THE BROKEN PIPE.Comehere, little Willie:Why, what is the trouble?“I ’ve broke my new pipe, ma’—I can’t make a bubble!”Well, do n’t weep for that, child,But brighten your face,And tell how the grievousDisaster took place.“Why, Puss came along;And, said I, ‘Now she ’ll thinkThat white, frothy waterIs milk she may drink.’“So I set it before her,And plunged her mouth in,When up came both paws,And clung fast to my chin.“Then I gave her a blowWith my pipe; and it flewAt once into pieces!O what shall I do?“I can’t make a bubble!I wish naughty KitHad been a mile off:See! there ’s blood on me yet!”I ’m sorry, my boy; yetYour loss is but just;You first deceived Pussy,And trifled with trust.In this, when you failed,You compelled her; and thenceThe wound on your face,From poor Kit’s self-defence.Then, when you grew cruelAnd beat her, you knowYour pipe and yourselfFared the worst for the blow.Let this lesson teach you,Hence never to stoopTo make man, or brute,That may trust you, a dupe.And when you have power,It should not be abused,Oppressing the weaker,Nor strength be misused.For, often, unkindnessReturns whence it came;And ever deceit mustBe followed by shame.Remember this, William,And here end your sorrow;I ’ll buy you a pipe,To blow bubbles, to-morrow.
Comehere, little Willie:Why, what is the trouble?“I ’ve broke my new pipe, ma’—I can’t make a bubble!”Well, do n’t weep for that, child,But brighten your face,And tell how the grievousDisaster took place.“Why, Puss came along;And, said I, ‘Now she ’ll thinkThat white, frothy waterIs milk she may drink.’“So I set it before her,And plunged her mouth in,When up came both paws,And clung fast to my chin.“Then I gave her a blowWith my pipe; and it flewAt once into pieces!O what shall I do?“I can’t make a bubble!I wish naughty KitHad been a mile off:See! there ’s blood on me yet!”I ’m sorry, my boy; yetYour loss is but just;You first deceived Pussy,And trifled with trust.In this, when you failed,You compelled her; and thenceThe wound on your face,From poor Kit’s self-defence.Then, when you grew cruelAnd beat her, you knowYour pipe and yourselfFared the worst for the blow.Let this lesson teach you,Hence never to stoopTo make man, or brute,That may trust you, a dupe.And when you have power,It should not be abused,Oppressing the weaker,Nor strength be misused.For, often, unkindnessReturns whence it came;And ever deceit mustBe followed by shame.Remember this, William,And here end your sorrow;I ’ll buy you a pipe,To blow bubbles, to-morrow.
Comehere, little Willie:Why, what is the trouble?“I ’ve broke my new pipe, ma’—I can’t make a bubble!”
Well, do n’t weep for that, child,But brighten your face,And tell how the grievousDisaster took place.
“Why, Puss came along;And, said I, ‘Now she ’ll thinkThat white, frothy waterIs milk she may drink.’
“So I set it before her,And plunged her mouth in,When up came both paws,And clung fast to my chin.
“Then I gave her a blowWith my pipe; and it flewAt once into pieces!O what shall I do?
“I can’t make a bubble!I wish naughty KitHad been a mile off:See! there ’s blood on me yet!”
I ’m sorry, my boy; yetYour loss is but just;You first deceived Pussy,And trifled with trust.
In this, when you failed,You compelled her; and thenceThe wound on your face,From poor Kit’s self-defence.
Then, when you grew cruelAnd beat her, you knowYour pipe and yourselfFared the worst for the blow.
Let this lesson teach you,Hence never to stoopTo make man, or brute,That may trust you, a dupe.
And when you have power,It should not be abused,Oppressing the weaker,Nor strength be misused.
For, often, unkindnessReturns whence it came;And ever deceit mustBe followed by shame.
Remember this, William,And here end your sorrow;I ’ll buy you a pipe,To blow bubbles, to-morrow.
VIVY VAIN.Miss Vain was all given to dress—Too fond of gay clothing; and so,She ’d gad about townJust to show a new gown,As a train-band their color to show.Her head being empty and light,Whene’er she obtained a new hat,With pride in her air,She ’d go round, here and there,For all whom she knew to see that.Her folly was chiefly in this:More highly she valued fine looks,Than virtue, or truth,Or devoting her youthTo usefulness, friendship, or books.Her passion for show was unchecked;And therefore, it happened one day,Arrayed in bright hues,And with new hat and shoes,Miss Vain walked abroad for display.She took the most populous streets,To cause but aversion in those,Who saw how she ’d prinked,And to bystanders winked,While the boys cried, “Halloo! there she goes!”It chanced, that, in passing one way,She came near a pool, and a greenWith fence close and high;And, as Vivy drew nigh,A donkey stood near it unseen.He put his mouth over its top,The moment she came by his place;And gave a loud brayIn her ear, when, awayShe sprang, shrieked, and fell on her face.She thought she was swallowed alive,Awhile upon earth lying flat;And the terrible soundSeemed to furrow the ground,She embraced in her fine gown and hat.She gathered herself up, and ran,Yet heeded not whither or whence,To flee from the roar,That continued to pourBehind her, from over the fence.In passing a slope near the pool,She slipped and rolled down to its brim;The geese gave a shout,And at length hissed her outOf the bounds, where they ’d gathered to swim.In turning a corner, she metAbruptly, the horns of a cowThat mooed, while the cur,At her heels, turned from her,And aimed at Miss Vain his “bow-wow.”Then Vivy’s bright ribbons and skirt,As she flew, flirted high on the wind;The children at play,Paused to see one so gay,And all in a flutter behind.A group of glad schoolboys came by:Said they, “So it seems, that to-day,Miss Vain carries marksAt which the dog barks,And that make sober Long-Ears to bray.”And when, all bedraggled and pale,Poor Vivy approached her own door,She went, swift and straightAs a dart, through the gate,Abhorring the gay gear she wore.She sat down, and thought of the sceneWith humiliation and tears:The words, and the noiseOf the brutes and the boysWere echoing still in her ears.She reasoned, and came at the cause,Resolving that cause to remove;And thence, her desireWas for modest attire,And her heart and her mind to improve.And soon, all who knew her beforeRemarked on the change and the gainIn mind, and in mien,And in dress, that were seenIn the once flashy Miss Vivy Vain.
Miss Vain was all given to dress—Too fond of gay clothing; and so,She ’d gad about townJust to show a new gown,As a train-band their color to show.Her head being empty and light,Whene’er she obtained a new hat,With pride in her air,She ’d go round, here and there,For all whom she knew to see that.Her folly was chiefly in this:More highly she valued fine looks,Than virtue, or truth,Or devoting her youthTo usefulness, friendship, or books.Her passion for show was unchecked;And therefore, it happened one day,Arrayed in bright hues,And with new hat and shoes,Miss Vain walked abroad for display.She took the most populous streets,To cause but aversion in those,Who saw how she ’d prinked,And to bystanders winked,While the boys cried, “Halloo! there she goes!”It chanced, that, in passing one way,She came near a pool, and a greenWith fence close and high;And, as Vivy drew nigh,A donkey stood near it unseen.He put his mouth over its top,The moment she came by his place;And gave a loud brayIn her ear, when, awayShe sprang, shrieked, and fell on her face.She thought she was swallowed alive,Awhile upon earth lying flat;And the terrible soundSeemed to furrow the ground,She embraced in her fine gown and hat.She gathered herself up, and ran,Yet heeded not whither or whence,To flee from the roar,That continued to pourBehind her, from over the fence.In passing a slope near the pool,She slipped and rolled down to its brim;The geese gave a shout,And at length hissed her outOf the bounds, where they ’d gathered to swim.In turning a corner, she metAbruptly, the horns of a cowThat mooed, while the cur,At her heels, turned from her,And aimed at Miss Vain his “bow-wow.”Then Vivy’s bright ribbons and skirt,As she flew, flirted high on the wind;The children at play,Paused to see one so gay,And all in a flutter behind.A group of glad schoolboys came by:Said they, “So it seems, that to-day,Miss Vain carries marksAt which the dog barks,And that make sober Long-Ears to bray.”And when, all bedraggled and pale,Poor Vivy approached her own door,She went, swift and straightAs a dart, through the gate,Abhorring the gay gear she wore.She sat down, and thought of the sceneWith humiliation and tears:The words, and the noiseOf the brutes and the boysWere echoing still in her ears.She reasoned, and came at the cause,Resolving that cause to remove;And thence, her desireWas for modest attire,And her heart and her mind to improve.And soon, all who knew her beforeRemarked on the change and the gainIn mind, and in mien,And in dress, that were seenIn the once flashy Miss Vivy Vain.
