The heart of kindness seldom sours or curdles;The cream of love is in it pure and sweet:With every charm that human nature girdles,And every grace of gentleness replete,The man who has a kindly heart is mostIn pattern like hisLord; for where the lawOf kindness rules the heart, the virtues drawTogether in companionship, and postThemselves around that citadel of love.The kindly man doth always kindly prove:He has a word of sweetness for the child—Of pity for the poor—of sympathyFor all who mourn; and truly glad is heWhen through his generous care some sorrowing face has smiled.There’s music ever in the kindly soul,For every deed of goodness done is likeA chord set in the heart, and joy doth strikeUpon it oft as memory doth unrollThe immortal page whereon good deeds are writ;And Heaven gives nothing sweeter to the mindThan memories of the acts that bless our human kind.MacKellar.
The heart of kindness seldom sours or curdles;The cream of love is in it pure and sweet:With every charm that human nature girdles,And every grace of gentleness replete,The man who has a kindly heart is mostIn pattern like hisLord; for where the lawOf kindness rules the heart, the virtues drawTogether in companionship, and postThemselves around that citadel of love.The kindly man doth always kindly prove:He has a word of sweetness for the child—Of pity for the poor—of sympathyFor all who mourn; and truly glad is heWhen through his generous care some sorrowing face has smiled.There’s music ever in the kindly soul,For every deed of goodness done is likeA chord set in the heart, and joy doth strikeUpon it oft as memory doth unrollThe immortal page whereon good deeds are writ;And Heaven gives nothing sweeter to the mindThan memories of the acts that bless our human kind.MacKellar.
The heart of kindness seldom sours or curdles;The cream of love is in it pure and sweet:With every charm that human nature girdles,And every grace of gentleness replete,The man who has a kindly heart is mostIn pattern like hisLord; for where the lawOf kindness rules the heart, the virtues drawTogether in companionship, and postThemselves around that citadel of love.The kindly man doth always kindly prove:He has a word of sweetness for the child—Of pity for the poor—of sympathyFor all who mourn; and truly glad is heWhen through his generous care some sorrowing face has smiled.There’s music ever in the kindly soul,For every deed of goodness done is likeA chord set in the heart, and joy doth strikeUpon it oft as memory doth unrollThe immortal page whereon good deeds are writ;And Heaven gives nothing sweeter to the mindThan memories of the acts that bless our human kind.
MacKellar.
InGreece the altar of Hymen was enwreathed with Ivy, and a branch of it was presented to the new-married couple, as a symbol of the indissoluble knot. It was sacred to Bacchus, who is represented crowned with Ivy leaves, as well as those of the vine. It formed the crown of the Greek and Roman poets; and, in modern times, has been made the poet’s frequent image of constancy. The Ivy is attached to the earth by its own roots, and derives no nourishment from the substances to which it clings. The protector of ruins, it adorns the dilapidated walls which it holds together; it will not accept every kind of support, but its attachment ends only with its life.
When all things have their trial, you shall findNothing is constant but a virtuous mind.Shirley.
When all things have their trial, you shall findNothing is constant but a virtuous mind.Shirley.
When all things have their trial, you shall findNothing is constant but a virtuous mind.
Shirley.
The mountain rillSeeks with no surer flow the far, bright sea,Than my unchanged affections flow to thee.Park Benjamin.
The mountain rillSeeks with no surer flow the far, bright sea,Than my unchanged affections flow to thee.Park Benjamin.
The mountain rillSeeks with no surer flow the far, bright sea,Than my unchanged affections flow to thee.
Park Benjamin.
I am constant as the northern star;Of whose true, fixed, and resting qualityThere is no fellow in the firmament.Shakspeare.
I am constant as the northern star;Of whose true, fixed, and resting qualityThere is no fellow in the firmament.Shakspeare.
I am constant as the northern star;Of whose true, fixed, and resting qualityThere is no fellow in the firmament.
Shakspeare.
Make my breastTransparent as pure crystal, that the world,Jealous of me, may see the foulest thoughtMy heart does hold. Where shall a woman turnHer eyes to find out constancy?Buckingham.
Make my breastTransparent as pure crystal, that the world,Jealous of me, may see the foulest thoughtMy heart does hold. Where shall a woman turnHer eyes to find out constancy?Buckingham.
Make my breastTransparent as pure crystal, that the world,Jealous of me, may see the foulest thoughtMy heart does hold. Where shall a woman turnHer eyes to find out constancy?
Buckingham.
No, never from this hour to part,We’ll live and love so true,The sigh that rends thy constant heart,Shall break thy Edwin’s too.Goldsmith.
No, never from this hour to part,We’ll live and love so true,The sigh that rends thy constant heart,Shall break thy Edwin’s too.Goldsmith.
No, never from this hour to part,We’ll live and love so true,The sigh that rends thy constant heart,Shall break thy Edwin’s too.
Goldsmith.
The Ivy round some lofty pileIts twining tendril flings;Though fled from thence be pleasure’s smile,It yet the fonder clings;As lonelier still becomes the place,The warmer is its fond embrace,More firm its verdant rings;As if it loved its shade to rearO’er one devoted to despair.Thus shall my bosom cling to thine,Unchanged by gliding years;Through Fortune’s rise, or her decline,In sunshine, or in tears;And though between us oceans roll,And rocks divide us, still my soulShall feel no jealous fears:Confiding in a heart like thine,Love’s uncontaminated shrine.Mrs. Hale.
The Ivy round some lofty pileIts twining tendril flings;Though fled from thence be pleasure’s smile,It yet the fonder clings;As lonelier still becomes the place,The warmer is its fond embrace,More firm its verdant rings;As if it loved its shade to rearO’er one devoted to despair.Thus shall my bosom cling to thine,Unchanged by gliding years;Through Fortune’s rise, or her decline,In sunshine, or in tears;And though between us oceans roll,And rocks divide us, still my soulShall feel no jealous fears:Confiding in a heart like thine,Love’s uncontaminated shrine.Mrs. Hale.
The Ivy round some lofty pileIts twining tendril flings;Though fled from thence be pleasure’s smile,It yet the fonder clings;As lonelier still becomes the place,The warmer is its fond embrace,More firm its verdant rings;As if it loved its shade to rearO’er one devoted to despair.Thus shall my bosom cling to thine,Unchanged by gliding years;Through Fortune’s rise, or her decline,In sunshine, or in tears;And though between us oceans roll,And rocks divide us, still my soulShall feel no jealous fears:Confiding in a heart like thine,Love’s uncontaminated shrine.
Mrs. Hale.
