
Then softly stole, in silence, where
No sigh could reach the sufferer's ear.
But, shall I thus forever weep,
And let my harp forgotten sleep,
When there's one sweet melodious strain,
Whose power can wake its string again?
Come, let us chant one grateful song
To Him, whose patience waited long,--
"_God ruleth, let the earth rejoice!_"
Yes, let us make a joyful noise.
We're chastened by a hand divine,
Let us be dumb, nor dare repine;
Thou didst it. O, our Father, God,
Then let us humbly kiss the rod.
Though from our eyes the tear-drop starts,
When those who twine around our hearts
Are suffering with exquisite pain,
Yet, we may weep, and not complain.
Lord, thou didst weep, and so may we,
And bow submissive still to Thee;
Grant us thy grace in sorrow's hour,
To flee for refuge to thy power.

TO A SISTER WHILE DANGEROUSLY ILL.

O Sister! Sister! can it be
That thou must droop, and die?
Still blending on thy fair young cheek,
The rose and lily vie.

But burning fever is the root
From whence those roses spring;
While pain and suffering, on thy brow,
Those snowy lilies fling.

THE INVALID'S DREAM

The sick girl sat with downcast eye,
Her bosom heaved the deep drawn sigh,
She felt that all complaint was vain,
For health would ne'er return again.

With pain and weariness oppressed,
She sought her pillow, there to rest,
While sleep a welcome visit paid,
Bright scenes were to her view displayed.

In fancy's magic glass, she sees
Her cheek, long faded by disease,
The rose of health blooms there again,
'Tis no deceitful hectic stain.

Lightly and firm her footsteps fell;
In rapture, she exclaimed, "I'm well!
I bear no suff'ring, feel no pain,
My long lost treasure I regain."

Her blooming form now stands erect,
In fair and comely robes bedecked;
Her limbs, so long with pain oppressed.
Can nimbly move or sweetly rest.

Rejoicing friends their praises sing,
To Hezekiah's bounteous king;
Well pleased, she hears their grateful songs,
And her glad voice the strain prolongs.

But sleep his downy pinions spread,
Her slumbers broke, the vision fled;
Her burning temples throbbed with pain,--
She was an invalid again.

TO A BUTTERFLY IN MY CHAMBER.

Whence art thou, frail, wand'ring stranger,
Softly flitting round my bed?
Is thy life exposed to danger?
Are thy friends and kindred dead?

Does the cold rude breath of autumn,
Chill thy little fragile form?
Hast thou come to seek a shelter
From the dreaded gath'ring storm?

Art thou now our friendship trying?
Wouldst thou test the vows we made,
When thou was so gaily flying
'Round us, 'neath the fragrant shade?

Or, wouldst thou our hearts be cheering,
Through this pensive lonely eve,
While the chilly winds are bearing
On their wings the faded leaf?

Would thou wast the Father's token,
That the sweet celestial dove,
When the golden bowl is broken,
Will support us by his love,--

Will, in that dread painful conflict,
Flit around our dying bed,
And, to fill the soul with comfort,
Whisper, "blessed are the dead."

TO THE "WILD FLOWER."[5]

I've ranged the bright streamlet in childhood's blest hour,
And culled from its borders spring's loveliest flowers,
Then bound up my bouquet, all glitt'ring with dew,
And smiled on my treasure as homeward I flew.

I've seen the sweet violet deck the green sod,
All fresh from the hand of a bountiful God,
While soft whisp'ring zephyrs breathed this in my ear,
"The wisdom of God in these blossoms appear."

I've looked on the mayflower, spring's earliest child,--
It peeped from the snowdrift and modestly smiled;
I've plucked the fair lily, arrayed in fair white,
And drank in its fragrance with heartfelt delight.

Yet blossoms that smile in the green woodland bower,
Ne'er rival this sweet intellectual flower;
This blossom sprang up from the depths of the mind,--
The heart's thrilling fibres its tendrils entwine,

Affection's pure fountain has watered the germ,
The bright sun of intellect cherished its form,
It's petals were colored in fancy's rich dye,
Till they, with the hues of the rainbow may vie;
I'll pluck thee, sweet blossom, pure fragrance I find,
When the rich perfumes are inhaled by the mind.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 5: A volume of poems.]