Miss Vain was all given to dress—Too fond of gay clothing; and so,She ’d gad about townJust to show a new gown,As a train-band their color to show.
Her head being empty and light,Whene’er she obtained a new hat,With pride in her air,She ’d go round, here and there,For all whom she knew to see that.
Her folly was chiefly in this:More highly she valued fine looks,Than virtue, or truth,Or devoting her youthTo usefulness, friendship, or books.
Her passion for show was unchecked;And therefore, it happened one day,Arrayed in bright hues,And with new hat and shoes,Miss Vain walked abroad for display.
She took the most populous streets,To cause but aversion in those,Who saw how she ’d prinked,And to bystanders winked,While the boys cried, “Halloo! there she goes!”
It chanced, that, in passing one way,She came near a pool, and a greenWith fence close and high;And, as Vivy drew nigh,A donkey stood near it unseen.
He put his mouth over its top,The moment she came by his place;And gave a loud brayIn her ear, when, awayShe sprang, shrieked, and fell on her face.
She thought she was swallowed alive,Awhile upon earth lying flat;And the terrible soundSeemed to furrow the ground,She embraced in her fine gown and hat.
She gathered herself up, and ran,Yet heeded not whither or whence,To flee from the roar,That continued to pourBehind her, from over the fence.
In passing a slope near the pool,She slipped and rolled down to its brim;The geese gave a shout,And at length hissed her outOf the bounds, where they ’d gathered to swim.
In turning a corner, she metAbruptly, the horns of a cowThat mooed, while the cur,At her heels, turned from her,And aimed at Miss Vain his “bow-wow.”
Then Vivy’s bright ribbons and skirt,As she flew, flirted high on the wind;The children at play,Paused to see one so gay,And all in a flutter behind.
A group of glad schoolboys came by:Said they, “So it seems, that to-day,Miss Vain carries marksAt which the dog barks,And that make sober Long-Ears to bray.”
And when, all bedraggled and pale,Poor Vivy approached her own door,She went, swift and straightAs a dart, through the gate,Abhorring the gay gear she wore.
She sat down, and thought of the sceneWith humiliation and tears:The words, and the noiseOf the brutes and the boysWere echoing still in her ears.
She reasoned, and came at the cause,Resolving that cause to remove;And thence, her desireWas for modest attire,And her heart and her mind to improve.
And soon, all who knew her beforeRemarked on the change and the gainIn mind, and in mien,And in dress, that were seenIn the once flashy Miss Vivy Vain.
THE MOCKING BIRD.A MockingBird was he,In a bushy, blooming tree,Imbosomed by the foliage and flower.And there he sat and sang,Till all around him rang,With sounds, from out the merry mimic’s bower.The little satiristPiped, chattered, shrieked, and hissed;He then would moan, and whistle, quack, and caw;Then, carol, drawl, and croak,As if he ’d pass a jokeOn every other winged one he saw.Together he would catchA gay and plaintive snatch,And mingle notes of half the feathered throng.For well the mocker knew,Of every thing that flew,To imitate the manner and the song.The other birds drew near,And paused awhile to hearHow well he gave their voices and their airs.And some became amused;While some, disturbed, refusedTo own the sounds that others said were theirs.The sensitive were shocked,To find their honors mockedBy one so pert and voluble as he;They knew not if ’t was doneIn earnest or in fun;And fluttered off in silence from the tree.The silliest grew vain,To think a song or strainOf theirs, however weak, or loud, or hoarse,Was worthy to be heardRepeated by the bird;For of his wit they could not feel the force.The charitable said,“Poor fellow! if his headIs turned, or cracked, or has no talent left;But feels the want of powers,And plumes itself from ours,Why, we shall not be losers by the theft.”The haughty said, “He thus,It seems, would mimic us,And steal our songs, to pass them for his own!But if he only quotesIn honor of our notes,We then were quite as honored, let alone.”The wisest said, “If foe,Or friend, we still may knowBy him, wherein our greatest failing lies.So, let us not be moved,Since first to be improvedBy every thing, becomes the truly wise.”
A MockingBird was he,In a bushy, blooming tree,Imbosomed by the foliage and flower.And there he sat and sang,Till all around him rang,With sounds, from out the merry mimic’s bower.The little satiristPiped, chattered, shrieked, and hissed;He then would moan, and whistle, quack, and caw;Then, carol, drawl, and croak,As if he ’d pass a jokeOn every other winged one he saw.Together he would catchA gay and plaintive snatch,And mingle notes of half the feathered throng.For well the mocker knew,Of every thing that flew,To imitate the manner and the song.The other birds drew near,And paused awhile to hearHow well he gave their voices and their airs.And some became amused;While some, disturbed, refusedTo own the sounds that others said were theirs.The sensitive were shocked,To find their honors mockedBy one so pert and voluble as he;They knew not if ’t was doneIn earnest or in fun;And fluttered off in silence from the tree.The silliest grew vain,To think a song or strainOf theirs, however weak, or loud, or hoarse,Was worthy to be heardRepeated by the bird;For of his wit they could not feel the force.The charitable said,“Poor fellow! if his headIs turned, or cracked, or has no talent left;But feels the want of powers,And plumes itself from ours,Why, we shall not be losers by the theft.”The haughty said, “He thus,It seems, would mimic us,And steal our songs, to pass them for his own!But if he only quotesIn honor of our notes,We then were quite as honored, let alone.”The wisest said, “If foe,Or friend, we still may knowBy him, wherein our greatest failing lies.So, let us not be moved,Since first to be improvedBy every thing, becomes the truly wise.”
A MockingBird was he,In a bushy, blooming tree,Imbosomed by the foliage and flower.And there he sat and sang,Till all around him rang,With sounds, from out the merry mimic’s bower.
The little satiristPiped, chattered, shrieked, and hissed;He then would moan, and whistle, quack, and caw;Then, carol, drawl, and croak,As if he ’d pass a jokeOn every other winged one he saw.
Together he would catchA gay and plaintive snatch,And mingle notes of half the feathered throng.For well the mocker knew,Of every thing that flew,To imitate the manner and the song.
The other birds drew near,And paused awhile to hearHow well he gave their voices and their airs.And some became amused;While some, disturbed, refusedTo own the sounds that others said were theirs.
The sensitive were shocked,To find their honors mockedBy one so pert and voluble as he;They knew not if ’t was doneIn earnest or in fun;And fluttered off in silence from the tree.
The silliest grew vain,To think a song or strainOf theirs, however weak, or loud, or hoarse,Was worthy to be heardRepeated by the bird;For of his wit they could not feel the force.
The charitable said,“Poor fellow! if his headIs turned, or cracked, or has no talent left;But feels the want of powers,And plumes itself from ours,Why, we shall not be losers by the theft.”