TheHolly, with its scarlet berries, is the most beautiful of the evergreens that have been used for ages to adorn the churches of old England, during the Christmas season. It is an ornament to the woods, stripped bare by the rude breath of winter; its berries serve for food for the little birds that never leave us, and its foliage affords them an hospitable shelter during the cold season. Nature, by a seeming forethought, has been careful to preserve the verdure of this handsome tree all the year round, and to arm it with thorns, that it may furnish both food and protection to the innocent creatures which resort to it for shelter. It may be added, however, that from the bark of the common Holly, when fermented and washed from the woody fibres, is made the bird-lime which is used for catching small birds.
With Holly and ivy,So green and so gay,We deck up our housesAs fresh as the day;With bays and rosemary,And laurel complete,And every one nowIs a king in conceit.Poor Robin’s Almanac, 1695.
With Holly and ivy,So green and so gay,We deck up our housesAs fresh as the day;With bays and rosemary,And laurel complete,And every one nowIs a king in conceit.Poor Robin’s Almanac, 1695.
With Holly and ivy,So green and so gay,We deck up our housesAs fresh as the day;With bays and rosemary,And laurel complete,And every one nowIs a king in conceit.
Poor Robin’s Almanac, 1695.
the holly tree.O Reader! hast thou ever stood to seeThe Holly tree?The eye that contemplates it well perceivesIts glossy leaves,Ordered by an intelligence so wiseAs might confound the atheist’s sophistries.Below, a circling fence its leaves are seen,Wrinkled and keen;No grazing cattle, through their prickly roundCan reach to wound;But as they grow where nothing is to fear,Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.I love to view these things with curious eyesAnd moralize;And in this wisdom of the Holly treeCan emblems see,Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,One which may profit in the after-time.Thus, though abroad, perchance I might appearHarsh and austere,To those who on my leisure would intrudeReserved and rude,Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be,Like the high leaves upon the Holly tree.And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,Some harshness show,All vain asperities I day by dayWould wear away,Till the smooth temper of my age should beLike the high leaves upon the Holly tree.And as when all the summer trees are seenSo bright and green,The Holly leaves a sober hue display,Less bright than they;But when the bare and wintry woods we see,What then so cheerful as the Holly tree?So serious should my youth appear amongThe thoughtless throng,So would I seem amid the young and gayMore grave than they,That in my age as cheerful I might beAs the green winter of the Holly tree.Southey.
the holly tree.O Reader! hast thou ever stood to seeThe Holly tree?The eye that contemplates it well perceivesIts glossy leaves,Ordered by an intelligence so wiseAs might confound the atheist’s sophistries.Below, a circling fence its leaves are seen,Wrinkled and keen;No grazing cattle, through their prickly roundCan reach to wound;But as they grow where nothing is to fear,Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.I love to view these things with curious eyesAnd moralize;And in this wisdom of the Holly treeCan emblems see,Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,One which may profit in the after-time.Thus, though abroad, perchance I might appearHarsh and austere,To those who on my leisure would intrudeReserved and rude,Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be,Like the high leaves upon the Holly tree.And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,Some harshness show,All vain asperities I day by dayWould wear away,Till the smooth temper of my age should beLike the high leaves upon the Holly tree.And as when all the summer trees are seenSo bright and green,The Holly leaves a sober hue display,Less bright than they;But when the bare and wintry woods we see,What then so cheerful as the Holly tree?So serious should my youth appear amongThe thoughtless throng,So would I seem amid the young and gayMore grave than they,That in my age as cheerful I might beAs the green winter of the Holly tree.Southey.
the holly tree.
O Reader! hast thou ever stood to seeThe Holly tree?The eye that contemplates it well perceivesIts glossy leaves,Ordered by an intelligence so wiseAs might confound the atheist’s sophistries.
Below, a circling fence its leaves are seen,Wrinkled and keen;No grazing cattle, through their prickly roundCan reach to wound;But as they grow where nothing is to fear,Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.
I love to view these things with curious eyesAnd moralize;And in this wisdom of the Holly treeCan emblems see,Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,One which may profit in the after-time.
Thus, though abroad, perchance I might appearHarsh and austere,To those who on my leisure would intrudeReserved and rude,Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be,Like the high leaves upon the Holly tree.
And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,Some harshness show,All vain asperities I day by dayWould wear away,Till the smooth temper of my age should beLike the high leaves upon the Holly tree.
And as when all the summer trees are seenSo bright and green,The Holly leaves a sober hue display,Less bright than they;But when the bare and wintry woods we see,What then so cheerful as the Holly tree?
So serious should my youth appear amongThe thoughtless throng,So would I seem amid the young and gayMore grave than they,That in my age as cheerful I might beAs the green winter of the Holly tree.
Southey.
To know the road ere on’t we trust the foot,And where it leads, and what, while journeying,We may meet, is Wisdom’s eager wish.Peerbold.
To know the road ere on’t we trust the foot,And where it leads, and what, while journeying,We may meet, is Wisdom’s eager wish.Peerbold.
To know the road ere on’t we trust the foot,And where it leads, and what, while journeying,We may meet, is Wisdom’s eager wish.
Peerbold.
WalkBoldly and wisely in that light thou hast;There is a hand above will help thee on.Bailey.
WalkBoldly and wisely in that light thou hast;There is a hand above will help thee on.Bailey.
WalkBoldly and wisely in that light thou hast;There is a hand above will help thee on.
Bailey.
Meadow Saffron....My best days are past.
TheMeadow Saffron, or Colchicum Autumnale, springs up about the time the leaves begin to fall from the trees, and may, therefore, be said to proclaim to all nature, that the bright days of summer are past. According to Ovid, this autumnal flower owes its origin to some drops of the magic liquor prepared by Medea, to restore the aged Æson to the bloom and vigour of youth, which were spilled in the fields. As a medicine, the Colchicum is powerful, but dangerous, and must be used with caution. The poisonous quality of the plant seems to be known, as if by instinct, to all kinds of cattle. They all shun it, and in many pastures this alone will be found standing, when all other herbage has been consumed.
Why grieve that time has brought so soonThe sober age of manhood on?As idly should I weep at noonTo see the blush of morning gone.True, time will sear and blanch my brow:Well—I shall sit with aged men,And my good glass will tell me howA grisly beard becomes me then.And should no foul dishonour lieUpon my head when I am gray,Love yet may search my fading eye,And smooth the path of my decay.Bryant.
