Part 8

"The discomposed Sovereign with us shall unite, And fly at his friends for our cause in the fight, To scatter his subjects--to purchase our right-- The land of oppression to clear. And he, to whom, whizzing, his monarch shall come, In the form of a ball, 'mid the noise of the drum, The flashes and smoke, will have finished the sum Of his deeds as a royalist here!"

Then, flat to the earth was his Eminence cast! The dust rose above him, and mounted the blast, While a bevy of Rome's feathered sentinels passed, Raised their wings, and huzzaed as he fell! But, how the proud royalist felt, when the lead Of his late British Majesty came at his head, While some dropped before it, and some turned and fled, Is more than a _Yankee_ can tell.

THE BIRD'S MATERNAL CARE.

The following is but versified statement of a touching, literal fact that occurred not long since a few rods from my own door.

A shadowy tree, that grew beside Its city owner's door, Its branches threw so high and wide, That many a bird could sing, and hide Among the leaves it bore.

A robin came, and built her nest In that green rustling tree. At evening, there she sank to rest And furled her weary wings, as blest As little bird could be.

Upon her side her drowsy head, Beneath her folded wing, She pillowed, while the night-hours fled; When morning flushed the east with red, She 'd wake, and mount, and sing.

Five pretty eggs of azure hue, In that soft nest she laid. So clear and vivid was their blue, Like polished balls they shone to view, Of purest sapphire made.

And many a day she brooded o'er Those treasures, till they grew, In what the shells contained before, To something different--something more-- Young birds came peeping through!

Five little baby birds were there, In that fond robin's nest, All callow; and their mother's care Was now to find their daily fare, And shield them with her breast.

Her tiny game, or berries ripe From some far distant stem She 'd bring them; then her beak she 'd wipe, And sit upon a twig, and pipe A mother's tune to them.

At length, the owner of the tree One dismal, stormy day, His window from the shade to free, The better in his room to see, Some branches lopped away.

He dropped the very bough that hung A curtain o'er the nest. The sun burnt through the clouds, and flung His fire the helpless brood among, Till they were sore oppressed.

Their tender mother then was seen To stand on weary feet, Where now they missed the leafy green, With one wing raised her babes to screen From sultry noontide heat.

And, patient there, she day by day, Upon her nest's round edge, Stood up to keep the sun away, While, shaded thus, her nestlings lay Till time their forms could fledge.

Then, when the master of the tree Beheld what love and care Within a mother bird could be, He wished in vain that he could see The bough still living there.

Thus, thoughtless we may often pain Or grieve a feeling heart, Wherein the anguish must remain, While we may wish, but wish in vain, To lay or lull the smart.

A good destroyed 's a fearful thing, And so 's a good undone! We, serving self, on self may bring A heavier ill--a keener sting Than what we sought to shun.

'T is little acts of good or ill, That make our vast account. No _one_, though great, does _all_ God's will Small drops the caves of ocean fill; And sands compose the mount.

SONG.

Little bird, little bird, with thy beautiful eye. Looking as if 't were cut out of a star, How do I know but it once was on high, Beaming through evening, sublime from afar?

I cannot say what thy Maker divine, When he composed thee an optic so bright, Making the skill of his finger to shine, Drew from those high upper regions of light.

Little bird, little bird, with thy spirit-like wings, Fleet as the air,--as the rainbow in hues, How can I tell but the Ruler of kings Formed them by those his blest ministers use?

Were not the fancy-like tints of thy plume, Was not the delicate down of thy breast, Caught from the flowers that in Paradise bloom,-- Plucked from the couch where the weary ones rest?

Little bird, little bird, with thy musical voice Tuned like a seraph's, deep, flowing, and clear, Was not thy melody, touching and choice, Taught by some angel, who visited here?

What, what, pretty fairy! so soon must thou go, Fleet as a vision, without a reply, Just like all other bright treasures below, Charming a moment, to change or to fly?

THE WHITE MOTH.

Beware, pretty Moth, so unsullied and white, Beware of the lamp's dazzling rays! It is not a drop of the sun! but a light That shines to allure little rovers by night; Away! there is death in the blaze.

O why didst thou come from thy covert of green, The vine, round my window so bright; And pop in to know what was here to be seen, Forsaking thy shield, and escaping thy screen, And hazarding life by the flight?

The down on thy limbs and thy bosom so pure That flame would most fatally singe: And nothing thy beautiful wings can insure From harm and from pain beyond mending or cure, If caught by their delicate fringe.