The haughty said, “He thus,It seems, would mimic us,And steal our songs, to pass them for his own!But if he only quotesIn honor of our notes,We then were quite as honored, let alone.”
The wisest said, “If foe,Or friend, we still may knowBy him, wherein our greatest failing lies.So, let us not be moved,Since first to be improvedBy every thing, becomes the truly wise.”
THE BIRD’S HOME.O whereis thy home, sweet bird,With the song, and the bright, glossy plume?“I ’ll tell thee where I rest,If thou wilt not rob my nest;—I built among the sweet apple bloom.”But what ’s in thy nest, bright bird?What ’s there, in the snug, downy cell?“If thou wilt not rob the tree;Nor go too near, to seeMy quiet little home, I will tell.”O! I will not thy trust betray,But closely thy secret I will keep.“I ’ve three little tender things,That have never used their wings!I left them there, at home, fast asleep.”Then, why art thou here, my bird,Away from thy young, helpless brood?“To pay thee with a song,Just to let me pass along,Nor harm me, as I look for their food!”
O whereis thy home, sweet bird,With the song, and the bright, glossy plume?“I ’ll tell thee where I rest,If thou wilt not rob my nest;—I built among the sweet apple bloom.”But what ’s in thy nest, bright bird?What ’s there, in the snug, downy cell?“If thou wilt not rob the tree;Nor go too near, to seeMy quiet little home, I will tell.”O! I will not thy trust betray,But closely thy secret I will keep.“I ’ve three little tender things,That have never used their wings!I left them there, at home, fast asleep.”Then, why art thou here, my bird,Away from thy young, helpless brood?“To pay thee with a song,Just to let me pass along,Nor harm me, as I look for their food!”
O whereis thy home, sweet bird,With the song, and the bright, glossy plume?“I ’ll tell thee where I rest,If thou wilt not rob my nest;—I built among the sweet apple bloom.”
But what ’s in thy nest, bright bird?What ’s there, in the snug, downy cell?“If thou wilt not rob the tree;Nor go too near, to seeMy quiet little home, I will tell.”
O! I will not thy trust betray,But closely thy secret I will keep.“I ’ve three little tender things,That have never used their wings!I left them there, at home, fast asleep.”
Then, why art thou here, my bird,Away from thy young, helpless brood?“To pay thee with a song,Just to let me pass along,Nor harm me, as I look for their food!”
THE BIRD UNCAGED.Sheopened the cage, and away there flewA bright little bird, as a short adieuIt hastily whistled, and passed the door,And felt that its sorrowful hours were o’er.An anthem of freedom it seemed to sing;To utter its joy for an outspread wing,—That now it could sport in the boundless air,And might go any and every where.And Anna rejoiced in her bird’s delight;But her eye was wet, as she marked its flight;Till, this was the song that she seemed to hear;And, merrily warbled, it dried the tear:“I had a mistress, and she was kind,In all, but keeping her bird confined;She ministered food and drink to me,But, O I was pining for liberty!“My fluttering bosom she loved to smooth;While the heart within it, she could not soothe:I sickened and longed for the wildwood breeze,My feathery kindred, and fresh green trees.“A prisoner there, with a useless wing,I looked with sorrow on every thing;I lost my voice, and forgot my song,And mourned in silence, the whole day long.“But I will go back, with a mellower pipe,And sing, when the cherries are round and ripe;On the topmost bough, as I lock my feet,To help myself, in my leafy seat.“My merriest notes shall there be heard,To draw her eye to her franchised bird;The burden, then, of my song shall be,‘Earth for the wingless! but air for me!’”
Sheopened the cage, and away there flewA bright little bird, as a short adieuIt hastily whistled, and passed the door,And felt that its sorrowful hours were o’er.An anthem of freedom it seemed to sing;To utter its joy for an outspread wing,—That now it could sport in the boundless air,And might go any and every where.And Anna rejoiced in her bird’s delight;But her eye was wet, as she marked its flight;Till, this was the song that she seemed to hear;And, merrily warbled, it dried the tear:“I had a mistress, and she was kind,In all, but keeping her bird confined;She ministered food and drink to me,But, O I was pining for liberty!“My fluttering bosom she loved to smooth;While the heart within it, she could not soothe:I sickened and longed for the wildwood breeze,My feathery kindred, and fresh green trees.“A prisoner there, with a useless wing,I looked with sorrow on every thing;I lost my voice, and forgot my song,And mourned in silence, the whole day long.“But I will go back, with a mellower pipe,And sing, when the cherries are round and ripe;On the topmost bough, as I lock my feet,To help myself, in my leafy seat.“My merriest notes shall there be heard,To draw her eye to her franchised bird;The burden, then, of my song shall be,‘Earth for the wingless! but air for me!’”
Sheopened the cage, and away there flewA bright little bird, as a short adieuIt hastily whistled, and passed the door,And felt that its sorrowful hours were o’er.
An anthem of freedom it seemed to sing;To utter its joy for an outspread wing,—That now it could sport in the boundless air,And might go any and every where.
And Anna rejoiced in her bird’s delight;But her eye was wet, as she marked its flight;Till, this was the song that she seemed to hear;And, merrily warbled, it dried the tear:
“I had a mistress, and she was kind,In all, but keeping her bird confined;She ministered food and drink to me,But, O I was pining for liberty!
“My fluttering bosom she loved to smooth;While the heart within it, she could not soothe:I sickened and longed for the wildwood breeze,My feathery kindred, and fresh green trees.
“A prisoner there, with a useless wing,I looked with sorrow on every thing;I lost my voice, and forgot my song,And mourned in silence, the whole day long.
“But I will go back, with a mellower pipe,And sing, when the cherries are round and ripe;On the topmost bough, as I lock my feet,To help myself, in my leafy seat.
“My merriest notes shall there be heard,To draw her eye to her franchised bird;The burden, then, of my song shall be,‘Earth for the wingless! but air for me!’”
DAME BIDDY.Dame Biddyabode in a coop,Because it so chanced, that dame BiddyHad round her a family groupOf chicks, young, and helpless and giddy.And when she had freedom to roam,She fancied the life of a ranger;And led off her brood, far from home,To fall into mischief or danger.She ’d trail through the grass to be mown,And call all her children to follow;And scratch up the seeds that were sown,Then, lie in their places and wallow.She ’d go where the corn in the hill,Its first little blade had been shooting,And try, by the strength of her bill,To learn if the kernel was rooting.And when she went out on a walkOf pleasure, through thicket and brambles,The covetous eye of a hawkDelighted in marking her rambles.“I spy,” to himself he would say,“A prize of which I ’ll be the winner!”So down would he pounce on his prey,And bear off a chicken for dinner.The poor frighted matron, that heardThe cry of her youngling in dying,Would scream at the merciless bird,That high with his booty was flying.But shrieks could not ease her distress,Nor grief her lost darling recover.She now had a chicken the less,For acting the part of a rover.And there lay the feathers, all torn,And flying one way and another,That still her dear child might have worn,Had she been more wise as a mother.Her owner then thought he must teachDame Biddy a little subjection;And cooped her up, out of the reachOf hawking, with time for reflection.And, throwing a net o’er a pileOf brush-wood that near her was lying,He hoped to its meshes to wileThe fowler, that o’er her was flying.For Hawk, not forgetting his fare,And having a taste to renew it,Sailed round near the coop, high in air,With cruel intention, to view it.The owner then said, “Master Hawk,If you love my chickens so dearly,Come down to my yard for a walk,That you may address them more nearly.”But, “No,” thought the sharp-taloned foeOf Biddy, “my circuit is higher!If I to his premises go,’T will be when I see he ’s not nigh her.”The Farmer strewed barley, and toledThe chickens the brush to run under,And left them, while Hawk growing bold,Thus tempted, came near for his plunder.As closer and closer he drew,With appetite stronger and stronger,He found he ’d but one thing to do,And plunged, to defer it no longer.But now had he come to a pause,At once in the net-work entangled,While through it his head and his clawsIn hopeless vacuity dangled.The chicks saw him hang overhead,Where they for their barley had huddled;And all in a flutter they fled,And soon through the coop holes had scuddled.The farmer came out to his snare.He saw the bold captive was in it;And said, “If this play be unfair,Remember, I did not begin it!”He then put a cork on his beak,The airy assassin disarming,Unspurred him, and rendered him weak,By blunting each talent for harming.And into the coop he was thrown:The chickens hid under their mother,For he, by his feathers was knownAs he, who had murdered their brother.Dame Biddy, beholding his plight,Determined to show him no quarter,In action gave vent to her spite;As motherly tenderness taught her.She shouted, and blustered; and thenAttacked the poor captive unfriended;And you, (who have witnessed a henIn anger,) may guess how it ended.She made him a touching address,If pecking and scratching could do it,Till, sinking in silent distress,He perished before she got through it.We would not, however, conveyA thought like approving the fury,That gave, in this summary way,Punition, without judge or jury.Whenever thus given, it tendsTo lessen the angry bestower;Thefowlthat inflicts it, descends—Thefeatherlessbiped, still lower.