Why grieve that time has brought so soonThe sober age of manhood on?As idly should I weep at noonTo see the blush of morning gone.True, time will sear and blanch my brow:Well—I shall sit with aged men,And my good glass will tell me howA grisly beard becomes me then.And should no foul dishonour lieUpon my head when I am gray,Love yet may search my fading eye,And smooth the path of my decay.Bryant.
Why grieve that time has brought so soonThe sober age of manhood on?As idly should I weep at noonTo see the blush of morning gone.True, time will sear and blanch my brow:Well—I shall sit with aged men,And my good glass will tell me howA grisly beard becomes me then.And should no foul dishonour lieUpon my head when I am gray,Love yet may search my fading eye,And smooth the path of my decay.
Bryant.
SWEET PEA PANSY I depart. Think on me.SWEET PEA PANSYI depart. Think on me.
Oh! thou who dry’st the mourner’s tear,How dark this world would be,If, when deceived and wounded here,We could not fly to thee!The friends who in our sunshine live,When winter comes, are flown;And he who has but tears to give,Must weep those tears alone:But thou wilt heal that broken heart,Which, like the plants that throwTheir fragrance from the wounded part,Breathes sweetness out of wo.Moore.
Oh! thou who dry’st the mourner’s tear,How dark this world would be,If, when deceived and wounded here,We could not fly to thee!The friends who in our sunshine live,When winter comes, are flown;And he who has but tears to give,Must weep those tears alone:But thou wilt heal that broken heart,Which, like the plants that throwTheir fragrance from the wounded part,Breathes sweetness out of wo.Moore.
Oh! thou who dry’st the mourner’s tear,How dark this world would be,If, when deceived and wounded here,We could not fly to thee!The friends who in our sunshine live,When winter comes, are flown;And he who has but tears to give,Must weep those tears alone:But thou wilt heal that broken heart,Which, like the plants that throwTheir fragrance from the wounded part,Breathes sweetness out of wo.
Moore.
Then bright from earth, amid the troubled sky,Ascends fair Colchicum, with radiant eye,Warms the cold bosom of the hoary year,And lights with beauty’s blaze the dusky sphere.Darwin.
Then bright from earth, amid the troubled sky,Ascends fair Colchicum, with radiant eye,Warms the cold bosom of the hoary year,And lights with beauty’s blaze the dusky sphere.Darwin.
Then bright from earth, amid the troubled sky,Ascends fair Colchicum, with radiant eye,Warms the cold bosom of the hoary year,And lights with beauty’s blaze the dusky sphere.
Darwin.
The world around me groweth gray and old:My friends are dropping one by one away;Some live in distant lands—some in the clayRest quietly, their mortal moments told.And when my children gather at my kneeTo worshipGodand sing our morning psalm,Their rising stature whispers unto meMy life is waning towards its evening calm.MacKellar.
The world around me groweth gray and old:My friends are dropping one by one away;Some live in distant lands—some in the clayRest quietly, their mortal moments told.And when my children gather at my kneeTo worshipGodand sing our morning psalm,Their rising stature whispers unto meMy life is waning towards its evening calm.MacKellar.
The world around me groweth gray and old:My friends are dropping one by one away;Some live in distant lands—some in the clayRest quietly, their mortal moments told.And when my children gather at my kneeTo worshipGodand sing our morning psalm,Their rising stature whispers unto meMy life is waning towards its evening calm.
MacKellar.
TheChina Aster begins to blow when other flowers are scarce. It is like an afterthought of Flora’s, who smiles at leaving us. The China Aster was introduced into Europe by Father d’Insarville, a Jesuit missionary; who, about the year 1730, sent seeds of it to the royal gardens of Paris. As, by cultivation, many varieties of the Aster have been obtained, the flower has been made the emblem of variety.
The sleepless streams move onwardThrough beds of idling lilies,Chiding the foolish flowersThat watch their mirrored beauty;So live the thoughtless many,Who throng the halls of fashion.Dawes.
The sleepless streams move onwardThrough beds of idling lilies,Chiding the foolish flowersThat watch their mirrored beauty;So live the thoughtless many,Who throng the halls of fashion.Dawes.
The sleepless streams move onwardThrough beds of idling lilies,Chiding the foolish flowersThat watch their mirrored beauty;So live the thoughtless many,Who throng the halls of fashion.
Dawes.
I love the ever-varying hueUpon the face of heaven;I would not have it always blue,But oft with lightning riven.I would not have wide oceans spreadA mirror e’er to see;But lashed to many a cresty headBy scowling tempests free!C. Watson.
I love the ever-varying hueUpon the face of heaven;I would not have it always blue,But oft with lightning riven.I would not have wide oceans spreadA mirror e’er to see;But lashed to many a cresty headBy scowling tempests free!C. Watson.
I love the ever-varying hueUpon the face of heaven;I would not have it always blue,But oft with lightning riven.I would not have wide oceans spreadA mirror e’er to see;But lashed to many a cresty headBy scowling tempests free!
C. Watson.
Play every string in love’s sweet lyre—Set all its music flowing;Be air, and dew, and light, and fire,To keep the soul-flower growing.Mrs. Osgood.
Play every string in love’s sweet lyre—Set all its music flowing;Be air, and dew, and light, and fire,To keep the soul-flower growing.Mrs. Osgood.
Play every string in love’s sweet lyre—Set all its music flowing;Be air, and dew, and light, and fire,To keep the soul-flower growing.
Mrs. Osgood.
The rapid and the deep—the fall, the gulf,Have likenesses in feeling and in life.And life, so varied, hath more lovelinessIn one day than a creeping centuryOf sameness.Bailey.
The rapid and the deep—the fall, the gulf,Have likenesses in feeling and in life.And life, so varied, hath more lovelinessIn one day than a creeping centuryOf sameness.Bailey.
The rapid and the deep—the fall, the gulf,Have likenesses in feeling and in life.And life, so varied, hath more lovelinessIn one day than a creeping centuryOf sameness.
Bailey.
Youth loves and lives on change,Till the soul sighs for sameness; which at lastBecomes variety; and takes its place.Bailey.
Youth loves and lives on change,Till the soul sighs for sameness; which at lastBecomes variety; and takes its place.Bailey.
Youth loves and lives on change,Till the soul sighs for sameness; which at lastBecomes variety; and takes its place.
Bailey.
Variety’s the source of joy below,From which still fresh revolving pleasures flow;In books and love the mind one end pursues,And only change the expiring flame renews.Gay.
Variety’s the source of joy below,From which still fresh revolving pleasures flow;In books and love the mind one end pursues,And only change the expiring flame renews.Gay.
Variety’s the source of joy below,From which still fresh revolving pleasures flow;In books and love the mind one end pursues,And only change the expiring flame renews.
