"And blest are they who sleep; and we that know
While in a spot like this, we breathe and walk,
That all beneath us, by the wings are covered
Of motherly humanity, outspread
And gathering all within their tender shade,
Though loth and slow to come."
"The Excursion."-WORDSWORTH.
H, Nature! prodigal of bounties ever; Thou silent recompenser, we can see A reflex of the great and gracious Giver
Of all things beautiful and good, in thee; Seeking no payment, freely dost thou give Thy sunshine, and thy dews to all who live.
Dear, patient mother, putting on in kindness,
Year after year, for us her richest dress;
She heedeth not our coldness nor our blindness-
Her comfort is to give, her joy to bless.
She decks with rarest gems the dreariest plain,
And only weeps when she has decked in vain.
The daisies in the meadows are her voices,
Alas! they speak too oft to listless ears;
Their whispers deafened by the world's rude noises,
Their brightness sullied by the world's salt tears :
Their timid faces greet us day by day,
Yet pass we on, unheeding what they say.
How oft at evening, by some clear stream lying,
We flung them to its current hurrying by ;
Say, did we hear their pitiful dumb crying,
As forth we cast them on the waves, to die?
Ah! heedless! and their kindred yet will bloom
With beautiful forgiveness on our tomb.
Oh, mighty mother! How men hide their faces,
And creep for shelter to thy quiet breast!
Great heart which all a universe embraces,
And gives to mortal man his only rest;
Then bids thy ministers make haste to shed
The mantle of thy beauty o'er his bed.
There does the cushat light at even, cooing;
And there the earliest violets love to spring ;
There the bee hums, his homeward flight pursuing,
Bearing the fragrant spoil beneath his wing:
There, in the twilight hour, the nightingale
Wakes all the echoes with her plaintive tale.
There never word unkind confusion causes;
No terrors can assault these peaceful dreams-----
Only to slake his thirst the wild deer pauses
By yon stray wanderer from her sister streams,
That loves to steal by this forgotten place,
Where friend and foe lie locked in one embrace.
Oh, throbbing heads that find here restful pillows, Oh, weary hearts, that ne'er can suffer more! Afar I hear the thunder of life's billows,
But ye sleep on, unheedful of their roar. Well might we envy you, thus resting here, With nought but God and heaven your quiet near.
Sleep on, ye lovers, never to be parted;
Sleep, calmly sleep, and take your longed-for rest; Sleep your unbroken sleep, ye faithful hearted, Rocked on the cradle of this loving breast: Sleep on; no cruel hands your rest durst break, No voice of enemy your slumber wake.
Sleep, little baby, on thy mother's bosom,
Her twining arms shall never more unclose; Gathered as soon as budded, tender blossom,
Fearing nor summer heat nor winter snows. Ne'er trembling shalt thou wake in wild affright, Thy mother sleeps beside thee all the night.
Sheltered by solemn mountains, watch'd for ever,
By the pale stars which cluster, as if they
Would whisper of this household "Nought can sever,
This family of God that here doth stay."
Oh ! quiet churchyard on this lone hill side,
Thou hast the rude strings of my harp untied.
ENTLE river swiftly rushing
In a current deep and free:
With thy broad calm bosom flushing
'Neath heaven's rosy canopy;
Thou hast wakened in my breast
Thoughts that like thee will not rest.
Art thou not a solemn preacher
To this busy bustling town?
Art thou not a mighty teacher,
As thou hurriest swiftly down,
To thine home in yon blue wave?
So men hurry to the grave.
Onward, onward, all unheeding
Those who pass thee lightly by ;
Fast upon thy mission speeding,
As thy murmur seems to cry,
"Sons of earth, ye rush as fast
To an eternity more vast."
Onward still, 'neath sun and shadow,
Onward, still 'neath cloud and beam ;
On by tower and town and meadow,
Still thou goest, gliding stream:
Singing as thou sweep'st along
Unto each thy changeful song.
O'er thee childhood's laugh is ringing
On the stilly morning air;
O'er thee love its spell is flinging
When the moonbeam shineth fair;
And some young unsullied heart
Seeks to speak with thee apart.
To that heart, O talking river,
Thy low murmur seems to say,
"Love like hers will last for ever-
Love like mine knows no decay."
Ah! fond whisperer that tone
Full of promise was thine own.
See another o'er thee bending,
Mark his gloomy eye and brow ;
Say what message art thou sending
To this lonely listener now.
Solemn, as the words of fate,
Comes thy voice, "Too late, too late."
"Ah, too late!" with plaintive sobbing,
Still is moaned thy sad refrain;
Till the sick heart swelling, throbbing,
Madden'd by earth's gnawing pain,
Fain would glide away with thee,
Into heaven's eternity.
By thee youth and age are going,
By thee poverty and wealth;
Hearts with love or hate o'erflowing,
Sickness, pale, and rosy health,
Bounding pulse, or spirit broken,
And to each some truths are spoken.
Meetings, partings, laughter, sighing,
Blessings, cursings, hope and fear,
Living now, to-morrow dying,
Would men but thy voices hear;
Solemn river, thou wouldst give
Lessons unto all who live!
Fare-thee-well, oh! lovely river;
Thou hast whispered unto me
Of a stream that faileth never,
That hath higher springs than thee:
When thy channel runneth dry
May I walk that river by.
"And in the morning, lo! it was Leah.”
HE wakened first, and thro' her veiling hair
Gazed on the face that fraud had given her,
And felt with a fierce throb of keen despair,
She-even she-was his joy's murderer :
And with what horror wild-or cold surprise-
Her wakened lord should meet her wedded eyes.
She looked again, and thought upon a cheek
Pallid with weeping in their father's tent;
Yet she was fair-the beauty he did seek-
Let it bereavéd Rachel now lament:
Were Love and Beauty both to be her share,
And Leah wretched, as she was not fair?
How often by the sheep-fold on the hill
Had she in their mute love been crucified ;— Was cold neglect to be her portion still,
And he clasp Rachel as his wedded bride? Ah, no! and yet her throbbing hands she prest, As tho' to still its crying, on her breast.
He loved her not! What tho' his form was hers-
His soul was Rachel's. Hark! her hungry ear
Strains now to catch his whisper as he stirs ;
What words are these her aching senses hear?
They her unhallowed triumph fierce reprove-
"Rachel—my bride-my wife-my only love."
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