Dame Biddyabode in a coop,Because it so chanced, that dame BiddyHad round her a family groupOf chicks, young, and helpless and giddy.And when she had freedom to roam,She fancied the life of a ranger;And led off her brood, far from home,To fall into mischief or danger.She ’d trail through the grass to be mown,And call all her children to follow;And scratch up the seeds that were sown,Then, lie in their places and wallow.She ’d go where the corn in the hill,Its first little blade had been shooting,And try, by the strength of her bill,To learn if the kernel was rooting.And when she went out on a walkOf pleasure, through thicket and brambles,The covetous eye of a hawkDelighted in marking her rambles.“I spy,” to himself he would say,“A prize of which I ’ll be the winner!”So down would he pounce on his prey,And bear off a chicken for dinner.The poor frighted matron, that heardThe cry of her youngling in dying,Would scream at the merciless bird,That high with his booty was flying.But shrieks could not ease her distress,Nor grief her lost darling recover.She now had a chicken the less,For acting the part of a rover.And there lay the feathers, all torn,And flying one way and another,That still her dear child might have worn,Had she been more wise as a mother.Her owner then thought he must teachDame Biddy a little subjection;And cooped her up, out of the reachOf hawking, with time for reflection.And, throwing a net o’er a pileOf brush-wood that near her was lying,He hoped to its meshes to wileThe fowler, that o’er her was flying.For Hawk, not forgetting his fare,And having a taste to renew it,Sailed round near the coop, high in air,With cruel intention, to view it.The owner then said, “Master Hawk,If you love my chickens so dearly,Come down to my yard for a walk,That you may address them more nearly.”But, “No,” thought the sharp-taloned foeOf Biddy, “my circuit is higher!If I to his premises go,’T will be when I see he ’s not nigh her.”The Farmer strewed barley, and toledThe chickens the brush to run under,And left them, while Hawk growing bold,Thus tempted, came near for his plunder.As closer and closer he drew,With appetite stronger and stronger,He found he ’d but one thing to do,And plunged, to defer it no longer.But now had he come to a pause,At once in the net-work entangled,While through it his head and his clawsIn hopeless vacuity dangled.The chicks saw him hang overhead,Where they for their barley had huddled;And all in a flutter they fled,And soon through the coop holes had scuddled.The farmer came out to his snare.He saw the bold captive was in it;And said, “If this play be unfair,Remember, I did not begin it!”He then put a cork on his beak,The airy assassin disarming,Unspurred him, and rendered him weak,By blunting each talent for harming.And into the coop he was thrown:The chickens hid under their mother,For he, by his feathers was knownAs he, who had murdered their brother.Dame Biddy, beholding his plight,Determined to show him no quarter,In action gave vent to her spite;As motherly tenderness taught her.She shouted, and blustered; and thenAttacked the poor captive unfriended;And you, (who have witnessed a henIn anger,) may guess how it ended.She made him a touching address,If pecking and scratching could do it,Till, sinking in silent distress,He perished before she got through it.We would not, however, conveyA thought like approving the fury,That gave, in this summary way,Punition, without judge or jury.Whenever thus given, it tendsTo lessen the angry bestower;Thefowlthat inflicts it, descends—Thefeatherlessbiped, still lower.
Dame Biddyabode in a coop,Because it so chanced, that dame BiddyHad round her a family groupOf chicks, young, and helpless and giddy.
And when she had freedom to roam,She fancied the life of a ranger;And led off her brood, far from home,To fall into mischief or danger.
She ’d trail through the grass to be mown,And call all her children to follow;And scratch up the seeds that were sown,Then, lie in their places and wallow.
She ’d go where the corn in the hill,Its first little blade had been shooting,And try, by the strength of her bill,To learn if the kernel was rooting.
And when she went out on a walkOf pleasure, through thicket and brambles,The covetous eye of a hawkDelighted in marking her rambles.
“I spy,” to himself he would say,“A prize of which I ’ll be the winner!”So down would he pounce on his prey,And bear off a chicken for dinner.
The poor frighted matron, that heardThe cry of her youngling in dying,Would scream at the merciless bird,That high with his booty was flying.
But shrieks could not ease her distress,Nor grief her lost darling recover.She now had a chicken the less,For acting the part of a rover.
And there lay the feathers, all torn,And flying one way and another,That still her dear child might have worn,Had she been more wise as a mother.
Her owner then thought he must teachDame Biddy a little subjection;And cooped her up, out of the reachOf hawking, with time for reflection.
And, throwing a net o’er a pileOf brush-wood that near her was lying,He hoped to its meshes to wileThe fowler, that o’er her was flying.
For Hawk, not forgetting his fare,And having a taste to renew it,Sailed round near the coop, high in air,With cruel intention, to view it.
The owner then said, “Master Hawk,If you love my chickens so dearly,Come down to my yard for a walk,That you may address them more nearly.”
But, “No,” thought the sharp-taloned foeOf Biddy, “my circuit is higher!If I to his premises go,’T will be when I see he ’s not nigh her.”
The Farmer strewed barley, and toledThe chickens the brush to run under,And left them, while Hawk growing bold,Thus tempted, came near for his plunder.
As closer and closer he drew,With appetite stronger and stronger,He found he ’d but one thing to do,And plunged, to defer it no longer.
But now had he come to a pause,At once in the net-work entangled,While through it his head and his clawsIn hopeless vacuity dangled.
The chicks saw him hang overhead,Where they for their barley had huddled;And all in a flutter they fled,And soon through the coop holes had scuddled.
The farmer came out to his snare.He saw the bold captive was in it;And said, “If this play be unfair,Remember, I did not begin it!”
He then put a cork on his beak,The airy assassin disarming,Unspurred him, and rendered him weak,By blunting each talent for harming.
And into the coop he was thrown:The chickens hid under their mother,For he, by his feathers was knownAs he, who had murdered their brother.
Dame Biddy, beholding his plight,Determined to show him no quarter,In action gave vent to her spite;As motherly tenderness taught her.
She shouted, and blustered; and thenAttacked the poor captive unfriended;And you, (who have witnessed a henIn anger,) may guess how it ended.
She made him a touching address,If pecking and scratching could do it,Till, sinking in silent distress,He perished before she got through it.