Return, giddy wanderer, safe to the vine; And breathe in the fresh evening air; Go, look at the stars, as they twinkle and shine; And cling to a leaf, or the tendrils that twine, My soft little eavesdropper, there!

And then, by a song I will sing, thou shalt know, Why thus I have lifted my arm To scare thee away from thy luminous foe. That threw out its beams, as a snare, and a show To tempt the unwary to harm.

For, I through the day, have been guarded by One, Who, greater and wiser than I, Has pitied my frailty; and forced me to shun Illusive temptations, where I might have run The peril of sporting to die.

'T was kindness from Him, to whose care I commend Myself through the darkness of night, That taught me so quick to come in, as a friend, Between thee and evil, thy life to defend; Pretty Moth, so unsullied and white.

EDWARD AND CHARLES.

The brothers went out with their father to ride, Where they looked for the flowers, that, along the way-side, So lately were blooming and fair; But their delicate heads by the frost had been nipped; Their stalks by the blast were all twisted and stripped; And nothing but ruin was there.

"Oh! how the rude autumn has spoiled the green hills!" Exclaimed little Charles, "and has choked the bright rills With leaves that are faded and dead! The few on the trees are fast losing their hold, And leaving the branches so naked and cold, That the beautiful birds have all fled."

"I know," replied Edward, "the country has lost A great many charms by the touch of the frost, Which used to appear to the eye; But then, it has opened the chestnut-burr too, The walnut released from the case where it grew; And now is our _Thanksgiving_ nigh!

"Oh! what do you think we shall do on that day?" "I guess," answered Charles, "we shall all go away To Grandpa's; and there find enough Of turkeys, plum-puddings, and pies by the dozens, For Grandpa' and Grandma', aunts, uncles and cousins; And at night we 'll all play blind-man's-buff.

"Perhaps we 'll get Grandpa' to tell us some stories About the old times, with their _Wigs_ and their _Tories_; And what sort of men they could be; When some spread their tables without any cloth, With basins and spoons, and the fuming bean-broth Which they took for their coffee and tea.

"They 'd queer kind of sights, I have heard Grandma' say, About in their streets; for, if not every day, At least it was nothing uncommon, To see them pile on the poor back of one horse A saddle and _pillion_; and what was still worse, Up mounted a man and a woman!

"The lady held on by the driver; and so, Away about town at full trot would they go; Or perhaps to a great country marriage-- To Thanksgiving-supper--to husking, or ball; Or quilting; for thus did they take nearly all Their rides, on an animal carriage.

"I know not what _huskings_ and _quiltings_ may be; But Grandma' will tell; and perhaps let us see Some things, she has, long laid away:-- That stiff damask gown, with its sharp-pointed waist, The hoop, the craped-cushion, and buckles of paste, Which they wore in her grandparents' day.

"She says they had buttons as large as our dollars, To wear on their coats with their square, standing collars: And then, there 's a droll sort, of hat, Which Mary once fixed me one like, out of paper, And said she believed 't was called, _three-cornered scraper_; Perhaps, too, she 'll let us see that.

"Oh! a glorious time we shall have! If they knew At the South, what it is, I guess they 'd have one too; But I have heard somebody say, That, there, they call all the New England folks _Bumpkins_, Because we eat puddings, and pies made of pumpkins And have our good Thanksgiving-day."

"I think, brother Charles," returned Edward, "at least, That they might go to church, if they do n't like the feast; For to me it is much the best part, To hear the sweet anthems of praise, that we give To Him, on whose bounty we constantly live:-- It is feasting the ear and the heart.

"From Him, who has brought us another year round, Who gives every blessing, wherewith we are crowned, Their gratitude who can withhold? And now how I wish I could know all the poor Their Thanksgiving-stores had already secure, Their fuel, and clothes for the cold!"

"I 'm glad," said their father, "to hear such a wish; But wishes alone, can fill nobody's dish, Or clothe them, or build them a fire. And now I will give you the money, my sons. Which I promised, you know, for your drum and your guns, To spend in the way you desire."

The brothers went home, thinking o'er by the way, For how many comforts this money might pay, In something for clothing or food: At length they resolved, if their mother would spend it For what she thought best, they would get her to send it Where she thought it would do the most good.

MUSIC OF THE CRICKETS.

I cannot to the city go, Where all in sound and sight, Declares that nature does not know, Or do a thing aright. To granite wall, and tower, and dome My heart could never cling; Its simple strings are tied to home-- To where the crickets sing.

I 'm certain I was never made To run a city race, Along a human palisade, That 's ever shifting place. The bustle, fashion, art and show Were each a weary thing; Amid them, I should sigh to go And hear the crickets sing.

