Part 3

For there we played together, In childhood's sunny hours; Before life's stormy weather Had killed its morning flowers.

And since no draught we 've tasted, Its weary journey through, As we so far have hasted, Like that our father drew;

I feel, as at a mountain, I cannot pass nor climb, Till from that distant fountain I drink, as in my prime.

My spirit's longing, thirsting, No waters else can quell; My heart seems near to bursting To reach that good old well.

Though all be changed around it, And though so changed are we, Just where our father found it, That pure well spring will be.

In earth, when deeply going, He reached and smote the rock; He set its fount to flowing-- It opened at his knock.

The way, he smoothed and stoned it, A close, round, shadowy cell; Whoever since has owned it, It is our father's well!

His prattling son and daughter, With each an infant's cup, We waited for the water, His steady hand drew up.

When we had paused and listened, Till down the bucket dashed, O how it, rising, glistened, And to the sunlight flashed!

And since that moment, never Has that cool deep been dry; Its fount is living ever, While man and seasons die.

Around its mouth is growing The moss of many a year; But from its heart is flowing The water sweet and clear.

Fond memory near it lingers, And, like a happy child, She plucks, with busy fingers, And wreathes the roses wild.

Yet many a lip, whose burning Its limpid drops allayed, Has since, to ashes turning, Been veiled in silent shade.

Still we are here, and telling About our infant play; Where that free spring is welling, So true, and far away.

But O! the change, my brother! Our father's head is hoar; The tender name of mother Is ours to call no more.

And now, around thee gather Such little ones as we Were then, beside our father, And look to theirs in thee.

While fast our years are wasting, Their numbers none can tell; So let us hence be hasting To find our Father's well.

Come, we will speed us thither, And from its mossy brink, To flowers that ne'er shall wither Look up to heaven and drink.

They spring beside the waters, Our Father there will give To all his sons and daughters, Where they shall drink and live.

THE MOTHER'S DREAM.

"And I will give him the morning star."

REV. ii. 28.

Methought, once more to my wishful eye My beautiful boy had come: My sorrow was gone, my cheek was dry, And gladness around my home.

I saw the form of my dear, lost child! All kindled with life he came; And he spake in his own sweet voice, and smiled, As soon as I called his name.

The garb he wore looked heavenly white, As the feathery snow comes down, And warm, as it shone in the softened light That fell from his dazzling crown.

His eye was bright with a joy serene, His cheek with a deathless bloom, That only the eye of my soul hath seen, When looking beyond the tomb.

The odors of flowers, from the thornless land Where we deem that our blest ones are, Seemed borne in his skirts; and his soft right hand Was holding a radiant star.

His feet, unshod, looked tender and fair, As the lily's opening bell, Half veiled in a cloud of glory, as there Around him, in folds, it fell.

I asked him how he was clothed anew-- Who circled his head with light-- And whence he returned to meet my view So calm and heavenly bright.

I asked him where he had been so long Away from his mother's care-- Again to sing me his infant song, And to kneel by my side in prayer.

He said, "Sweet mother, the song I sing Is not for an earthly ear: I touch the harp with a golden string, For the hosts of heaven to hear.

"It was but a gently fleeting breath, That severed thy child from thee! The fearful shadow, in time, called Death, Hath ministered life to me.

"My voice in an angel choir I lift; And high are the notes we raise: I hold the sign of a priceless gift, And the Giver, who hath our praise.

"'The bright and the morning star' is he, Who bringeth eternal day! And, mother, he giveth himself to thee, To lighten thine earthly way.

"The race is short to a peaceful goal, And He is never afar, Who saith of the wise, untiring soul, 'I will give him the morning star!'

"Thy measure of care for me was filled, And pure to its crystal top; For Faith, with a steady eye, distilled And numbered every drop.

"While thou wast teaching my lips to move, And my heart to rise in prayer, I learned the way to a world above; The home of thy child is there!