Gay.
Wherefore did nature pour her bounties forthWith such a full and unwithdrawing hand,Covering the earth with odours, fruits, and flocks,Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable,But all to please and sate a curious taste?Milton.
Wherefore did nature pour her bounties forthWith such a full and unwithdrawing hand,Covering the earth with odours, fruits, and flocks,Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable,But all to please and sate a curious taste?Milton.
Wherefore did nature pour her bounties forthWith such a full and unwithdrawing hand,Covering the earth with odours, fruits, and flocks,Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable,But all to please and sate a curious taste?
Milton.
TheStarwort is another late-blooming flower. It is exclusively indigenous to North America and the Cape of Good Hope. The flowers are of every variety of hue, and present a very attractive appearance.
Stranger, new flowers in our vales are seen,With a dazzling eye, and a lovely green.—They scent the breath of the dewy morn:They feed no worm, and they hide no thorn,But revel and grow in our balmy air;They are flowers which Freedom hath planted there.This bud of welcome to thee we give,—Bid its unborn sweets in thy bosom live;It shall charm thee from all a stranger’s pain,Reserve, suspicion, and dark disdain:A race in its freshness and bloom are we;Bring no cares from a worn-out world with thee.Mrs. Sigourney.
Stranger, new flowers in our vales are seen,With a dazzling eye, and a lovely green.—They scent the breath of the dewy morn:They feed no worm, and they hide no thorn,But revel and grow in our balmy air;They are flowers which Freedom hath planted there.This bud of welcome to thee we give,—Bid its unborn sweets in thy bosom live;It shall charm thee from all a stranger’s pain,Reserve, suspicion, and dark disdain:A race in its freshness and bloom are we;Bring no cares from a worn-out world with thee.Mrs. Sigourney.
Stranger, new flowers in our vales are seen,With a dazzling eye, and a lovely green.—They scent the breath of the dewy morn:They feed no worm, and they hide no thorn,But revel and grow in our balmy air;They are flowers which Freedom hath planted there.
This bud of welcome to thee we give,—Bid its unborn sweets in thy bosom live;It shall charm thee from all a stranger’s pain,Reserve, suspicion, and dark disdain:A race in its freshness and bloom are we;Bring no cares from a worn-out world with thee.
Mrs. Sigourney.
TheJuniper has been the favourite of Superstition. The ancients consecrated the shrub to the Furies. The smoke of its green roots was the incense which they offered in preference to the infernal gods; and they burned its berries during funerals to ban malign influences. In some parts of Europe, the peasant still believes that the perfume of Juniper berries purifies the air, and drives evil spirits from his humble cot. The Juniper is made to signify protection, on account of the defensive qualities ascribed to it by superstition, and the shelter its drooping branches afford to small animals which are hard pressed by the hunters.
I have found out a gift for my fair;I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;But let me that plunder forbear,She will say, ’twas a barbarous deed.“For he ne’er could be true,” she averred,“Who could rob a poor bird of its young;”And I loved her the more, when I heardSuch tenderness fall from her tongue.Shenstone.
I have found out a gift for my fair;I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;But let me that plunder forbear,She will say, ’twas a barbarous deed.“For he ne’er could be true,” she averred,“Who could rob a poor bird of its young;”And I loved her the more, when I heardSuch tenderness fall from her tongue.Shenstone.
I have found out a gift for my fair;I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;But let me that plunder forbear,She will say, ’twas a barbarous deed.
“For he ne’er could be true,” she averred,“Who could rob a poor bird of its young;”And I loved her the more, when I heardSuch tenderness fall from her tongue.
Shenstone.
Fablegives the following account of the origin of the signification of the Hazel. There was a time when men were at constant war with each other, and could not be restrained from cruelty and revenge by any tie of kin. The gods at length took pity on them. Apollo and Mercury made presents to each other, and descended to the earth. The god of harmony received from the son of Maia the shell of a tortoise, out of which he had constructed a lyre, and gave him in exchange a Hazel stick, which had the power of imparting a love of virtue and of reconciling hearts divided by envy and hate. By the power thus given him, Mercury taught men the love of peace, and of home and country, and made commerce the bond of nations. Adorned with two light wings, and entwined with serpents, the Hazel rod given to the god of eloquence by the god of harmony is still, by the name of caduceus, the emblem of peace, commerce, and reconciliation.
Oh then that wisdom may we know,Which leads a life of peace below!Sprague.
Oh then that wisdom may we know,Which leads a life of peace below!Sprague.
Oh then that wisdom may we know,Which leads a life of peace below!
Sprague.
Peace, sweet peace is ever foundIn her eternal home on holy ground.Mrs. Embury.
Peace, sweet peace is ever foundIn her eternal home on holy ground.Mrs. Embury.
Peace, sweet peace is ever foundIn her eternal home on holy ground.
Mrs. Embury.
And see,As yet unclothed, the Hazel treePrepares his early tufts to lendThe coppice first-fruits; and dependIn russet drops, whose clustered rows,Still closed in part, in part disclose,Yet fenced beneath their scaly shed,The pendent anther’s yellow head.Louisa A. Twamley.
And see,As yet unclothed, the Hazel treePrepares his early tufts to lendThe coppice first-fruits; and dependIn russet drops, whose clustered rows,Still closed in part, in part disclose,Yet fenced beneath their scaly shed,The pendent anther’s yellow head.Louisa A. Twamley.
And see,As yet unclothed, the Hazel treePrepares his early tufts to lendThe coppice first-fruits; and dependIn russet drops, whose clustered rows,Still closed in part, in part disclose,Yet fenced beneath their scaly shed,The pendent anther’s yellow head.
Louisa A. Twamley.
I trust the frown thy features wear,Ere long into a smile will turn;I would not that a face as fairAs thine, beloved, should look so stern.The chain of ice that winter binds,Holds not for aye the sparkling rill;It melts away when summer shines,And leaves the waters sparkling still:Thus let thy cheek resume the smileThat shed such sunny light before;And though I left thee for a while,I’ll vow to leave thee, love, no more.Wm. Leggett.
I trust the frown thy features wear,Ere long into a smile will turn;I would not that a face as fairAs thine, beloved, should look so stern.The chain of ice that winter binds,Holds not for aye the sparkling rill;It melts away when summer shines,And leaves the waters sparkling still:Thus let thy cheek resume the smileThat shed such sunny light before;And though I left thee for a while,I’ll vow to leave thee, love, no more.Wm. Leggett.