THE MINISTER

AT THE FAMILY ALTAR. COMPOSED FOR THE REV. W. FOSS, OF LEEDS.

The father, still in manhood's prime,
Was bowed in humble prayer;
His partner, fair as when a bride,
Was kneeling by him there.

Reclining on a sister's arm,
The babe found sweet repose;
While from the heart, in accents warm,
The father's prayer arose.

And, fair as rosebuds bathed in dew;
By morning zephyrs fanned,
A blooming group of loved ones, too,
Was ranged on either hand.

As many children God had given,
As good old Jacob had;
That he might meet them all in heaven,
How fervently he prayed.

What deep emotions filled my breast,
That scene my spirit stirred;
Will not that family be blessed,
That prayer in heaven be heard?

Though oft his duty calls abroad,
Salvation's news to bear,
The father leaves his charge with God,
Confiding in his care.

AN APPEAL FOR IRELAND.

"Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shall find it after many days."--_Ecel_. xi; 1.

Hark! hear the cry of Erin's sons,
By plague and famine frantic;
The wail of wives and little ones
Comes o'er the broad Atlantic.

O, heed the bitter piercing cry,
That's pealing o'er the ocean;
To us, to us, for aid they fly,
As Israel fled to Goshen.

List! hear that sad and mournful sound,
It is the parent sighing;
Beside him, on the damp cold ground.
His darling ones are lying.

A nation sinking to the grave;
How thick death's shafts are flying!
The loved, the lovely, and the brave,
From want are daily dying.

They're calling to Columbia's sons,
And to her happy daughters;
Take of your bread, ye favor'd ones,
And cast it on the waters.

THE LITTLE CLOUD.

All day the rain has patter'd down,
In dense dark folds, clouds hang around,
The humid air is dead and still,
Thick vapors veil the distant hill.

But now, a little crimson cloud
Beams from an opening in the shroud,
Which, like a dusky pall, o'erspreads
The azure vault above our heads.

Our fancy, while we gaze, takes wings
And flits around earth's brighter things,
Then whispers in our list'ning ears,
"This earth is not all sighs and tears."

This cloud is like the robin's song,
Whose notes were hushed all winter long,
But comes to usher in the hours,
Whose genial warmth revives the flowers.

Or like the south wind's gentle voice,
Bidding all nature's works rejoice,
Teaching the little birds, to sing
A serenade to blooming spring.

Like budding flowers where thorns once grew,
And beauty bursting into view
Where all was dark, and drear, and wild,
Nor pleasures in prospective smiled.

'Tis like the smile that beams through tears,
When hope usurps the place of fears;
Like health, new sparkling in the eye
Of him, whom friends gave up to die.

Faint emblem of the glory shed
Around the dying christian's bed,
That prelude to the dazzling light
Which bursts on his enraptured sight,
When the freed spirit soars above,
And faith is swallowed up in love.

LEWISTON,

AS IT WAS, AND AS IT IS.