"The secret prayers, thou didst make for me, That only thy God hath known, Arose, like sweet incense, holy and free, And gathered around his throne.

"My robe was filled with the perfume sweet To shed upon this world's air, As I joyful knelt, at my Saviour's feet, For the glorious crown I wear.

"In that bright, blissful world of ours, The waters of life I drink: Behold my feet, as they 've pressed the flowers, That grow by the fountain's brink!

"No thorn is hidden to wound me there; There 's nothing of chill, or blight, Or sighing to blend with the balmy air-- No sorrow--no pain--no night!"

"No _parting_?" I asked, with a burst of joy; And the lovely illusion broke! My rapture had banished my beauteous boy-- To a shadowy void I spoke.

But, O! that STAR of the morn still beams With light to direct my feet Where, when I have done with my earthly dreams, The mother and child may meet.

THE WAR-SPIRIT ON BUNKER'S HEIGHT.

The sun walked the skies in the splendor of June, O'er earth full of promise, and air full of tune; The broad azure streams calmly rolled to the deep, Whose waves on its breast stirred like babes in their sleep.

The turf heaved its green to the white vestured flock, That fed, or reposed in the shade of the rock; The birds sang their songs by their nests in the bowers; And the bee hummed with sweets from the fresh opened flowers.

The humming-bird glittered, and whirred o'er the cell, Where her nectar was stored, from the hill to the dell; 'Mid the bloom and the perfume, that passed on the breeze, From the rose, and the vine, and the fruit-bearing trees.

It seemed like a gala, when Nature, arrayed In festival robes, with her treasures displayed, Reflected the smile of her Maker above, And offered up hymns of her thanksgiving love.

And yet, in the bosom of man there were fires Fierce, quenchless and fearful--consuming desires For right unpossessed, and for lawless domain, That burned to the soul, and that flamed to the brain.

In the streets there was clanging and gleaming of arms; In the dwellings, resolve, preparation, alarms; In the eye of the wife, mother, sister, a tear; In the face of their soldier, no semblance of fear.

The patriot chieftain had marked out his ground, To hold, or to fall, if his foe passed the bound: And now was the hero to close in the strife, For death as a bondman, or freedom with life.

The war-spirit hovered, and frowned on the height, His eye flashing lightning--his wings shedding night! From his wide fiery nostrils rolled volumes of smoke, And the rocks roared afar, as in thunder he spoke.

At his dread shock of nature, the lamb from its play, The bee and the bird, in affright fled away; The branch, flower, and grass, felt the crush and the scath, And the winds passing by, snuffed the heat of his wrath.

With blood, that, in torrents, he poured down like rain, He drenched the green turf, that he strewed with the slain, Till the eminence groaned with the carnage it bore, And its heart heaved and shuddered at drinking the gore.

While the breath of the war-spirit scented the air, The rivers looked wild in reflecting his glare; And ocean's cold bosom was torn, as he gave The flap of his pinion to trouble its wave.

The village besieged, wrapped in flames from his breath, Looked up to the hill, where he revelled with death, And swelled with the essence of life he had shed, To sweeten their cup, and the banquet to spread.

O War-spirit! War-spirit, when didst thou bring Such trophies of beauty before the pale king, Since walking on Gilboa's height, in thy power, Of Israel's valiant to mow down the flower?

Mourn, wail, O ye people! and spread wide the pall, Whose deep sable fringe down the hill-sides shall fall! Your brethren's warm blood cries aloud from the ground, That hosts, like Philistia's, in triumph surround.

The lovely, the pleasant have perished! Alas! Where they fell may there hence be no dew on the grass! Let a monument there, towards the heavens rear its head, From a base, that shall cover the spot where they bled!

Ah, War-spirit! War-spirit, deep was the gloom, Though heaven was unclouded, and earth all in bloom, When thou, at the onset, that young summer's day, Didst strike so much valor to darkness away!