If there, I might no longer be Myself, as now I seem, But lose my own identity, And walk, as in a dream; Or else, with din and crowd oppressed, I 'd wish for sparrow's wing. To fly away, and be at rest, Where free the crickets sing.

The fire-fly, rising from the grass A winged and living light, I would not give for all the gas, That spoils their city sight. Not all the pomp and etiquette Of citizen or king, Shall make my rustic heart forget The song, the crickets sing.

I find in hall and gallery, Their figures tame and faint, To my wild bird, and brook, and tree, Without a touch of paint. And from the sweetest instrument Of pipe, or key, or string, I 'd turn away, and feel content To hear the crickets sing.

O! who could paint the placid moon, That 's beaming through the bough Of yon high elm, or play the tune, That sounds beneath it now? Not all the silver of the mine, Nor human power could bring Another moon like her to shine, Or make a cricket sing.

I know that, when the crickets trill Their plaintive strains by night, They tell us that, from vale and hill, The summer takes her flight. And were there no renewing Power, 'T would be a mournful thing, To think of fading leaf and flower; And hear the crickets sing.

But, why should change with sadness dim Our eye, when thought can range Through time and space, and fly to him, Who is without a change? For he, who meted out the year, Will give another spring: He rolls at once the shining sphere, And makes the cricket sing.

And when another autumn strips The summer leaves away, If cold and silent be the lips That breathed and moved to-day, The time I 've passed with nature's God Will cause no spirit sting, Though I 've adored him from the sod Whereon the crickets sing.

CHILDHOOD'S DREAM.

Give me back, give me back but my one infant dream, As it passed on the turf by my dear native stream, Where I slept from my play, while the wind tossed my hair, Till its ringlets, unbound, clasped the violets there.

O return, fleeting time, the soft moments that flew By the calm sinking sun, and the fall of the dew, When, refreshing as light, and as dew to the flower O'er my young spirit came the blest dream of that hour!

I remember the song of the bird, and the breeze With the perfumes it swept from the bloom of the trees, As my eyes gently closed; but the visions that stole Through my fancy's green bowers, come no more to my soul!

They were sweet but to pass, as the odors that fled From the young flowers I crushed, while they pillowed my head; And like them, when they flew on the wings of the air, They are gone, and have left not a trace to tell where!

They were clear as the sun in his mild, setting rays; They were pure as the stars, soon to kindle and blaze; But they 're gone! I have lost the dear dream of that sleep, As a bright planet drowned in the vast ether deep.

Yet the face of my mother, through tears as she smiled, When she found, gently raised, and led home her lost child-- I shall see that loved face by time's stream evermore, Till I follow her home, where life's dreamings are o'er.

THE FRUIT-TREE BLOSSOM.

My flower, thou art as sweet to me. Thy form as full and fair-- As rich a fruit shall follow thee, As if thou hadst denied the bee The pure and precious gift, that he Wafts joyous through the air.

The spices from thy bosom flow As freely round thee now, As if withheld an hour ago. Bestowing, thou canst still bestow; Though, whence thy gifts thou may'st not know, Or giving, tell me how.

And future good, we yet shall find, Was hidden in thy heart; Its witness shall be left behind, When thou like all thy tender kind, Thy minutes summed, shalt be resigned Forever to depart.

Thy ruin I would not forestall; Yet soon, I know, to thee Must come, what happens once to all:-- Thy life will fail, and thou must fall-- Must fade and perish, past recall, To vanish from the tree.

Then, on the bough where thou wast sent To pass thy fleeting days, At work for which thine hours were lent, In silent, balmy, mild content, A rich and shining monument To thee will nature raise.

Now, not in pride--in purpose high, Awhile in beauty shine; And speak, through man's admiring eye, Forbidding every passer by To wish to live, or dare to die With object less than thine.

THE PLYMOUTH APPLE DECLINED.

Visiting at the house of a friend in Boston, I was shown an apple which he told me had been sent to him from Plymouth, and was the fruit of a tree that was planted by Peregrine White, the first child born of Pilgrim parents in New England. I praised the apple for its beauty, and the venerable associations connected with it. He wished me to keep it; but, as he had no other of the tree, I declined the gift.

I wanted the apple, when offered to me By its generous owner, but thought it not right To take it, because it had grown on a tree, That sprang from a seed sown by PEREGRINE WHITE. And he, who thus proffered it, had none beside it; While diffidence checked the words,--"Let us divide it."