It was a wild, sequestered spot,
With here and there a humble cot;
Yet, nature's richest robes were thrown
Around those hills and valleys lone.
'Twas quiet, fair, and lovely, then,
Though beasts of prey and savage men
Roamed o'er those hills of graceful form,
Whose trees for ages braved the storm,
Yet, humbly stooping to behold
The broad majestic stream, that rolled
Through smiling mead and woody plain,
Fast speeding onward to the main,
Or, dashing from its rocky height,
Proclaims the great Creator's might,
Its deep toned music, strangely meet
To mingle with the anthem sweet,
That floated on each whisp'ring breeze,
Which came, soft stealing through the trees
That grew upon the winding shore,
In giant ranks, in days of yore.
When genial spring her magic spell,
Cast 'round each lovely woodland dell,
And woke to life the warbling throng,
While streamlets gaily danced along;
If such a spot on earth be found,
Those hills and vallies all around
Smiled, like the paradise of God,
When first by sinless beings trod.
Thus, rude, romantic, grand, sublime,
Was Lewiston, in olden time.
But Art and Genius, passing by,
Saw this fair spot neglected lie,
Then said, in deep emotion's tone,
"Shall these bright waves go dancing on,
Just like a thoughtless child at play,
Who throws his strength and skill away?"
Anon, they raised the useful mills,
The sparkling waters moved the wheels,
And industry, with cheerful air,
Was pleased to take her station there.
The proud old forest bowed, his head,
With sullen frowns the savage fled,
The timid beaver left the shore,
The deer and moose were seen no more.
Rich cultivated fields appeared.
Neat tasteful dwellings soon were reared,
In graceful ranks we see them stand,
With spacious streets on either hand.
Where once the Indian's wigwam stood,
The factory, with its busy crowd,
Dispenses blessings far and near,
While rich and poor its products share.
Here merchandise, with eagle eyes,
His own and others' wants supplies;
And science, like a swelling tide,
Diffuses knowledge far and wide.
The sweetly pealing sabbath bells,
Now echo round those hills and dells,
And call the villagers to meet
Where they enjoy communion sweet,
With Him who answers ev'ry prayer
That humble faith can utter there.
There's music in those sabbath bells,
This pleasing truth methinks they tell,
That God is held in rev'rence there,
And worshiped in His house of prayer.
In the fair background now are seen
Sweet hills and dales, all robed in green,
With here and there a pleasant grove
Where every class delights to rove;
There, age sits down beneath the shade,
Where he has oft in childhood strayed;
There, youths and maidens often walk,
To spend an hour in friendly talk;
There, little children, too, are seen,
Like lambs they gambol o'er the green;
They wander there in summer hours
In quest of birds' nests, fruit, and flowers.
The scholar loves this solitude,
Where tumult never dares intrude;
And here the stranger likes to roam,
And think of loved ones left at home.
The saint, at twilight's pensive hour,
Here seeks the sweet secluded bower;
While whisp'ring zephyrs linger near,
And waft to heaven the humble prayer.
And all who study nature's book,
On this fair page delight to look;
They'll range those hills and vallies o'er,
And trace the river's winding shore.
Nor can they e'er forget to look
Upon the little murm'ring brook,
Which, like a silver belt, winds round
The hill, with oak and elm trees crowned.
But that majestic waterfall,
In grandeur still surpasses all.

Should Art and Genius there assemble,
With solemn awe they'd stand and tremble;
Than all their works, they'd own this greater,
And bow before the great Creator.

TWILIGHT MUSINGS.

BY AMELIA.

I wandered out one summer night,
'Twas when my years were few,
The wind was singing in the light,
And I was singing too.

One fleecy cloud upon the air,
Was all that met my eyes,
It floated like an angel there,
Between me and the skies.

I clapped my hands and warbled wild,
As here and there I flew,
For I was but a careless child,
And did as children do.

I heard the laughing wind behind,
'Twas playing with my hair;
The breezy fingers of the wind,
How cool and moist they were.

The twilight hours came stealing by,
And still I wandered free;
Ten thousand stars were in the sky,
Ten thousand on the sea.

For ev'ry wave with dimpled face,
That leaped upon the air,
Had caught a star in its embrace,
And held it trembling there.

But wherefore weave such strains as these,
And sing them day by day,
When every bird upon the breeze
Can sing a sweeter lay.

I'd give the world for their sweet art.
The simple, the divine;
I'd give the world to melt one heart,
As they have melted mine.

TO AMELIA.

And wouldst thou, sweet minstrel, if earth should unfold
To thee all her treasures of silver and gold,
Resign all thy riches, thy wealth, fame and power,
To sing like the birds in the green woodland bower?

Like thee, dear Amelia, I love the wild bird,
Their soft melting strains, at grey twilight, I've heard;
The whippowils, then, on the cool zephyr's wing,
Their clear pensive notes in rich harmony fling.

I listen each morning with heartfelt delight,
While birds bid adieu to the shadows of night.
And greet in sweet anthems the bright king of day,
As they through the forest are soaring away.

Yet thy flowing numbers, when breathing around,
Awaken such echoes as these never found;
A chord in my bosom, thy sonnet has stirred,
Which never was touched by the notes of a bird.

But meekness in woman to me is so dear,
I love thee the more when such language I hear;
True greatness and modesty, when they combine,
Like stars of the firmament sparkle and shine.

The birds of the forest thy spirits can cheer,
Their songs fill with music thy sensitive ear,
But has that fair dove in thy heart found a nest,
Whose singing can make thee eternally blest?

MOONLIGHT MUSINGS.

THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY VIEWING A ROW OF FINE TREES NEAR MY DWELLING.