And yet, by that thunder, the land is awake: 'T was the crack of her yoke when beginning to break! And out of that gloom is her glory to spread; Her living be franchised, immortal her dead.

For up from that summit an eagle shall rise, To breast the thick clouds, till he sails the blue skies; And drop, while he bathes at the fountain of light, A plume from his pinion their story to write.

It shall fall where they fell, on the still purple sward, Full and warm with the sunbeams their deeds to record; And move o'er the scroll in the hand of the free, While the wing where it grew spans the earth and the sea.

THE INNER SELF.

While others lie composed in sleep, Close wrapped in shade and silence deep, And starry hosts and angels keep Their vigils o'er the night, I have a curious work to do, A secret door to venture through, A wondrous being then to view; If I can stand the sight.

I now take up the sacred key, Unlock my breast, and pass to see The inmost, true, essential ME: And lo! I here have found, Enclosed within its shrine, the heart, Myself, my thinking, reasoning part: But say, my spirit, what thou art, And whence, and whither bound!

'T is but with wonder, reverence, fear And shrinking, that I thus draw near The majesty, that meets me here, My soul, unveiled, in thee! I cannot give thy form, or hue, Or measure, or proportions true; But feel myself myself subdue, Thou deepening mystery.

Not all the earth, nor air, nor sea Could furnish food to nourish thee; Nor welling founts, nor rivers free, The spirit's thirst allay: Nor silver web, nor cloth of gold, Nor stuffs, that time can e'er unfold, Nor pearls, nor gems this world may hold, Compose thee an array.

Yet all the fibres of my frame Own that from thee their feeling came; And, at the slightest touch, will claim Thy closest sympathy. Thou art their life, their light, their spring, Informing them in every thing, But how they are allied, and cling, My nobler self, to thee.

And do I thus the power survey, Whom all my meaner powers obey? Hand, foot and tongue and eye--are they The servants of thy will? And when they pause, repose to take, Dost thou, untiring and awake, Thy pinions spread, and swiftly make Thy wide excursions still?

What art thou, never slumbering soul, To stretch thy wings from pole to pole-- To span the globe--to mark its roll-- Its elements to see, Conspiring thus, to prophesy Its end to come before thine eye, Whilst thou canst fire and flood defy, Nor ever cease to be?

And, swifter than an eagle flies, Or arrows dart, dost thou arise Through air and space, and scale the skies, 'Mid shining spheres to roam: And with thy conscious rank elate, Dost stand and watch at heaven's bright gate, For glimpses of that rich estate Where thou may'st claim thy home.

Thence, near the pit dost thou go down, To spy the difference 'twixt the crown Of life, and that dread withering frown, Which blights a spirit there. Then, on eternity's dark brink, Between them dost thou pause, and think, And ask, if thou shalt soar or sink-- To joy or wo the heir.

Too blind to trace thy being's plan, Too small my nobler part to span, I end my quest where it began, And from myself retire. I hence must own within my breast A power of unknown powers possessed-- A flame, not long to be repressed, Of clear immortal fire.

TIME.

Time, with thy kind and never-wearying powers, Giving whate'er we fondly count as ours; Life, love, hope, faith, the sun, the stars and flowers; All that to man is dear to thee we owe! Yet does he call thee, slayer, robber, thief, And stern, as of his foes thou wert the chief, Filling his path with ruins, pain and grief, Without one tender blessing to bestow!

Nature we laud, when thou, paternal Time, Hast given maturity, as well as prime, To all her works, in every age and clime, Since the first floweret on her bosom grew. Light from the darkness doth thy hand unfold: Beauty from dust we in thy deeds behold: The frail, the dimmed, the withered, worn and old Thy breath dissolves, that they may shine anew.

The city flames, and melts the tottering wall; Again she rises fairer for the fall. Thou beckonest back the flood! and at thy call, From crust-capped mounts, volcanic splendors pour. The absent sun his way to morning bends; The waning star to thy command attends, Fills out and burns; and man to dust descends, In hope to live, when thou shalt be no more.