We would not, however, conveyA thought like approving the fury,That gave, in this summary way,Punition, without judge or jury.
Whenever thus given, it tendsTo lessen the angry bestower;Thefowlthat inflicts it, descends—Thefeatherlessbiped, still lower.
THE ENVIOUS LOBSTER.A Lobsterfrom the water came,And saw another, just the sameIn form and size; but gayly cladIn scarlet clothing; while she hadNo other raiment to her backThan her old suit of greenish black.“So ho!” she cried, “’t is very fine!Your dress was yesterday like mine;And in the mud below the sea,You lived, a crawling thing, like me.But now, because you ’ve come ashore,You ’ve grown so proud, that what you wore—Your strong old suit of bottle-green,You think improper to be seen.To tell the truth, I don ’t see whyYou should be better dressed than I.And I should like a suit of redAs bright as yours, from feet to head.I think I’ m quite as good as you,And might be clothed in scarlet, too.”“Will you be boiled?” her owner said,“To be arrayed in glowing red?Come here, my discontented miss,And hear the scalding kettle hiss!Will you go in, and there be boiled,To have your dress, so old and soiled,Exchanged for one of scarlet hue?”“Yes,” cried the lobster, “that I ’ll do,And twice as much, if needs must be,To be as gayly clad as she.”Then, in she made a fatal dive,And never more was seen alive!Now, if you ever chance to knowOf one as fond of dress and showAs that vain lobster, and withalAs envious, you ’ll perhaps recallTo mind her folly, and the plightIn which she reappeared to sight.She had obtained a bright array,But for it, thrown herself away!Her life and death were best untold,But for the moral they unfold!
A Lobsterfrom the water came,And saw another, just the sameIn form and size; but gayly cladIn scarlet clothing; while she hadNo other raiment to her backThan her old suit of greenish black.“So ho!” she cried, “’t is very fine!Your dress was yesterday like mine;And in the mud below the sea,You lived, a crawling thing, like me.But now, because you ’ve come ashore,You ’ve grown so proud, that what you wore—Your strong old suit of bottle-green,You think improper to be seen.To tell the truth, I don ’t see whyYou should be better dressed than I.And I should like a suit of redAs bright as yours, from feet to head.I think I’ m quite as good as you,And might be clothed in scarlet, too.”“Will you be boiled?” her owner said,“To be arrayed in glowing red?Come here, my discontented miss,And hear the scalding kettle hiss!Will you go in, and there be boiled,To have your dress, so old and soiled,Exchanged for one of scarlet hue?”“Yes,” cried the lobster, “that I ’ll do,And twice as much, if needs must be,To be as gayly clad as she.”Then, in she made a fatal dive,And never more was seen alive!Now, if you ever chance to knowOf one as fond of dress and showAs that vain lobster, and withalAs envious, you ’ll perhaps recallTo mind her folly, and the plightIn which she reappeared to sight.She had obtained a bright array,But for it, thrown herself away!Her life and death were best untold,But for the moral they unfold!
A Lobsterfrom the water came,And saw another, just the sameIn form and size; but gayly cladIn scarlet clothing; while she hadNo other raiment to her backThan her old suit of greenish black.
“So ho!” she cried, “’t is very fine!Your dress was yesterday like mine;And in the mud below the sea,You lived, a crawling thing, like me.But now, because you ’ve come ashore,You ’ve grown so proud, that what you wore—Your strong old suit of bottle-green,You think improper to be seen.To tell the truth, I don ’t see whyYou should be better dressed than I.And I should like a suit of redAs bright as yours, from feet to head.I think I’ m quite as good as you,And might be clothed in scarlet, too.”
“Will you be boiled?” her owner said,“To be arrayed in glowing red?Come here, my discontented miss,And hear the scalding kettle hiss!Will you go in, and there be boiled,To have your dress, so old and soiled,Exchanged for one of scarlet hue?”“Yes,” cried the lobster, “that I ’ll do,And twice as much, if needs must be,To be as gayly clad as she.”Then, in she made a fatal dive,And never more was seen alive!
Now, if you ever chance to knowOf one as fond of dress and showAs that vain lobster, and withalAs envious, you ’ll perhaps recallTo mind her folly, and the plightIn which she reappeared to sight.She had obtained a bright array,But for it, thrown herself away!Her life and death were best untold,But for the moral they unfold!
KIT WITH THE ROSE.A rose treestood in the parlor,When kit came frolicking by;So up went her feet on the window-seat,To a rose, that had caught her eye.She gave it a cuff, and it trembledBeneath her ominous paw;And while it shook, with a threatening lookShe coveted what she saw.Thought she, “What a beautiful toss-ball,If I could but give it a snap,Now all are out, nor thinking aboutTheir rose, or the least mishap!”She twisted the stem, and she twirled it;And, seizing the flower it boreWith the timely aid of her teeth, she madeA leap to the parlor floor.And over the carpet she tossed it,All fresh in its morning bloom,Till shattered and rent, its leaves were sentTo every side of the room.At length, with her sport grown weary,She laid herself down to sun,Inclining to doze, forgetting the roseAnd the mischief she had done.By and by her young mistress entered,And uttered a piteous cry,When she saw the fate of what had so lateDelighted her watchful eye.But where was the one, who had spoiled it,Concealing his guilty face?She had not a clue whereby to pursueThe rogue to his lurking-place.Thought kit, “I ’ll keep still till ’t is over,And none will suspect it was I.”For the puss awoke, when her mistress spoke,And she well understood the cry.But, mewing at length for her dinner,Kit’s mouth confessed the whole truth:It opened so wide, that her mistress spiedA rose-leaf pierced by her tooth.Then kit was expelled from the parlorAll covered with shame. And thoseInclined, like her, in secret to err,Should remember kit with the rose.
A rose treestood in the parlor,When kit came frolicking by;So up went her feet on the window-seat,To a rose, that had caught her eye.She gave it a cuff, and it trembledBeneath her ominous paw;And while it shook, with a threatening lookShe coveted what she saw.Thought she, “What a beautiful toss-ball,If I could but give it a snap,Now all are out, nor thinking aboutTheir rose, or the least mishap!”She twisted the stem, and she twirled it;And, seizing the flower it boreWith the timely aid of her teeth, she madeA leap to the parlor floor.And over the carpet she tossed it,All fresh in its morning bloom,Till shattered and rent, its leaves were sentTo every side of the room.At length, with her sport grown weary,She laid herself down to sun,Inclining to doze, forgetting the roseAnd the mischief she had done.By and by her young mistress entered,And uttered a piteous cry,When she saw the fate of what had so lateDelighted her watchful eye.But where was the one, who had spoiled it,Concealing his guilty face?She had not a clue whereby to pursueThe rogue to his lurking-place.Thought kit, “I ’ll keep still till ’t is over,And none will suspect it was I.”For the puss awoke, when her mistress spoke,And she well understood the cry.But, mewing at length for her dinner,Kit’s mouth confessed the whole truth:It opened so wide, that her mistress spiedA rose-leaf pierced by her tooth.Then kit was expelled from the parlorAll covered with shame. And thoseInclined, like her, in secret to err,Should remember kit with the rose.
A rose treestood in the parlor,When kit came frolicking by;So up went her feet on the window-seat,To a rose, that had caught her eye.
She gave it a cuff, and it trembledBeneath her ominous paw;And while it shook, with a threatening lookShe coveted what she saw.
Thought she, “What a beautiful toss-ball,If I could but give it a snap,Now all are out, nor thinking aboutTheir rose, or the least mishap!”
She twisted the stem, and she twirled it;And, seizing the flower it boreWith the timely aid of her teeth, she madeA leap to the parlor floor.