These youthful pines, a verdant row,
Cast their dark shadows on the snow;
Just like a picture, or a dream,
Or tale of fairy lands, they seem.
I hear a soft melodious lay,
The winds are with their tops at play;
While moonbeams through their branches stealing,
Wake up a wild romantic feeling.

The forest birds in spring will come,
'Neath these green boughs to make their home,
To cheer us with their sweet wild song,
To build their nests and rear their young.
Child of the wood, in infancy,
I learned to love the forest tree;
I'm still the same romantic creature,
Admiring all the works of nature.

The rocks, the fields, the groves and flowers,
Are fraught with some mysterious powers,
That bind me with a pleasing spell,
Which naught can break while here I dwell.
The wild bird's note, the woodland dell,
Have charms beyond my power to tell;
While winds are through the forest roaring,
My spirit with the sound seems soaring.

The rosy morn, the sunset sky,
The glitt'ring retinue on high,
The sun's broad blaze, the moon's mild beams,
Reflected from the lakes and streams,
The lightning's flash, the thunder's roar,
The ocean dashing on the shore,
And meteors streaming through the air,
Proclaim that God is everywhere.

THOUGHTS

SUGGESTED BY VIEWING A PETUNIA.

Fair plant, well pleased on thee I look,
Thou art a page in nature's book,
Which I delight to read;
Though stoics set thee quite at naught,
And say that none but children ought
On such vain trifles spend a thought,
Their words I little heed.

A child I'd ever wish to be,
With an instructer just like thee,
And listen to her voice;
Fain wouldst thou our best passions move,
And lead our wandering thoughts above,
Where, at the fount of boundless love,
We ever might rejoice.

Our tender care thou dost repay,
Though watched and guarded night and day,
Thus teaching thoughtless man;
When thou art nursed and watered well,
Thy bursting buds with fragrance swell,
And thus the grateful story tell,
That we do all we can.

Thy blooming petals love the light.
The sun smiles on them, they grow bright,
Withdraws his beams, they faint;
Yet, when beneath his radiant gaze,
The modest blush that o'er them plays,
To every thinking mind, portrays
The contrite, humble saint.

Sweet plant, I love thee, yes, I do,
And all thy blooming kindred too,
(More than the works of art,)
For in them, I can ever find
Such beauty, skill and power combined,
As captivate and soothe the mind,
And cheer the drooping heart.

Fair gift, by royal donor given,
dipped in the radiant dyes of heaven,
And strown o'er every land,
Ye shed your fragrance o'er the tomb,
Steal from deep solitude its gloom,
And when the gardener gives you room,
You bless his fostering hand.

Not Newton, though he soared so high,
And traced the planets through the sky,
With such amazing power,
Nor Franklin, whom we praise so loud,
Though lightnings in their misty shroud,
Obeyed his voice and left the cloud,
Could make the simplest flower.

Nor could the chemist's skill suffice
To mingle such exquisite dyes,
As in the flowers appear;
And were all human powers combined,
And centred in one single mind,
Its best productions, we should find,
Stand halting in the rear.

When, veiled in flesh, God dwelt below,
He deigned his watchful care to show,
For man's ungrateful race;
When sin their drowsy eyes had sealed,
He took the lily of the field,
And bade them think what that revealed,
And learn to trust his grace.

The garden which Jehovah planned,
And planted with his own right hand,
Was decked with fragrant flowers;
And shall we boast that we now slight
What God designed to give delight,
Ere sin had cast its with'ring blight
O'er all our mental powers?

TO A WHITE HOLLYHOCK.

Sweet plant, so fair, so pure thy blossoms look,
I almost fancy that some angel, from
His wing the feathers plucked, and of them, at
The twilight hour, thy snowy petals made.
But fancy leads astray. Not one of all
That shining throng, which worship 'round the throne,
Could e'er such work perform. None but the hand
Divine, these curious fabrics wrought.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY VIEWING THE MINIATURE OF A PAIR OF LOVELY TWIN BOYS, WHO WERE DEPRIVED OF THEIR MOTHER AT THE AGE OF TWO MONTHS, AND WERE THE ONLY REMAINING CHILDREN OF THEIR FATHER.