The leaves are scattered, yet the waiting tree Shall have them brought, in verdure, back by thee; The flower has vanished, but the trusting bee Will find her cell again with sweetness stored. The seed may perish, yet the germ will rise; The grain is ripened while its sheathing dies. The fruits of earth, the glories of the skies Forth by thy bounteous hand to man are poured.

We owe thee still for gifts far more divine-- The key to joys it never can be thine To give or take; and heavenly light to shine When we must enter that dark, shadowy vale, Where nought of earth the pathway can illume, Or lend one ray to shoot across the gloom, That gathers round the threshold of the tomb, When thou must there, first and forever, fail.

Then, why does man so oft forget that he Owes all he is, and all he hopes to be, When thou and he are severed, but to thee? Why does he slay thee piecemeal, day by day? Shut out in exile from thine empire, there, In that unknown, dread, boundless country, where Is no retreat, no inn, how will he bear To have thy spectre haunt the endless way?

Man's wisest study is to know thy worth And his relations to thee from his birth; To bring his course o'er this uneven earth, In a clear sunset, to a quiet close. Then, as a weary traveller is undressed, While gently thou the spirit may'st divest Of her worn garment, there remains a rest, And she goes franchised to that blest repose.

And now, O Time, as one more hasty year Of thine is gone, thou hast another here! Grateful we hail it, though the bitter tear May have put out the light of joy that shone On many a face; though tender, sundered ties Have changed to chords that vibrate but with sighs, In many a stricken breast where sorrow lies, Draining the life-stream, while that year has flown.

Countless the blessings showered in its flight; And seeming evils, turned and viewed aright, May prove but passing clouds, and lined with light. Our trust, deceived in earthly things, may teach The restless, eager spirit to forego Her crushing grasp on hollow hopes, that grow Like fragile reeds, to mock her hold below; And after higher, holier joys to reach.

TIME, then our nobler aspirations raise! Since few, and short, and fleeting are our days; And since, so peaceful are her pleasant ways, Teach us to wisdom to apply the heart: So that, when thou hast safely led us through Thy kingdom, with a brighter land in view, Calm at thy bourn, and with a kind adieu, We may, as friends, shake hands with thee and part.

MY HEAD.

"The day is come I never thought to see! Strange revolutions of my farm and me."

DRYDEN'S VIRGIL.

My head! my head! the day is come I never, never thought to see; When all, with fingers and a thumb, May to thy chambers have a key!

That is, if thou wouldst but submit To come beneath the learned touch, And let the judge in judgment sit Upon thy bumps, that prove so much.

I used to think our heads might let Their own contents, at will, be shown; I never thought mankind could get An outward way to make them known.

But now the sapient hand has cut The matter short, and all may tell Thy value, as they 'd prize a nut, And know the kernel by the shell.

If half the light, that has been thrown _On_ heads, were only poured _within_, Thou wouldst not thus be left to own The darkness that is now thy sin.

But, while the world is in a blaze Of purely phrenologic light, Thou, wildered thing, art in a maze, And destitute of faith and sight.

They use a thousand meaning words Thou couldst not utter or define, Of which, to tell the truth, three thirds Were gravel, in a mouth like thine.

They hold me out an empty skull, To show the powers of living brains: 'T is just like feeling of the hull, To tell what goods the ship contains.

And, whether nature or mishap Have raised the bump, 't is all the same; The sage's crown, or dunce's cap Must be awarded as its claim.

This hobby, that so many sit, And manage with such ease and grace, I dare not try with rein or bit, It seems so of the donkey race.

And yet, my head, no doubt, 't is all A fault of thine, a want of sight, That so much said by Combe and Gall And Spurzheim cannot turn thee right.

I know not what thy case may be,-- If thou art hollow, or opaque; I only know thou canst not see, And faith declines one step to take.

This burst of light has turned thee numb, Depriving thee of every sense; So now, if tried, thou must be dumb, Nor say one word in self-defence!