And over the carpet she tossed it,All fresh in its morning bloom,Till shattered and rent, its leaves were sentTo every side of the room.
At length, with her sport grown weary,She laid herself down to sun,Inclining to doze, forgetting the roseAnd the mischief she had done.
By and by her young mistress entered,And uttered a piteous cry,When she saw the fate of what had so lateDelighted her watchful eye.
But where was the one, who had spoiled it,Concealing his guilty face?She had not a clue whereby to pursueThe rogue to his lurking-place.
Thought kit, “I ’ll keep still till ’t is over,And none will suspect it was I.”For the puss awoke, when her mistress spoke,And she well understood the cry.
But, mewing at length for her dinner,Kit’s mouth confessed the whole truth:It opened so wide, that her mistress spiedA rose-leaf pierced by her tooth.
Then kit was expelled from the parlorAll covered with shame. And thoseInclined, like her, in secret to err,Should remember kit with the rose.
THE STORM IN THE FOREST.Thestorm in the forest is rending and sweeping;While tree after tree bows its stately green head;The flowerets beneath them are bending and weeping;And leaves, torn and trembling, all round them are spread.The bird that had roamed, till she thinks her benighted,Dismayed, hastens back to her home in the wood;And flags not a wing, till her bosom, affrighted,Has laid its warm down o’er her own little brood.And they, since that fond one so quickly has found them,To shelter their heads from the rain and the blast,Shall fearless repose, while the bolts burst around them;And lie calm and safe, till the darkness is past.Hast thou, too, not felt, when the tempest was drearest,And rending thy covert, or shaking thy rest,Thine own blessed angel that moment the nearest—Thy screen in his pinion—thy shield in his breast?When clouds frowned the darkest, and perils beset thee,Till each prop of earth seemed to bend, or to break,Did e’er thy good angel turn off, and forget thee?The mother her little ones, then, may forsake!Ah, no! thou shalt feel thy protector the surer—The sun, in returning, more cheering and warm;And all things around thee, seem fresher and purer,And touched with new glory, because of the storm!
Thestorm in the forest is rending and sweeping;While tree after tree bows its stately green head;The flowerets beneath them are bending and weeping;And leaves, torn and trembling, all round them are spread.The bird that had roamed, till she thinks her benighted,Dismayed, hastens back to her home in the wood;And flags not a wing, till her bosom, affrighted,Has laid its warm down o’er her own little brood.And they, since that fond one so quickly has found them,To shelter their heads from the rain and the blast,Shall fearless repose, while the bolts burst around them;And lie calm and safe, till the darkness is past.Hast thou, too, not felt, when the tempest was drearest,And rending thy covert, or shaking thy rest,Thine own blessed angel that moment the nearest—Thy screen in his pinion—thy shield in his breast?When clouds frowned the darkest, and perils beset thee,Till each prop of earth seemed to bend, or to break,Did e’er thy good angel turn off, and forget thee?The mother her little ones, then, may forsake!Ah, no! thou shalt feel thy protector the surer—The sun, in returning, more cheering and warm;And all things around thee, seem fresher and purer,And touched with new glory, because of the storm!
Thestorm in the forest is rending and sweeping;While tree after tree bows its stately green head;The flowerets beneath them are bending and weeping;And leaves, torn and trembling, all round them are spread.
The bird that had roamed, till she thinks her benighted,Dismayed, hastens back to her home in the wood;And flags not a wing, till her bosom, affrighted,Has laid its warm down o’er her own little brood.
And they, since that fond one so quickly has found them,To shelter their heads from the rain and the blast,Shall fearless repose, while the bolts burst around them;And lie calm and safe, till the darkness is past.
Hast thou, too, not felt, when the tempest was drearest,And rending thy covert, or shaking thy rest,Thine own blessed angel that moment the nearest—Thy screen in his pinion—thy shield in his breast?
When clouds frowned the darkest, and perils beset thee,Till each prop of earth seemed to bend, or to break,Did e’er thy good angel turn off, and forget thee?The mother her little ones, then, may forsake!
Ah, no! thou shalt feel thy protector the surer—The sun, in returning, more cheering and warm;And all things around thee, seem fresher and purer,And touched with new glory, because of the storm!
THE UPROOTED ELM.Alas! alas! my good old tree,A fatal change is past on thee!And now thine aged form I see,All helpless, lying low:The rending tempest, in its flight’Mid darkness of the wintry night,Hath struck thee, passing in its might,And felled thee at a blow.And never more the blooming springShall to thy boughs rich verdure bring,Or her gay birds, to flit and singWhere their first plumage grew;For thou, so long, so fondly madeMy eye’s delight, my summer shade,Here, as a lifeless king, art laidIn state, for all to view.Thy noble trunk and reverend head,Defined on that cold, snow-white bed,And those old arms, so widely spread,Thy hopelessness declare:Thy roots, in earth concealed so long—That struck so deep, with hold so strong,Upturned with many a broken prong,Are quivering high in air.But yester-eve I saw thee stand,With lofty front, with aspect grand,Where thou hadst braved the ruthless handOf time, and spread, and towered;And stood the rain, the hail, the blast,Till more than hundred years had passed:To fall so suddenly at last,Forever overpowered!Yet, while I sadly ponder o’erWhat now thou art, and wast before,Were sighs to rise, and tears to pour,Like summer winds and rain;Not all the sighs and drops of griefCould bring to thee one bud or leaf;Thou liest so like a stricken chief,By one swift arrow slain.But may’st thou prove an emblem trueOf what the spoiler’s hand shall doWith one, who pensive here would viewA shadowy type in thee!Let not the conqueror piecemeal slay,With power by power in slow decay;But strike, and all in ashes lay!Farewell, my good old tree!
Alas! alas! my good old tree,A fatal change is past on thee!And now thine aged form I see,All helpless, lying low:The rending tempest, in its flight’Mid darkness of the wintry night,Hath struck thee, passing in its might,And felled thee at a blow.And never more the blooming springShall to thy boughs rich verdure bring,Or her gay birds, to flit and singWhere their first plumage grew;For thou, so long, so fondly madeMy eye’s delight, my summer shade,Here, as a lifeless king, art laidIn state, for all to view.Thy noble trunk and reverend head,Defined on that cold, snow-white bed,And those old arms, so widely spread,Thy hopelessness declare:Thy roots, in earth concealed so long—That struck so deep, with hold so strong,Upturned with many a broken prong,Are quivering high in air.But yester-eve I saw thee stand,With lofty front, with aspect grand,Where thou hadst braved the ruthless handOf time, and spread, and towered;And stood the rain, the hail, the blast,Till more than hundred years had passed:To fall so suddenly at last,Forever overpowered!Yet, while I sadly ponder o’erWhat now thou art, and wast before,Were sighs to rise, and tears to pour,Like summer winds and rain;Not all the sighs and drops of griefCould bring to thee one bud or leaf;Thou liest so like a stricken chief,By one swift arrow slain.But may’st thou prove an emblem trueOf what the spoiler’s hand shall doWith one, who pensive here would viewA shadowy type in thee!Let not the conqueror piecemeal slay,With power by power in slow decay;But strike, and all in ashes lay!Farewell, my good old tree!
Alas! alas! my good old tree,A fatal change is past on thee!And now thine aged form I see,All helpless, lying low:The rending tempest, in its flight’Mid darkness of the wintry night,Hath struck thee, passing in its might,And felled thee at a blow.
And never more the blooming springShall to thy boughs rich verdure bring,Or her gay birds, to flit and singWhere their first plumage grew;For thou, so long, so fondly madeMy eye’s delight, my summer shade,Here, as a lifeless king, art laidIn state, for all to view.