I gaze upon this picture fair,
And find strange beauty mirrored there;
Its magic spell with power is fraught,
To ope the fount of hidden thought.
Sweet childhood's opening blossoms here,
In all their loveliness appear;
Pure innocence, with touching grace,
Smiles in each feature of the face,
Like rosy morning's cheerful rays,
O'er childhood's artless brow, it plays.
The lips, half open, almost speak,
While on the fresh, young, dimpled cheek,
The bloom is like those vernal flowers,
Whose fragrance fills our woodland bowers.
Those speaking eyes the power have caught,
To mirror forth the germs of thought;
Their silent language, deep and strong,
Can touch the hidden springs of song;
Their melting beams can reach the mind,
Where they our best affections find.
Why did these twin-born, smiling boys,
Come here to wake maternal joys,
In that fond, faithful mother's breast,
Where they could but a moment rest?
With love too deep for words to speak,
She pressed each tender infant cheek,
With quivering lips and falt'ring breath,
Before the opening gates of death,
While faintly burned the vital spark,
Within life's frail and shattered bark,
Just mooring in the port of bliss,
She paused to steal one last, fond kiss.
In death's embrace those lips were cold,
Ere half their thrilling tale was told;
The mother and her babes must part,
Before the tender infant heart,
By her soft winning tones, had learned
What love within her bosom burned
Before her counsels, blessed and wise,
Could train her offspring to the skies.
Sweet babes! so helpless, frail and fair,
Why here, without her watchful care?
Your sainted brother never wept
Beside the grave, where loved ones slept,
While clouds were gathering round his head,
He to the Savior's bosom fled.
Then why not plume your tiny wings,
And soar to where your mother sings?
Why tarry on this barren shore;
Till waves of trouble round you roar?

Ah! now I know; you linger here,
Your father's lonely hours to cheer.
Death would not pluck the last fair flower,
That bloomed in his connubial bower;
He fondly loves his orphan boys,
They half restore his withered joys.
Sweet rosebuds, springing from the tomb,
Long round his hearthstone may you bloom,
With smiles of love your father greet,
And fill your mother's vacant seat.

THE CULTIVATION OF FLOWERS.

Where can we find a more healthy and delightful employment, than the cultivation of flowers? Though of less importance than those plants which are necessary for the support of animal life, yet, rightly considered, they yield a pleasant and instructive entertainment for the intellectual powers, and may justly be termed food for the mind.

"Nonsense" some of our readers exclaim, "Nonsense, to talk of feeding the immortal mind, with flowers! For one, I think people may find some more useful employment than that of persuading their fellow beings to spend the precious hours of this _short_ life upon these useless playthings."

But pause, my readers, and consider who gave this finishing touch to the face of nature. Who strewed the fields with flowers? Were they not brought into existence by the same All-wise Being who created the earth upon which we dwell, with its millions of intelligent beings, its vast oceans, its towering mountains, its flaming volcanoes and its majestic rivers with their awe inspiring cataracts; who created the sun, that great fountain of light and heat, and the centre of attraction for those vast globes which revolve around it, and then counterpoised with such precision the different forces which produce and continue their motion, that they continue to perform their appointed revolutions, without the least deviation from that orbit, in which they were placed at creation's dawn; who "made the stars also," that innumerable multitude of fixed stars, or suns with their attending planets which inhabit the boundless regions of space; whose wonderful works are so numerous as to overwhelm the feeble mind of man, and to compel him to conclude at the commencement, by saying that they are infinite? And shall we be so impious as to hush the voice of reason, and disregard the words of holy writ enough to say, that even the little violet was made in vain? I should sooner believe that Washington, the father of our country, while the destiny of our nation was placed, as it were, in his hands, was in the habit of deserting his army while on the battle field, engaged in the most bloody conflict with a mortal foe, for the sole purpose of amusing himself with soap bubbles and firebrand ribbons.