I trust the frown thy features wear,Ere long into a smile will turn;I would not that a face as fairAs thine, beloved, should look so stern.The chain of ice that winter binds,Holds not for aye the sparkling rill;It melts away when summer shines,And leaves the waters sparkling still:Thus let thy cheek resume the smileThat shed such sunny light before;And though I left thee for a while,I’ll vow to leave thee, love, no more.
Wm. Leggett.
Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing,Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die—Ere the gay spell, which earth is round thee throwing,Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky.Life is but shadows, save a promise given,Which lights up sorrow with a fadeless ray.Oh, touch the sceptre!—with a hope in heaven,Come, turn thy spirit from the world away.Anon.
Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing,Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die—Ere the gay spell, which earth is round thee throwing,Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky.Life is but shadows, save a promise given,Which lights up sorrow with a fadeless ray.Oh, touch the sceptre!—with a hope in heaven,Come, turn thy spirit from the world away.Anon.
Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing,Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die—Ere the gay spell, which earth is round thee throwing,Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky.Life is but shadows, save a promise given,Which lights up sorrow with a fadeless ray.Oh, touch the sceptre!—with a hope in heaven,Come, turn thy spirit from the world away.
Anon.
Theform of the Oak tree, when grown fairly and naturally, is a perfect emblem of its qualities, so firm set, so massive, and strong. You may always know it instantly, whether as a wintry skeleton form, bare, and gnarled, and angular, or in its summer garb of rich and finely massed foliage, always the monarch of the woods.
True is, that whilome that good poet said,The gentle mind by gentle deeds is known,For man by nothing is so well bewrayedAs by his manners, in which plain is shownOf what degree and what race he is grown.Spenser.
True is, that whilome that good poet said,The gentle mind by gentle deeds is known,For man by nothing is so well bewrayedAs by his manners, in which plain is shownOf what degree and what race he is grown.Spenser.
True is, that whilome that good poet said,The gentle mind by gentle deeds is known,For man by nothing is so well bewrayedAs by his manners, in which plain is shownOf what degree and what race he is grown.
Spenser.
How vain are all hereditary honours,Those poor possessions from another’s deeds,Unless our own just virtues form our title,And give a sanction to our fond assumption!Shirley.
How vain are all hereditary honours,Those poor possessions from another’s deeds,Unless our own just virtues form our title,And give a sanction to our fond assumption!Shirley.
How vain are all hereditary honours,Those poor possessions from another’s deeds,Unless our own just virtues form our title,And give a sanction to our fond assumption!
Shirley.
Whoe’er amidst the sonsOf reason, valour, liberty, and virtue,Displays distinguished merit, is a nobleOf nature’s own creating. Such have risen,Sprung from the dust; or where had been our honours?Thomson.
Whoe’er amidst the sonsOf reason, valour, liberty, and virtue,Displays distinguished merit, is a nobleOf nature’s own creating. Such have risen,Sprung from the dust; or where had been our honours?Thomson.
Whoe’er amidst the sonsOf reason, valour, liberty, and virtue,Displays distinguished merit, is a nobleOf nature’s own creating. Such have risen,Sprung from the dust; or where had been our honours?
Thomson.
life of an oak tree.
Long centuries have come and passedSince, in a stormy wind,An acorn fell one autumn day,Like thousands of his kind.The wild swine fed in the forests then,And hungry beasts were they;They crunched the mast where’er it fell,And they feasted well that day.But as they trampled all aboutWith heavy hoofs, they trodThat acorn—perchance hundreds more—Deep in the yielding sod.Years came and went.—The acorn grewAnd became a young Oak tree;With a slender, straight, and flexile stem,Dressed in rich greenery.Time passeth on.—The young tree roseA bold and noble thing;Each summer showed a leafier crest,And a longer shoot each spring.There came into the ancient woodSome stern official men;They marked the fairest, loftiest trees,And they were doomèd then.They glanced upon the tall young Oak,And quickly passed it by,And laughing harshly, said ’twould doBy the next century.Soon through the forest’s solemn gladesThere rang that deathful sound,The woodman’s axe;—and crashing fellTrunks, branches, all around.Craftsmen of many kinds there cameFor that oak timber good,And carried it in loads awayFrom its old native wood.Some floated far o’er ocean’s wavesMid stormy winds and squalls,Both merchant-ships, and men-of-war,“Old England’s Wooden Walls.”Some, raised on high, with rare deviceThe royal roof support,And look down in the banquet-hallOn king, and queen, and court.Some, quaintly carved, and polished fair,May shrine a pictured face,Of Dolci’s gentle loveliness,Or Raphael’s angel grace.And many a toilet mirror owes,Its flowered and gilded frameTo the good trees of which I sing:—Well have they won their fame!And massive tables, that have onceGroaned ’neath baronial fare,If they could talk of that Oak wood,Might tell of dwelling there.—The young Oak tree yet statelier grew,And broader spread its shade,And the dappled deer lay sheltered ’neathThe canopy it made.Years came and went.—The Oak tree stoodIn full-grown prime and pride,And lords of various mind and moodPossessed those woodlands wide.The first, a reckless forester,Loved horse, and hawk, and hound,And he chased all o’er his wide domains,Wellnigh the whole year round.His lady fair, as dames were wont,In those long bygone days,Loved hawking too; and gallant trainsShe led through forest ways.’Twas a merry and a winsome thing,When lord, and squire, and knightRode forth, mid bugles ringing shrill,With dainty ladies bright,To sweep along by vale and hill,Or through the forest glade,Where the echoes of their laughter lightA merry music made.And oft they reined their palfreys inBeneath the young Oak tree,And oft foretold how grand a thingIn after-time ’twould be.These jocund sports passed all away;For direful civil warSpread its fell curse throughout the land,Wasting it near and far.And the next lord these broad lands had,A warrior stern was he,He dwelt with camps and cannon moreThan sylvan glade and tree.He died in battle; and his landsBy craft and deeds unfair,His brother claimed and won, althoughHis infant son was heir.This hard, bad man was miserly,And loved no thing save gold;He soon marked out the stately tree,To be cut down and sold.What was its beauty unto him?—The grand and noble thing!His dull eyes only measured wellWhat moneys it would bring.But while he doomed the lordly oak,His wicked life ebbed low,And suddenly, death summoned himFrom his ill-got hoards to go.The grand estate—the ancient hall,The woods, and wealth untold,Came then unto that warrior’s child,A boy of ten years old.He was a thoughtful, quiet boy,For though yet young in years,His mother’s sorrows and his ownHad made him old in tears.And with a calm and gentle joyCame home that youthful heir,For his chief source of gladness was,To bring his mother there:—To watch her sadly smile to seeAgain each well-known spot,Where days of happiness had passed,That ne’er could be forgot:—To have her former state restored,Maidens, and serving-men;And garments, richer than of old,He bade them bring her then.The gardens, that the miser hadLeft all untrimmed and bare,Were planted, pruned, and decked anew,And stored with all things rare.But chiefly did the lady loveOne glade within the wood,The shady glade, where broad and high,The noble Oak tree stood.Sad memories, yet sweet ones too,For her that lone spot bore:’Twas there she parted from her lordTo meet on earth no more!’Twas there, beneath that tree, he spokeHis last,lastfond farewell!From thence she watched him ride awayThe eve before he fell:—No marvel that sad lady lovedThe silent spot so well!And there they oft together came,The lady and the boy,For he to her was all on earth,Her one sole living joy.And long years after, when she sleptHer warrior’s tomb beside,When the boy had grown an aged man,With grandsons by his side:—That ancient wood he reverenced;And peasants, when they spokeOf the old tree within the glade,Called it—the Lady’s Oak.I know the spot—though strangely timeHath altered all around,Where once the forest’s stillness lay,Now whirling wheels resound.A large and busy peopled townE’en on that spot we see,Where dappled deer and timid birdsDwelt fearlessly and free.But I remember when a child,One old and mouldering shellOf a most ancient, huge Oak treeStood near the public well.I’ve sat within it many a time,In childish sport and play,And much I mourned to see at lastThe trunk quite cleared away.Soon they built there a fine new street,And noisy coaches sweepWith roar and riot,—even whereThat lady came to weep!Each passing year we note a changeIn ancient things and new;And if we see so much in one,What may not hundreds do?Louisa A. Twamley.