Thy noble trunk and reverend head,Defined on that cold, snow-white bed,And those old arms, so widely spread,Thy hopelessness declare:Thy roots, in earth concealed so long—That struck so deep, with hold so strong,Upturned with many a broken prong,Are quivering high in air.
But yester-eve I saw thee stand,With lofty front, with aspect grand,Where thou hadst braved the ruthless handOf time, and spread, and towered;And stood the rain, the hail, the blast,Till more than hundred years had passed:To fall so suddenly at last,Forever overpowered!
Yet, while I sadly ponder o’erWhat now thou art, and wast before,Were sighs to rise, and tears to pour,Like summer winds and rain;Not all the sighs and drops of griefCould bring to thee one bud or leaf;Thou liest so like a stricken chief,By one swift arrow slain.
But may’st thou prove an emblem trueOf what the spoiler’s hand shall doWith one, who pensive here would viewA shadowy type in thee!Let not the conqueror piecemeal slay,With power by power in slow decay;But strike, and all in ashes lay!Farewell, my good old tree!
THROUGH THE CLOUDS.Throughthe clouds that veil the sky,Come, O sun, and sweetly smile!Show thy glory to mine eye,So my heart may beam the while.Come, and chase this day of night,For the world is sadly dim.To thy blessed face of lightLet my spirit sing her hymn.Now, in silence and alone,I, to pass the heavy hour,Sit and fancy nature’s moanAfter thy reviving power.Blasts of wildered, wandering air,Asking where thy face can be,Chill and cheerless, every where,Sighing, wailing, seek for thee.Mourning o’er the earth is spread;Bud and flower look pale with grief.Sick, the plant has hung its head;Dulness weighs on every leaf.Not a bird is heard to sing.Reft of thine inspiring ray.As a lyre of every string,Each from sight is hid away.Sable clouds, that veil the blueOf the skies, their shadows throwHere, until their sombre hueGives a cast to all below.Come, O sun, and through the gloomLet thy beaming vesture fall!Bringing music, joy and bloom,Spread thy mantle o’er us all.What were there on earth to love—What were beauteous, bright, or dear,Wert thou not so true above,And thy holy influence here?
Throughthe clouds that veil the sky,Come, O sun, and sweetly smile!Show thy glory to mine eye,So my heart may beam the while.Come, and chase this day of night,For the world is sadly dim.To thy blessed face of lightLet my spirit sing her hymn.Now, in silence and alone,I, to pass the heavy hour,Sit and fancy nature’s moanAfter thy reviving power.Blasts of wildered, wandering air,Asking where thy face can be,Chill and cheerless, every where,Sighing, wailing, seek for thee.Mourning o’er the earth is spread;Bud and flower look pale with grief.Sick, the plant has hung its head;Dulness weighs on every leaf.Not a bird is heard to sing.Reft of thine inspiring ray.As a lyre of every string,Each from sight is hid away.Sable clouds, that veil the blueOf the skies, their shadows throwHere, until their sombre hueGives a cast to all below.Come, O sun, and through the gloomLet thy beaming vesture fall!Bringing music, joy and bloom,Spread thy mantle o’er us all.What were there on earth to love—What were beauteous, bright, or dear,Wert thou not so true above,And thy holy influence here?
Throughthe clouds that veil the sky,Come, O sun, and sweetly smile!Show thy glory to mine eye,So my heart may beam the while.
Come, and chase this day of night,For the world is sadly dim.To thy blessed face of lightLet my spirit sing her hymn.
Now, in silence and alone,I, to pass the heavy hour,Sit and fancy nature’s moanAfter thy reviving power.
Blasts of wildered, wandering air,Asking where thy face can be,Chill and cheerless, every where,Sighing, wailing, seek for thee.
Mourning o’er the earth is spread;Bud and flower look pale with grief.Sick, the plant has hung its head;Dulness weighs on every leaf.
Not a bird is heard to sing.Reft of thine inspiring ray.As a lyre of every string,Each from sight is hid away.
Sable clouds, that veil the blueOf the skies, their shadows throwHere, until their sombre hueGives a cast to all below.
Come, O sun, and through the gloomLet thy beaming vesture fall!Bringing music, joy and bloom,Spread thy mantle o’er us all.
What were there on earth to love—What were beauteous, bright, or dear,Wert thou not so true above,And thy holy influence here?
MY ROSE TREE.Rose tree, O! my beauteous rose tree,Often have I longed to knowHow thy tender leaves were moulded—How thy buds are burst, and blow.I have watered, sunned, and trained thee,And have watched thee many an hour,Yet I never could discoverHow a bud becomes a flower.So, last night I thought about theeOn my pillow, till, at last,I was gone in quiet slumber;And a dream before me passed.In it, I beheld my rose treeStripped of flower, and bud and leaf;While thy naked stalk and branchesFilled me with surprise and grief.Then, methought, I wept to see theeSpoiled of all that made thee dear,Till a band of smiling angelsMildly shining, hovered near.Gently as they gathered round thee,All in silence, one of themLaid his soft, fair fingers on thee,Pulling leaves from out the stem.One by one thy twigs he furnishedWith a dress of foliage green;While another angel followed,Bringing buds the leaves between.Then came one the buds to open;He their silken rolls unsheathed,While the one who tints the roses,Through their loosened foldings breathed.Then the angel of the odorsFilled each golden-bottomed cell,Till, between the parting petals,Free on air the fragrance fell.Lifting then their shining pinions,Quick the angels passed from sight;Leaving, where aloft they vanished,But a stream of fading light.There I heard sweet strains of music,And their voices far above,Dying in the azure distance,Naming thee a gift of love.And, my rose tree stood before me,Finished thus by angel hands;Perfect in its bloom and fragrance,Beautiful, as now it stands.Hence, whenever I behold thee,I shall think of angels too;And the countless works of goodnessThey descend on earth to do.All unseen and silent, round usThey their careful watches keep;Whether we may wake, or slumber,Guardian angels never sleep!
Rose tree, O! my beauteous rose tree,Often have I longed to knowHow thy tender leaves were moulded—How thy buds are burst, and blow.I have watered, sunned, and trained thee,And have watched thee many an hour,Yet I never could discoverHow a bud becomes a flower.So, last night I thought about theeOn my pillow, till, at last,I was gone in quiet slumber;And a dream before me passed.In it, I beheld my rose treeStripped of flower, and bud and leaf;While thy naked stalk and branchesFilled me with surprise and grief.Then, methought, I wept to see theeSpoiled of all that made thee dear,Till a band of smiling angelsMildly shining, hovered near.Gently as they gathered round thee,All in silence, one of themLaid his soft, fair fingers on thee,Pulling leaves from out the stem.One by one thy twigs he furnishedWith a dress of foliage green;While another angel followed,Bringing buds the leaves between.Then came one the buds to open;He their silken rolls unsheathed,While the one who tints the roses,Through their loosened foldings breathed.Then the angel of the odorsFilled each golden-bottomed cell,Till, between the parting petals,Free on air the fragrance fell.Lifting then their shining pinions,Quick the angels passed from sight;Leaving, where aloft they vanished,But a stream of fading light.There I heard sweet strains of music,And their voices far above,Dying in the azure distance,Naming thee a gift of love.And, my rose tree stood before me,Finished thus by angel hands;Perfect in its bloom and fragrance,Beautiful, as now it stands.Hence, whenever I behold thee,I shall think of angels too;And the countless works of goodnessThey descend on earth to do.All unseen and silent, round usThey their careful watches keep;Whether we may wake, or slumber,Guardian angels never sleep!
Rose tree, O! my beauteous rose tree,Often have I longed to knowHow thy tender leaves were moulded—How thy buds are burst, and blow.