"But," says one, "they were created for a scourge and a snare to fallen man; for while we are compelled to spend much of our time in destroying thorns and thistles from our premises, they are continually tempting the weaker part of our race to spend their strength and time upon that, which at best, can yield no profit." But against this assertion, the scriptures afford us ample proof, for we are there informed, that they were created before the fall, and pronounced very good, while thorns and thistles were brought forth afterwards; for the Lord said, when pronouncing the curse upon Adam, "Cursed be the ground for thy sake, thorns and thistles shall it bring forth unto thee," thus implying that they were not already in existence. And again, flowers are universally spoken of in scripture as blessings, or used as emblems of things valuable or pleasing, while thorns and thistles are always used to represent things hurtful, or afflictive. And if any part of nature's works retain their native purity and remain unchanged, save by the hand of death, is it not flowers? It is true, they neither supply us with food or clothing, and if they possess medical qualities, they might as well be contained in the plant without the appendage of a flower. Nor were they made for the fowls of the air, or the beasts of the field, for they totally disregard them; we never see the ox, the horse, or the sheep, stop to smell their fragrance or gaze upon their beauty. And many of those who are termed the lords of creation, consider them beneath the notice of intellectual beings, and yet they were made for some wise purpose. We will therefore admit the truth of an assertion made by a friend, who remarked that flowers were doubtless created for the sole purpose of gratifying the weak and childish minds of the female sex. Be it so, let us thankfully receive the gift, and think ourselves honored by being thought worthy of the fairest and sweetest part of nature's productions; for which she has reserved her most grateful perfumes, her richest dyes, and the finest strokes of her pencil. Yes, we _will_ cultivate flowers, for we do not profess to be more scrupulous about the manner in which we spend our time than the Lord of the universe was, for he planted flowers in _his_ garden. The scriptures inform us that he planted every tree that was pleasant to the sight. And flowers certainly were pleasant, even to the pure eyes of our Savior; for while speaking of the lilies of the field, he says, "Even Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these." And the wisest of men, when searching the world over for comparisons worthy of his beloved, exclaims in the fullness of a heart overflowing with love and gratitude, "He is the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valley."

Sweet flowers, there is room enough for you in the female mind. We will take you to our bosoms and cherish you with that affectionate regard, which your lovely qualities deserve. We will admire your spotless purity and innocence. You were thought worthy of a place in the blissful bowers of Eden. And for aught we know, ye were the only part of nature's works which were created solely for the purpose of charming the mind and gratifying the senses of sinless beings. And may we make a profitable use of these lovely relics of paradise! May they continually remind us of the skill, wisdom and goodness of the great Architect of the universe!

Where can we find a more transparent medium through which we may "look through nature up to nature's God," than a veil interwoven with flowers? When fatigued in body, where can we find a more pleasant resting place than beneath the cool shade of an arbor, in the flower garden? When our spirits are depressed or our minds perplexed with distracting care, thither let us repair: it will prove a more effectual remedy than on hour spent in gossipping, or an evening in the ball room. It can but exert a healthful influence over the mind, to inhale such exquisite odors, and gaze upon such beautiful colors and delicate tints, combined with gracefulness and elegance of form. The art of man has long been striving to imitate them, but the simplest flower that blooms still eclipses their best performances. And yet the gorgeous canopy that decks the monarch's throne owes half its splendor to the imperfect miniature of the inhabitants of the flower garden.

And strange as it appears, how often do we see persons, who would blush were they seen contemplating the simple beauties of a delicate flower, pride themselves in embellishing their dwellings and equipage with its coarsely wrought picture. But while they are pleasing themselves with the shadow, we will feast ourselves on the substance.

"I am weary of this lecture upon flowers," the stoical reader exclaims: If so, my friend, you are at liberty to retire to any place of entertainment which your better judgment may suggest; but I will lay aside my pen to walk among the flowers; and see if some of those silent, though eloquent preachers, will not furnish the mind with some new idea, which may serve as a foundation for another discourse.

MUSIC OF THE MIND.

What is music of the mind? Is it the soft harmonious strains of the little minstrel which often steals into some secret nook within the heart, and there tunes her silent harp to notes of sweetest melody? Though we never hear her melting lays, yet persons in every station, from the king upon his throne to the beggar by the wayside, and the rude untutored savage roaming through his native forest, often experience that exquisite pleasure produced by her magic spell.

We are continually surrounded by scenes calculated to produce this music. The variegated scenery of different landscapes; the changing seasons of the year; Spring with her balmy air, soft refreshing showers, green fields, fragrant flowers, and merry cheerful birds; Summer, with her sultry days, her cool inviting shades, her waving fields, and delicious fruits; and Autumn, with his rich golden harvest, bright pensive dreamy days, and clear moonlight evenings, have power to rouse the minstrel from her slumbers; and even rude old Winter, clothed in clouds and storms and drifting snows, can with his icy fingers sweep her silent harp strings and wake their wildest melody.