Long centuries have come and passedSince, in a stormy wind,An acorn fell one autumn day,Like thousands of his kind.The wild swine fed in the forests then,And hungry beasts were they;They crunched the mast where’er it fell,And they feasted well that day.But as they trampled all aboutWith heavy hoofs, they trodThat acorn—perchance hundreds more—Deep in the yielding sod.Years came and went.—The acorn grewAnd became a young Oak tree;With a slender, straight, and flexile stem,Dressed in rich greenery.Time passeth on.—The young tree roseA bold and noble thing;Each summer showed a leafier crest,And a longer shoot each spring.There came into the ancient woodSome stern official men;They marked the fairest, loftiest trees,And they were doomèd then.They glanced upon the tall young Oak,And quickly passed it by,And laughing harshly, said ’twould doBy the next century.Soon through the forest’s solemn gladesThere rang that deathful sound,The woodman’s axe;—and crashing fellTrunks, branches, all around.Craftsmen of many kinds there cameFor that oak timber good,And carried it in loads awayFrom its old native wood.Some floated far o’er ocean’s wavesMid stormy winds and squalls,Both merchant-ships, and men-of-war,“Old England’s Wooden Walls.”Some, raised on high, with rare deviceThe royal roof support,And look down in the banquet-hallOn king, and queen, and court.Some, quaintly carved, and polished fair,May shrine a pictured face,Of Dolci’s gentle loveliness,Or Raphael’s angel grace.And many a toilet mirror owes,Its flowered and gilded frameTo the good trees of which I sing:—Well have they won their fame!And massive tables, that have onceGroaned ’neath baronial fare,If they could talk of that Oak wood,Might tell of dwelling there.—The young Oak tree yet statelier grew,And broader spread its shade,And the dappled deer lay sheltered ’neathThe canopy it made.Years came and went.—The Oak tree stoodIn full-grown prime and pride,And lords of various mind and moodPossessed those woodlands wide.The first, a reckless forester,Loved horse, and hawk, and hound,And he chased all o’er his wide domains,Wellnigh the whole year round.His lady fair, as dames were wont,In those long bygone days,Loved hawking too; and gallant trainsShe led through forest ways.’Twas a merry and a winsome thing,When lord, and squire, and knightRode forth, mid bugles ringing shrill,With dainty ladies bright,To sweep along by vale and hill,Or through the forest glade,Where the echoes of their laughter lightA merry music made.And oft they reined their palfreys inBeneath the young Oak tree,And oft foretold how grand a thingIn after-time ’twould be.These jocund sports passed all away;For direful civil warSpread its fell curse throughout the land,Wasting it near and far.And the next lord these broad lands had,A warrior stern was he,He dwelt with camps and cannon moreThan sylvan glade and tree.He died in battle; and his landsBy craft and deeds unfair,His brother claimed and won, althoughHis infant son was heir.This hard, bad man was miserly,And loved no thing save gold;He soon marked out the stately tree,To be cut down and sold.What was its beauty unto him?—The grand and noble thing!His dull eyes only measured wellWhat moneys it would bring.But while he doomed the lordly oak,His wicked life ebbed low,And suddenly, death summoned himFrom his ill-got hoards to go.The grand estate—the ancient hall,The woods, and wealth untold,Came then unto that warrior’s child,A boy of ten years old.He was a thoughtful, quiet boy,For though yet young in years,His mother’s sorrows and his ownHad made him old in tears.And with a calm and gentle joyCame home that youthful heir,For his chief source of gladness was,To bring his mother there:—To watch her sadly smile to seeAgain each well-known spot,Where days of happiness had passed,That ne’er could be forgot:—To have her former state restored,Maidens, and serving-men;And garments, richer than of old,He bade them bring her then.The gardens, that the miser hadLeft all untrimmed and bare,Were planted, pruned, and decked anew,And stored with all things rare.But chiefly did the lady loveOne glade within the wood,The shady glade, where broad and high,The noble Oak tree stood.Sad memories, yet sweet ones too,For her that lone spot bore:’Twas there she parted from her lordTo meet on earth no more!’Twas there, beneath that tree, he spokeHis last,lastfond farewell!From thence she watched him ride awayThe eve before he fell:—No marvel that sad lady lovedThe silent spot so well!And there they oft together came,The lady and the boy,For he to her was all on earth,Her one sole living joy.And long years after, when she sleptHer warrior’s tomb beside,When the boy had grown an aged man,With grandsons by his side:—That ancient wood he reverenced;And peasants, when they spokeOf the old tree within the glade,Called it—the Lady’s Oak.I know the spot—though strangely timeHath altered all around,Where once the forest’s stillness lay,Now whirling wheels resound.A large and busy peopled townE’en on that spot we see,Where dappled deer and timid birdsDwelt fearlessly and free.But I remember when a child,One old and mouldering shellOf a most ancient, huge Oak treeStood near the public well.I’ve sat within it many a time,In childish sport and play,And much I mourned to see at lastThe trunk quite cleared away.Soon they built there a fine new street,And noisy coaches sweepWith roar and riot,—even whereThat lady came to weep!Each passing year we note a changeIn ancient things and new;And if we see so much in one,What may not hundreds do?Louisa A. Twamley.
