Part 4

Man hath an enemy, Whose snare is laid Softly and silently, Deep in the shade. Light, by the tempter shunned, Only can show Where, secure, free, and pure, Our feet may go.

THE PEACH BLOSSOMS.

Come here! come here! cousin Mary, and see What fair, ripe peaches there are on the tree-- On the very same bough that was given to me By father, one day last spring. When it looked so beautiful, all in the blow, And I wanted to pluck it, he told me, you know, I might, but that waiting a few months would show The fruit, that patience might bring.

And as I perceived, by the sound of his voice, And the look of his eye, it was clearly his choice That it should not be touched, I have now to rejoice That I told him we 'd let it remain; For, had it been gathered when full in the flower, Its blossoms had withered, perhaps, in an hour, And nothing on earth could have given the power That would make them flourish again.

But now, of a fruit so delicious and sweet I 've enough for myself and my playmates a treat; And they tell me, besides, that the kernels secrete What, if planted, will make other trees: For the shell will come open to let down the root; A sprout will spring up, whence the branches will shoot; There 'll be buds, leaves, and blossoms; and then comes the fruit-- Such beautiful peaches as these!

And Nature, they say, like a mighty machine, Has a wheel in a wheel, which, if aught comes between, It ruins her work, as it might have been seen, Had it not given patience this trial. From this, I 'll be careful to keep it in mind, When the blossoms I love, that there lingers behind A better reward, that the trusting shall find For a trifling self-denial.

THE BROKEN PIPE.

Come here, 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 grievous Disaster took place.

"Why, Puss came along; And, said I, 'Now she 'll think That white, frothy water Is 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 blow With my pipe; and it flew At once into pieces! O what shall I do?

"I can't make a bubble! I wish naughty Kit Had been a mile off: See! there 's blood on me yet!"

I 'm sorry, my boy; yet Your loss is but just; You first deceived Pussy, And trifled with trust.

In this, when you failed, You compelled her; and thence The wound on your face, From poor Kit's self-defence.

Then, when you grew cruel And beat her, you know Your pipe and yourself Fared the worst for the blow.

Let this lesson teach you, Hence never to stoop To 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, unkindness Returns whence it came; And ever deceit must Be 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 town Just 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 youth To 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 green With 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 bray In her ear, when, away She sprang, shrieked, and fell on her face.

She thought she was swallowed alive, Awhile upon earth lying flat; And the terrible sound Seemed 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 pour Behind 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 out Of the bounds, where they 'd gathered to swim.

In turning a corner, she met Abruptly, the horns of a cow That 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 marks At 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 straight As a dart, through the gate, Abhorring the gay gear she wore.

She sat down, and thought of the scene With humiliation and tears: The words, and the noise Of the brutes and the boys Were echoing still in her ears.

She reasoned, and came at the cause, Resolving that cause to remove; And thence, her desire Was for modest attire, And her heart and her mind to improve.

And soon, all who knew her before Remarked on the change and the gain In mind, and in mien, And in dress, that were seen In the once flashy Miss Vivy Vain.

THE MOCKING BIRD.

A Mocking Bird 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 satirist Piped, chattered, shrieked, and hissed; He then would moan, and whistle, quack, and caw; Then, carol, drawl, and croak, As if he 'd pass a joke On every other winged one he saw.

Together he would catch A 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 hear How well he gave their voices and their airs. And some became amused; While some, disturbed, refused To own the sounds that others said were theirs.

The sensitive were shocked, To find their honors mocked By one so pert and voluble as he; They knew not if 't was done In earnest or in fun; And fluttered off in silence from the tree.

The silliest grew vain, To think a song or strain Of theirs, however weak, or loud, or hoarse, Was worthy to be heard Repeated by the bird; For of his wit they could not feel the force.

The charitable said, "Poor fellow! if his head Is 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 quotes In honor of our notes, We then were quite as honored, let alone."

The wisest said, "If foe, Or friend, we still may know By him, wherein our greatest failing lies. So, let us not be moved, Since first to be improved By every thing, becomes the truly wise."

THE BIRD'S HOME.

O where is 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 see My 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.

She opened the cage, and away there flew A bright little bird, as a short adieu It 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 Biddy abode in a coop, Because it so chanced, that dame Biddy Had round her a family group Of 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 walk Of pleasure, through thicket and brambles, The covetous eye of a hawk Delighted 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 heard The 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 teach Dame Biddy a little subjection; And cooped her up, out of the reach Of hawking, with time for reflection.

And, throwing a net o'er a pile Of brush-wood that near her was lying, He hoped to its meshes to wile The 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 foe Of 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 toled The 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 claws In 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 known As 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 then Attacked the poor captive unfriended; And you, (who have witnessed a hen In 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, convey A thought like approving the fury, That gave, in this summary way, Punition, without judge or jury.

Whenever thus given, it tends To lessen the angry bestower; The _fowl_ that inflicts it, descends-- The _featherless_ biped, still lower.

THE ENVIOUS LOBSTER.

A Lobster from the water came, And saw another, just the same In form and size; but gayly clad In scarlet clothing; while she had No other raiment to her back Than 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 why You should be better dressed than I. And I should like a suit of red As 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 know Of one as fond of dress and show As that vain lobster, and withal As envious, you 'll perhaps recall To mind her folly, and the plight In 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 tree stood 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 trembled Beneath her ominous paw; And while it shook, with a threatening look She 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 about Their rose, or the least mishap!"

She twisted the stem, and she twirled it; And, seizing the flower it bore With the timely aid of her teeth, she made A 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 sent To every side of the room.

At length, with her sport grown weary, She laid herself down to sun, Inclining to doze, forgetting the rose And 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 late Delighted her watchful eye.

But where was the one, who had spoiled it, Concealing his guilty face? She had not a clue whereby to pursue The 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 spied A rose-leaf pierced by her tooth.

Then kit was expelled from the parlor All covered with shame. And those Inclined, like her, in secret to err, Should remember kit with the rose.

THE STORM IN THE FOREST.

The storm 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 spring Shall to thy boughs rich verdure bring, Or her gay birds, to flit and sing Where their first plumage grew; For thou, so long, so fondly made My eye's delight, my summer shade, Here, as a lifeless king, art laid In 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 hand Of 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'er What 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 grief Could 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 true Of what the spoiler's hand shall do With one, who pensive here would view A 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.

Through the 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 light Let my spirit sing her hymn.

Now, in silence and alone, I, to pass the heavy hour, Sit and fancy nature's moan After 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 blue Of the skies, their shadows throw Here, until their sombre hue Gives a cast to all below.

Come, O sun, and through the gloom Let 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 know How 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 discover How a bud becomes a flower.

So, last night I thought about thee On my pillow, till, at last, I was gone in quiet slumber; And a dream before me passed.

In it, I beheld my rose tree Stripped of flower, and bud and leaf; While thy naked stalk and branches Filled me with surprise and grief.

Then, methought, I wept to see thee Spoiled of all that made thee dear, Till a band of smiling angels Mildly shining, hovered near.

Gently as they gathered round thee, All in silence, one of them Laid his soft, fair fingers on thee, Pulling leaves from out the stem.

One by one thy twigs he furnished With a dress of foliage green; While another angel followed, Bringing buds the leaves between.