We retire beneath the sacred shade of some ancient forest, and look upon nature as she stands forth arrayed in all the charms of her primeval beauty; where art has never plucked her native bloom, and tinged her cheek with carmine. We there gaze upon the tall old trees, which have for centuries been towering higher and higher, till they seem ambitious to wave their lofty tops among the very clouds of heaven. We quench our thirst with the sparkling waters of the pure spring, which bubbles up cool and clear from its crystal fountain, washing the roots of the trees, and trickling over the ground in bright streams, like threads of molten silver, till they unite in one of those beautiful streamlets which lend such enchantment to the woodland bowers; here, murmuring melodiously among smooth rocks and bright pebbles, while the dimpling eddies upon its surface reflect the rays of laughing sunshine which quiver through the leafy canopy above; there, dashing over a projecting rock forming a little cascade, and then flowing smoothly along, bearing upon its tranquil bosom the fair images of the flowers which spring up along its banks, upon the sloping hill-side and in every shady nook and dell, smiling in strange beauty among the stern features of the woodland scene. Sweet flowers, so fair and fragile, that they flourish only when sheltered from the rude blast and pelting storm by some friendly shade, and so modest and retiring in their habits, that they shun the open field, where they must encounter the scrutinizing gaze of the noonday sun, and choose this sweet seclusion for their home.

We stand upon the shores of the ocean, while the sun emerges from its bed, lifting his broad shining disk above the blue waters, and tinging the sparkling waves with every hue that decks the rainbow's form. We gaze with rapture upon the scene, till, dazzled by its brilliancy, we turn our eyes upon the white sails, gliding over the bosom of the deep, like some noble bird winging its way through the air, or watch the swelling waves, as they roll in grand procession towards us, and break in thunder on the shore. We sit in a calm summer evening and watch the shadows as they lengthen o'er the ground, till they lose themselves in the deep rich green of the vales from winch the sun has disappeared, to gild the tops of the forest trees and far off hills with more than noonday splendor. The balmy zephyrs hold their breath, nor dare to whisper in the softest tone, while the little forest birds, in sweetly pensive strains, are chanting forth their evening hymn of praise and homage to the sun, who, now all bright with parting smiles, sinks down behind the western hills, tinging the clouds at first with light faint orange streaks, which soon turn to crimson, and touched again by sunset's magic wand, they glow in purple of the richest dyes, then slowly fade to grey, while twilight draws around us her dewy curtains and shuts the scene from our admiring gaze.

We walk abroad in the calm stillness of a moonlight evening, when night, cheered by the presence of her fair queen, withholds her dusky pall and contents herself by drawing a thin silvery veil over the fair-face of nature, which only serves to cast a shade of pensive beauty upon her lovely features. The rocks, the fields, the lakes and streams, the distant hills and mountains, whose lofty peaks are crowned with the white fleecy clouds which skirt the horizon, appear far more lovely when viewed by the pure dreamy light now stealing around us, than when displayed to our sight by the clear light of day. The trees and shrubs lie pictured on the dewy earth, their fair images reposing in motionless beauty, save when the cool breath of evening plays among the verdant branches, disturbing their shadowy outlines. No sound breaks upon the stillness of the scene, except the gentle murmur of the winding stream or the roar of some far off waterfall, softened and subdued by distance, till it mingles in harmony with the clear shrill notes of the whippowils, who never close their waking eyes, but serenade the moon till morning light, while every object upon which we turn our eyes reminds us of the fancy sketch of some fairy land.

We gaze upon the grand array, when Aurora Borealis plays her antic freaks, fights her mimic battles, waves her flaming banner along the northern skies. We look out upon the blue expanse above, when the bright and beautiful stars, with their sparkling eyes, are looking from their distant homes upon our little earth like angels commissioned to watch over its slumbering inhabitants, till the clear light of day arouses them to life and consciousness. In view of objects and scenes like these, a pleasing sensation steals over the mind, till no language can express the emotions which struggle for vent within our bosoms and the full heart flutters like an imprisoned bird against the walls of its cage.