Long centuries have come and passedSince, in a stormy wind,An acorn fell one autumn day,Like thousands of his kind.
The wild swine fed in the forests then,And hungry beasts were they;They crunched the mast where’er it fell,And they feasted well that day.
But as they trampled all aboutWith heavy hoofs, they trodThat acorn—perchance hundreds more—Deep in the yielding sod.
Years came and went.—The acorn grewAnd became a young Oak tree;With a slender, straight, and flexile stem,Dressed in rich greenery.
Time passeth on.—The young tree roseA bold and noble thing;Each summer showed a leafier crest,And a longer shoot each spring.
There came into the ancient woodSome stern official men;They marked the fairest, loftiest trees,And they were doomèd then.
They glanced upon the tall young Oak,And quickly passed it by,And laughing harshly, said ’twould doBy the next century.
Soon through the forest’s solemn gladesThere rang that deathful sound,The woodman’s axe;—and crashing fellTrunks, branches, all around.
Craftsmen of many kinds there cameFor that oak timber good,And carried it in loads awayFrom its old native wood.
Some floated far o’er ocean’s wavesMid stormy winds and squalls,Both merchant-ships, and men-of-war,“Old England’s Wooden Walls.”
Some, raised on high, with rare deviceThe royal roof support,And look down in the banquet-hallOn king, and queen, and court.
Some, quaintly carved, and polished fair,May shrine a pictured face,Of Dolci’s gentle loveliness,Or Raphael’s angel grace.
And many a toilet mirror owes,Its flowered and gilded frameTo the good trees of which I sing:—Well have they won their fame!
And massive tables, that have onceGroaned ’neath baronial fare,If they could talk of that Oak wood,Might tell of dwelling there.—
The young Oak tree yet statelier grew,And broader spread its shade,And the dappled deer lay sheltered ’neathThe canopy it made.
Years came and went.—The Oak tree stoodIn full-grown prime and pride,And lords of various mind and moodPossessed those woodlands wide.
The first, a reckless forester,Loved horse, and hawk, and hound,And he chased all o’er his wide domains,Wellnigh the whole year round.
His lady fair, as dames were wont,In those long bygone days,Loved hawking too; and gallant trainsShe led through forest ways.
’Twas a merry and a winsome thing,When lord, and squire, and knightRode forth, mid bugles ringing shrill,With dainty ladies bright,To sweep along by vale and hill,Or through the forest glade,Where the echoes of their laughter lightA merry music made.
And oft they reined their palfreys inBeneath the young Oak tree,And oft foretold how grand a thingIn after-time ’twould be.
These jocund sports passed all away;For direful civil warSpread its fell curse throughout the land,Wasting it near and far.
And the next lord these broad lands had,A warrior stern was he,He dwelt with camps and cannon moreThan sylvan glade and tree.
He died in battle; and his landsBy craft and deeds unfair,His brother claimed and won, althoughHis infant son was heir.
This hard, bad man was miserly,And loved no thing save gold;He soon marked out the stately tree,To be cut down and sold.
What was its beauty unto him?—The grand and noble thing!His dull eyes only measured wellWhat moneys it would bring.
But while he doomed the lordly oak,His wicked life ebbed low,And suddenly, death summoned himFrom his ill-got hoards to go.
The grand estate—the ancient hall,The woods, and wealth untold,Came then unto that warrior’s child,A boy of ten years old.
He was a thoughtful, quiet boy,For though yet young in years,His mother’s sorrows and his ownHad made him old in tears.
And with a calm and gentle joyCame home that youthful heir,For his chief source of gladness was,To bring his mother there:—
To watch her sadly smile to seeAgain each well-known spot,Where days of happiness had passed,That ne’er could be forgot:—
To have her former state restored,Maidens, and serving-men;And garments, richer than of old,He bade them bring her then.
The gardens, that the miser hadLeft all untrimmed and bare,Were planted, pruned, and decked anew,And stored with all things rare.
But chiefly did the lady loveOne glade within the wood,The shady glade, where broad and high,The noble Oak tree stood.
Sad memories, yet sweet ones too,For her that lone spot bore:’Twas there she parted from her lordTo meet on earth no more!
’Twas there, beneath that tree, he spokeHis last,lastfond farewell!From thence she watched him ride awayThe eve before he fell:—No marvel that sad lady lovedThe silent spot so well!
And there they oft together came,The lady and the boy,For he to her was all on earth,Her one sole living joy.
And long years after, when she sleptHer warrior’s tomb beside,When the boy had grown an aged man,With grandsons by his side:—
That ancient wood he reverenced;And peasants, when they spokeOf the old tree within the glade,Called it—the Lady’s Oak.
I know the spot—though strangely timeHath altered all around,Where once the forest’s stillness lay,Now whirling wheels resound.
A large and busy peopled townE’en on that spot we see,Where dappled deer and timid birdsDwelt fearlessly and free.
But I remember when a child,One old and mouldering shellOf a most ancient, huge Oak treeStood near the public well.
I’ve sat within it many a time,In childish sport and play,And much I mourned to see at lastThe trunk quite cleared away.
Soon they built there a fine new street,And noisy coaches sweepWith roar and riot,—even whereThat lady came to weep!
Each passing year we note a changeIn ancient things and new;And if we see so much in one,What may not hundreds do?
Louisa A. Twamley.
There’s no powerIn ancestry, to make the foolish wise,The ignorant learned, the cowardly and baseDeserving our respect as brave and good.All men feel this: nor dares the despot sayHis fiat can endow with truth the soul,Or, like a pension, on the heart bestowThe virtues current in the realms above.Hence man’s best riches must be gained—not given;His noblest name deserved, and not derived.Mrs. Hale.
There’s no powerIn ancestry, to make the foolish wise,The ignorant learned, the cowardly and baseDeserving our respect as brave and good.All men feel this: nor dares the despot sayHis fiat can endow with truth the soul,Or, like a pension, on the heart bestowThe virtues current in the realms above.Hence man’s best riches must be gained—not given;His noblest name deserved, and not derived.Mrs. Hale.
There’s no powerIn ancestry, to make the foolish wise,The ignorant learned, the cowardly and baseDeserving our respect as brave and good.All men feel this: nor dares the despot sayHis fiat can endow with truth the soul,Or, like a pension, on the heart bestowThe virtues current in the realms above.Hence man’s best riches must be gained—not given;His noblest name deserved, and not derived.