Now Peregrine White was the first _white_, you know, Who drew his first breath in New England--the child, Whose parents were making to bud and to blow, With its earliest blossoms, America's wild: But he with the fruit never questioned me, whether We might partake of the apple together.

Though a fabled divinity once had let fall An apple of gold, where his favorites thronged, Inscribed, "Of the fair, to the fairest of all!" It was not to me this whole apple belonged: My friend was no god--and then I, but a woman; I thought that to halve it were just about human.

The whole I declined; still I did not deny A wish that, unuttered, was strong in my heart; And from it _entire_, while averting my eye, I own I was secretly coveting _part_; And had he divided the offering presented, Preserving one half, I had come off contented.

Had Solomon been there to put in a word, His wisdom had brought the debate to an end, Deciding at once, by the edge of his sword, This contest of kindness between friend and friend: Yet he with the apple was quite too short-sighted To see how I might in a half have delighted.

I hope that next autumn he 'll go where it grew, And, if not forbidden the fruit, that he 'll reach And pluck a fair apple, then cut it in two, And tell me at once that _a half is for each_. Of friendship's best gift how the worth may be lightened By having it whole, when, if shared, how 't were heightened!

THE HALF APPLE.

A year after the foregoing poem was written, a nice little casket was sent me, at the distance of thirty-five miles, which, on opening, I found to contain the half of an apple like the one I had seen the previous autumn.

The half of an apple, well-flavored and fair, Which shows by division such soundness of heart, I gratefully hold; and acknowledge the care And kindness of him, who retains t 'other part.

The fruit, that would perish, I taste with delight, The seed taking out to lay cautiously by, Because it encloses, concealed from my sight, An emblem of that, which in us cannot die.

Its elements, when 't is laid low in the earth, If good, will arise in fresh verdure and bloom; As man's deathless soul seeks the world of its birth, When what it once dwelt in lies dark in the tomb.

The little memento I 'll hide in the ground, For Nature, its mother, to tenderly rear; And bright be its blossoms--its fruit fair and sound, When I and the giver no more shall be here!

For, when I depart, and some good, living deed Would fain leave behind, in remembrance of me, At least, be it said that I planted a seed, That others might gather the fruit from the tree!

THE HORTICULTURIST'S TABLE-HYMN.

From him, who was lord of the fruits and the flowers, That in Paradise grew, ere he lost its possession-- Who breathed in the balm, and reposed in the bowers Of our garden ancestral, we claim our profession. And fruits rich and bright Bless our taste and our sight As e'er gave our father in Eden delight: Our fount clear as that, which he drank from, here flows; Where green grows the myrtle, and blushing the rose.

While some sit in clouds but to murmur, or grieve That earth has her wormwood, her pitfalls, and brambles; We smile, and go forth her rich gifts to receive, Where the boughs drop their purple and gold on our rambles. Untiring and free, As we work, like the bee, We bear off a sweet from each plant, shrub, and tree: Where some gather thorns but to torture the flesh, Ripe clusters we pluck, and our spirits refresh.

Yet, not to self only, we draw from the soil The treasures that Heaven in its vitals hath hidden; For thus to lock up the fair fruits of our toil Were bliss half possessed, and a sin all forbidden. Like morning's first ray, When it spreads into day, Our hearts must flow out, until self melts away! Our joys, in the bosoms around us when sown, Spring up and bloom out, throwing sweets to our own.

And this makes the world all a garden to us, Where He, who has walled it, his glory is shedding: His smile is its sun; and beholding it thus, We gratefully feast, while his bounty is spreading. Our spirits grow bright As they bathe in his light, That beams on the board where in joy we unite: And the sparks, which we take to enkindle our mirth, Are blessings from heaven showering down on the earth.

And now that we meet, and the chain is of _flowers_, Which binds us together, may sadness ne'er blight them, Till those, who _must_ break from a compact like ours, Ascend where the ties of the blest reunite them! May each, who is here, At the banquet appear, Where Life fills the wine-cup, and Love makes it clear; And Gilead's balm in its freshness shall flow On the wounds, which the _pruning-knife_ gave us below!

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.

Thou mournful bird, when shadows fell At yester-eve on hill and dell, I heard thee of thy sorrows tell; And, as the dews distil, Again, amid this twilight gray, I hear thee pour thy solemn lay, With only one sad thing to say, Still crying, "Whip-poor-will."

O who has grieved thee, gentle bird, That now thy vesper note is heard And with thy melting, triple word Thus dropping from thy bill? How could they rudely whip at thee, To scare thee from thy native tree, And send thee moaning back to me Repeating, "Whip-poor-will?"