This is what we call music of the mind. Yet when no love to the Creator mingles with our contemplations, it is music of an inferior order. But when an individual is brought to realize and "believe with all his heart" that the author of all the scenes of beauty, grandeur and sublimity, which nature presents to the eye, has condescended to drop the sceptre from his hand, lay by his dazzling crown and leave his throne of glory, while he descended to our earth, and gave his life to ransom guilty rebels against his righteous government, pouring out his blood on Calvary till the fountain is sufficient to cleanse the foulest stains of sin, even from the most polluted soul; then it is that his mind is filled with music, and that too, which is as much superior to any ever experienced by an unregenerate soul, as the full blaze of the noonday sun is to the faint light which glimmers from the burning taper. For every fibre of the heart, now touched by the finger of God, wakes in harmony, and vibrates with the richest music of which earth or heaven can boast. It is the very same which animates the spirits of just men made perfect, and none but blood washed sinners can ever learn the song.

No music, borne from Eden's bowers,
On heaven's own balmy wings,
No song, that angels ever sang.
Could roach these lofty strings;

For Gabriel with his golden harp,
Tuned by the heavenly dove,
Could never touch the thrilling notes
Of God's redeeming love.

APPENDIX.

* * * * *

The Pastoral was published in one of the papers of the day. As it gave rise to a little mirth, we insert it with the poems annexed.

* * * * *

PRAISES OF RURAL LIFE.

Though city ladies treat with scorn
The humble farmer's wife,
And call his daughters rude and coarse,
I'll live a country life.

I'd rather spin, and weave, and knit,
And wholesome meals prepare,
Than, dressed in silk, with servants throng'd,
Lounge in my cushioned chair.

I love to see my chickens grow,
My turkies, ducks, and geese;
I love to tend my flowering plants,
And make the new milk cheese.

I love to wash, I love to sew,
All needful work I like to do;
I like to keep my kitchen neat,
And humble parlor, too.

And when the grateful task is done,
And pleasure claims a share,
With some dear friend I'll walk abroad
And take the balmy air.

Not through the dusty, crowded streets,
Amid the bustling throng,
But in some pleasant cool retreat,
We'll hear the woodland song.

Or trace the winding silver stream,
And linger on its banks,
While all the birds in concert sweet,
Present their evening thanks.

We'll seek the ancient forest shade,
And see its branches wave,
Which have, perchance, a requiem sang
Above the red man's grave.

We'll breathe the pure untainted air,
Fresh from the verdant hills;
And pluck wild blossoms from their beds
Beside the laughing rills.

I love the country in the spring,
With all its waving trees;
When songs of joy from every grove
Are wafted on the breeze.

The smiling pastures robed in green,
How beautiful, and gay;
With bleating flocks, and lowing herds,
And little lambs at play.

I love midst rural scenes to dwell,
In summer's pleasant hours;
And pluck her sweet delicious fruits,
And smell her fragrant flowers.

I love to see the growing corn,
And fields of waving grain;
I love the sunshine, and the shade.
And gentle showers of rain.

I love to see the glitt'ring dew,
Like pendant diamonds, hung
On ev'ry plant, and flower, and tree,
Their glossy leaves among.

I love the joyful harvest months;
When smiling on the plain,
We see rich golden ears of corn,
And bending sheaves of grain.

I love to see the cellar filled
With sauce of various kinds,
Potatoes, beets and onions too,
And squashes from the vines.

I love to see the well filled barn,
And smell the fragrant hay;
I'll milk while brother feeds the lambs,
And see them skip and play.

I love to rise before the sun,
And see his rosy beams
Shine glim'ring through the waving trees,
In quiv'ring fitful gleams.

I love, when nothing intervenes.
The setting sun to spy,
Tinging the clouds with every hue,
Which charms the gazing eye.

I love the country every where,
Here let me spend my life;
No higher shall my thoughts aspire--
I'd be a farmer's wife.[6]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: "Good, Sarah, that's right! If we can find one that
worthy of you, we will send him along."--_Editor_.]

ODE TO SARAH.[7]

Rural maid, who, o'er glade,
Forest, plain, and mountain, roam
In joy and peace, and made
Happy by the brook's gay foam;
Who art content to live
In the farmer's domicil;
A listening ear give
To a stranger, who, with quill
In hand, sits down to write
An epistle, or letter,
To one, of whom it might
Be said, she's far his better.