THE WHEAT FIELD.

Field of wheat, so full and fair, Shining, with thy sunny hair Lightly waving either way, Graceful as the breezes play-- Looking like a summer sea; How I love to gaze at thee! Pleasant art thou to the sight; And to thought a rich delight. Then, thy voice is music sweet, Softly sighing field of wheat.

Pointing upward to the sky, Rising straight, and aiming high, Every stalk is seen to shoot As an arrow, from the root. Like a well-trained company, All in uniform agree, From the footing to the ear; All in order strict appear. Marshalled by a skilful hand, All together bow, or stand Still, within the proper bound: None o'ersteps the given ground, With its tribute held to pay, At his nod whom they obey, Each the gems, that stud its crown, Will ere long, for man, lay down. Thou with promise art replete Of the precious sheaves of wheat.

How thy strength in weakness lies! Not a robber bird, that flies, Finds support whereby to put On a stalk her lawless foot. Not a predatory beak Plunges down, thy stores to seek, Where the guard of silver spears Keeps the fruit, and decks the ears. No vain insect, that could do Harm to thee, dares venture through Such an armory, or eat Off the sheath to take the wheat.

What a study do we find Opened here for eye and mind! In it who can offer less, Than to wonder, and confess, That on this high-favored ground, Faith is blest, and hope is crowned. Charity her arms may spread Wide from it, with gifts of bread. Wisdom, power, and goodness meet In the bounteous field of wheat.

THE LITTLE TRAVELLER.

I am the tiniest child of earth, But still, I would like to be known to fame, Though next to nothing I had my birth, And lowest of all is my lowly name.

Yet, if so humble my native place, I this can say, in family pride, That I 'm of the world's most numerous race, And made by the Maker of all beside.

Although I 'm so poor, I have nought to lose; Still I 'm so little I can't be lost: I journey about wherever I choose, And those, who carry me, bear the cost.

The most forgiving of earthly things, I often cling to my deadly foe; And, spite of the cruelest flirts and flings, Arise by the force that has cast me low.

When beauty has trodden me under foot, I 've quietly risen her face to seek, Embraced her forehead, or calmly put Myself to rest in her dimpled cheek.

I 've ridden to war on the soldier's plume; But startled, and sprung at the wild affray, The sights of horror, of fire and fume, And fled on the wing of the winds away.

I 've visited courts, and been ushered in By the proudest guest of the stately scene; I 've touched his majesty's bosom-pin, And the nuptial ring of his lofty queen.

At the royal board, in the grand parade, I 've oft been one familiar and free: The fairest lady has smiled, and laid Her delicate, gloveless hand on me.

Philosopher, poet, the learned, the sage, Never declines a call from me; And all, of every rank and age, Admit me into their _coterie_.

I visit the lions of every where, If human, or brute, and can testify To what they do, to what they wear, To wonders none ever beheld but I!

And now, reviewing the things I 've done, Forgetting my name, my rank and birth, I begin to think I am number one Of the great and manifold things of earth.

I 've still much more, that I yet might tell, Which modesty bids me here withhold; For fear with my travels I seem to swell, grow, for an ATOM OF DUST, too bold!

THE ENTANGLED FLY.

Ah, thou unfortunate! Poor, silly fly, Caught in the spider's web, Hung there to die! What could have tempted thee? What led thee there, For thy foe, thus to throw Around thee the snare?

Struggling and crying so Ne'er can unweave From thee the silken threads, Laid to deceive. Sorrow for wandering Comes now in vain; And, with one thus undone, Grief adds to pain.

Yet, I will rescue thee, Unwary thing! Thou may'st again be off, High on the wing, If thou wilt promise me, Hence to be found Never more, as before, On evil ground.

Trust not the flatterer Skilled to ensnare: He is a wily one; Think, and beware. Down to his dusky ways No more descend! Little fly, thou and I Both want a friend.