Mrs. Hale.
Some men are born to endure the toil and strifeAnd heavy burdens of the earth. They areThe pillars in the temple of this life,Its strength and ornament; or, hidden farBeneath, they form its firm foundation-stone.In nobleness they stand distinct and lone,Yet other men upon them lean, and fain(Such selfishness in human bosoms swells)Would lay on them the weight of their own pain.Where greatness is, a patient spirit dwells;They least repine who bear and suffer most:In still and stern endurance they sustainThe ills whereof all weaker minds complain;And in their blessed lot they stand, without a sigh or boast.MacKellar.
Some men are born to endure the toil and strifeAnd heavy burdens of the earth. They areThe pillars in the temple of this life,Its strength and ornament; or, hidden farBeneath, they form its firm foundation-stone.In nobleness they stand distinct and lone,Yet other men upon them lean, and fain(Such selfishness in human bosoms swells)Would lay on them the weight of their own pain.Where greatness is, a patient spirit dwells;They least repine who bear and suffer most:In still and stern endurance they sustainThe ills whereof all weaker minds complain;And in their blessed lot they stand, without a sigh or boast.MacKellar.
Some men are born to endure the toil and strifeAnd heavy burdens of the earth. They areThe pillars in the temple of this life,Its strength and ornament; or, hidden farBeneath, they form its firm foundation-stone.In nobleness they stand distinct and lone,Yet other men upon them lean, and fain(Such selfishness in human bosoms swells)Would lay on them the weight of their own pain.Where greatness is, a patient spirit dwells;They least repine who bear and suffer most:In still and stern endurance they sustainThe ills whereof all weaker minds complain;And in their blessed lot they stand, without a sigh or boast.
MacKellar.
TheYew is among all nations an emblem of sorrow. Its bare trunk, and dark foliage, with which its fruit, looking like drops of blood, stands in harsh contrast, excite in us a sort of aversion. Persons who sleep under a Yew tree are liable to be seized with dizziness, heaviness, and violent headache. Its juice is poisonous, and the tree exhausts the soil which supports it, and destroys all other plants which spring up beneath it. The Yew was planted in old English burying-grounds, and its wood was commonly employed for making bows and arrows before the introduction of fire-arms. The Greeks, impressed with the melancholy aspect of this tree, invented the fable of the unhappy Smilax; who, seeing that her love was rejected by young Crocus, was transformed into a Yew.
Who that hath ever been,Could bear to be no more?Yet who would tread again the sceneHe trod through life before?Montgomery.
Who that hath ever been,Could bear to be no more?Yet who would tread again the sceneHe trod through life before?Montgomery.
Who that hath ever been,Could bear to be no more?Yet who would tread again the sceneHe trod through life before?
Montgomery.
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast;Which thou wilt propagate, to have them prestWith more of thine: this love, that thou hast shown,Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.Shakspeare.
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast;Which thou wilt propagate, to have them prestWith more of thine: this love, that thou hast shown,Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.Shakspeare.
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast;Which thou wilt propagate, to have them prestWith more of thine: this love, that thou hast shown,Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.
Shakspeare.
And sorrowing friends stood round the bedWhereon a form was lying:’Twas Ellen;—there the suffering saint,Without a murmur or complaint,In peace and hope was dying.A silence deep as death was thereWhen her true soul departed;And grace and mercy crowned her endWho lived the broken-hearted.MacKellar.
And sorrowing friends stood round the bedWhereon a form was lying:’Twas Ellen;—there the suffering saint,Without a murmur or complaint,In peace and hope was dying.A silence deep as death was thereWhen her true soul departed;And grace and mercy crowned her endWho lived the broken-hearted.MacKellar.
And sorrowing friends stood round the bedWhereon a form was lying:’Twas Ellen;—there the suffering saint,Without a murmur or complaint,In peace and hope was dying.A silence deep as death was thereWhen her true soul departed;And grace and mercy crowned her endWho lived the broken-hearted.
MacKellar.
When the cold breath of sorrow is sweepingO’er the chords of the youthful heart,And the earnest eye, dimmed with strange weeping,Sees the visions of fancy depart;When the bloom of young feeling is dying,And the heart throbs with passion’s fierce strifeWhen our sad days are wasted in sighing,Who then can find sweetness in life?Mrs. Embury.
When the cold breath of sorrow is sweepingO’er the chords of the youthful heart,And the earnest eye, dimmed with strange weeping,Sees the visions of fancy depart;When the bloom of young feeling is dying,And the heart throbs with passion’s fierce strifeWhen our sad days are wasted in sighing,Who then can find sweetness in life?Mrs. Embury.
When the cold breath of sorrow is sweepingO’er the chords of the youthful heart,And the earnest eye, dimmed with strange weeping,Sees the visions of fancy depart;When the bloom of young feeling is dying,And the heart throbs with passion’s fierce strifeWhen our sad days are wasted in sighing,Who then can find sweetness in life?
Mrs. Embury.
He is dead. Those words toll on the ear,The knell of hopes, and fears, and fleshy aims.The spirit light has cast a farewell beam—Has shaken off its way-worn gear, and wingedTo heaven. Sorrow will demand her tears,For he was lovely, and leaves a hollowIn our near-drawn sphere which none may upclose.But thoughts of heaven, through tears, will light us,Making that refresh which seemed to blast!C. Watson.
He is dead. Those words toll on the ear,The knell of hopes, and fears, and fleshy aims.The spirit light has cast a farewell beam—Has shaken off its way-worn gear, and wingedTo heaven. Sorrow will demand her tears,For he was lovely, and leaves a hollowIn our near-drawn sphere which none may upclose.But thoughts of heaven, through tears, will light us,Making that refresh which seemed to blast!C. Watson.
He is dead. Those words toll on the ear,The knell of hopes, and fears, and fleshy aims.The spirit light has cast a farewell beam—Has shaken off its way-worn gear, and wingedTo heaven. Sorrow will demand her tears,For he was lovely, and leaves a hollowIn our near-drawn sphere which none may upclose.But thoughts of heaven, through tears, will light us,Making that refresh which seemed to blast!
C. Watson.
Amore appropriate emblem of death than the remains of the forest’s refreshing verdure could not be selected. Withered by the chill breath of ruthless Winter, the leaves strew the earth; and, in time, mingle with the dust, like ourselves. The eye cannot help watching how the winds pursue, scatter, whirl, and drive these remnants of departed life.