I have watered, sunned, and trained thee,And have watched thee many an hour,Yet I never could discoverHow a bud becomes a flower.
So, last night I thought about theeOn my pillow, till, at last,I was gone in quiet slumber;And a dream before me passed.
In it, I beheld my rose treeStripped of flower, and bud and leaf;While thy naked stalk and branchesFilled me with surprise and grief.
Then, methought, I wept to see theeSpoiled of all that made thee dear,Till a band of smiling angelsMildly shining, hovered near.
Gently as they gathered round thee,All in silence, one of themLaid his soft, fair fingers on thee,Pulling leaves from out the stem.
One by one thy twigs he furnishedWith a dress of foliage green;While another angel followed,Bringing buds the leaves between.
Then came one the buds to open;He their silken rolls unsheathed,While the one who tints the roses,Through their loosened foldings breathed.
Then the angel of the odorsFilled each golden-bottomed cell,Till, between the parting petals,Free on air the fragrance fell.
Lifting then their shining pinions,Quick the angels passed from sight;Leaving, where aloft they vanished,But a stream of fading light.
There I heard sweet strains of music,And their voices far above,Dying in the azure distance,Naming thee a gift of love.
And, my rose tree stood before me,Finished thus by angel hands;Perfect in its bloom and fragrance,Beautiful, as now it stands.
Hence, whenever I behold thee,I shall think of angels too;And the countless works of goodnessThey descend on earth to do.
All unseen and silent, round usThey their careful watches keep;Whether we may wake, or slumber,Guardian angels never sleep!
THE INFANT BAPTIST.And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, and was in the deserts until the day of his showing unto Israel.Lukei. 80.Child, amid the honeyed flowersPassing life’s bright morning hours—Playing in the silver rills,Where they bathe Judea’s hills—Looking, with an earnest eye,At the wild bird flitting by—Infant of the joyous heart,Canst thou tell me who thou art?Thou, whose little hand in playHurls the clustered grapes away;While thou lov’st to watch the bee,Or to win a lamb to thee,And to see the fleecy flockResting by the shadowy rock,—Know’st thou, tender, beauteous boy,What ’s thine errand—whence thy joy?’T was thy name that Gabriel spoke,By the altar, while the smokeFrom thy father’s incense rolled,When thy being was foretold!Thou art come, the promised one,As the dayspring to the sun,Soon to usher in new lightThrough the realms of death and night!Heavenly innocence is nowMarked upon thy peaceful brow:God’s own Spirit filleth thee,Sainted babe; for thou art he,Who before the Lamb shall go,Crying, that the world may knowHe hath life to give the dead,In the blood he comes to shed!Though, from nature wild and rude,Come thy raiment, rest, and food,Nightly o’er thy desert sleep,Angels shall their vigils keep;Through the wilderness by day,They will guard and lead the way;Till to Israel thou appear,Showing heaven’s mild kingdom near.High and glorious, then, the partFor thine eye, and hand, and heart!When thy feet, on Jordan’s side,Feel the waters, as they glide,Thou the Son of God shalt see,Come to be baptized of thee—Hear him named, and see the DoveResting on him from above!
And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, and was in the deserts until the day of his showing unto Israel.Lukei. 80.
And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, and was in the deserts until the day of his showing unto Israel.Lukei. 80.
And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, and was in the deserts until the day of his showing unto Israel.
Lukei. 80.
Child, amid the honeyed flowersPassing life’s bright morning hours—Playing in the silver rills,Where they bathe Judea’s hills—Looking, with an earnest eye,At the wild bird flitting by—Infant of the joyous heart,Canst thou tell me who thou art?Thou, whose little hand in playHurls the clustered grapes away;While thou lov’st to watch the bee,Or to win a lamb to thee,And to see the fleecy flockResting by the shadowy rock,—Know’st thou, tender, beauteous boy,What ’s thine errand—whence thy joy?’T was thy name that Gabriel spoke,By the altar, while the smokeFrom thy father’s incense rolled,When thy being was foretold!Thou art come, the promised one,As the dayspring to the sun,Soon to usher in new lightThrough the realms of death and night!Heavenly innocence is nowMarked upon thy peaceful brow:God’s own Spirit filleth thee,Sainted babe; for thou art he,Who before the Lamb shall go,Crying, that the world may knowHe hath life to give the dead,In the blood he comes to shed!Though, from nature wild and rude,Come thy raiment, rest, and food,Nightly o’er thy desert sleep,Angels shall their vigils keep;Through the wilderness by day,They will guard and lead the way;Till to Israel thou appear,Showing heaven’s mild kingdom near.High and glorious, then, the partFor thine eye, and hand, and heart!When thy feet, on Jordan’s side,Feel the waters, as they glide,Thou the Son of God shalt see,Come to be baptized of thee—Hear him named, and see the DoveResting on him from above!
Child, amid the honeyed flowersPassing life’s bright morning hours—Playing in the silver rills,Where they bathe Judea’s hills—Looking, with an earnest eye,At the wild bird flitting by—Infant of the joyous heart,Canst thou tell me who thou art?Thou, whose little hand in playHurls the clustered grapes away;While thou lov’st to watch the bee,Or to win a lamb to thee,And to see the fleecy flockResting by the shadowy rock,—Know’st thou, tender, beauteous boy,What ’s thine errand—whence thy joy?’T was thy name that Gabriel spoke,By the altar, while the smokeFrom thy father’s incense rolled,When thy being was foretold!Thou art come, the promised one,As the dayspring to the sun,Soon to usher in new lightThrough the realms of death and night!Heavenly innocence is nowMarked upon thy peaceful brow:God’s own Spirit filleth thee,Sainted babe; for thou art he,Who before the Lamb shall go,Crying, that the world may knowHe hath life to give the dead,In the blood he comes to shed!Though, from nature wild and rude,Come thy raiment, rest, and food,Nightly o’er thy desert sleep,Angels shall their vigils keep;Through the wilderness by day,They will guard and lead the way;Till to Israel thou appear,Showing heaven’s mild kingdom near.High and glorious, then, the partFor thine eye, and hand, and heart!When thy feet, on Jordan’s side,Feel the waters, as they glide,Thou the Son of God shalt see,Come to be baptized of thee—Hear him named, and see the DoveResting on him from above!
Child, amid the honeyed flowersPassing life’s bright morning hours—Playing in the silver rills,Where they bathe Judea’s hills—Looking, with an earnest eye,At the wild bird flitting by—Infant of the joyous heart,Canst thou tell me who thou art?
Thou, whose little hand in playHurls the clustered grapes away;While thou lov’st to watch the bee,Or to win a lamb to thee,And to see the fleecy flockResting by the shadowy rock,—Know’st thou, tender, beauteous boy,What ’s thine errand—whence thy joy?
’T was thy name that Gabriel spoke,By the altar, while the smokeFrom thy father’s incense rolled,When thy being was foretold!Thou art come, the promised one,As the dayspring to the sun,Soon to usher in new lightThrough the realms of death and night!
Heavenly innocence is nowMarked upon thy peaceful brow:God’s own Spirit filleth thee,Sainted babe; for thou art he,Who before the Lamb shall go,Crying, that the world may knowHe hath life to give the dead,In the blood he comes to shed!
Though, from nature wild and rude,Come thy raiment, rest, and food,Nightly o’er thy desert sleep,Angels shall their vigils keep;Through the wilderness by day,They will guard and lead the way;Till to Israel thou appear,Showing heaven’s mild kingdom near.
High and glorious, then, the partFor thine eye, and hand, and heart!When thy feet, on Jordan’s side,Feel the waters, as they glide,Thou the Son of God shalt see,Come to be baptized of thee—Hear him named, and see the DoveResting on him from above!