Chapter 4
Or, wouldst thou our hearts be cheering, Through this pensive lonely eve, While the chilly winds are bearing On their wings the faded leaf?
Would thou wast the Father's token, That the sweet celestial dove, When the golden bowl is broken, Will support us by his love,--
Will, in that dread painful conflict, Flit around our dying bed, And, to fill the soul with comfort, Whisper, "blessed are the dead."
TO THE "WILD FLOWER."[5]
I've ranged the bright streamlet in childhood's blest hour, And culled from its borders spring's loveliest flowers, Then bound up my bouquet, all glitt'ring with dew, And smiled on my treasure as homeward I flew.
I've seen the sweet violet deck the green sod, All fresh from the hand of a bountiful God, While soft whisp'ring zephyrs breathed this in my ear, "The wisdom of God in these blossoms appear."
I've looked on the mayflower, spring's earliest child,-- It peeped from the snowdrift and modestly smiled; I've plucked the fair lily, arrayed in fair white, And drank in its fragrance with heartfelt delight.
Yet blossoms that smile in the green woodland bower, Ne'er rival this sweet intellectual flower; This blossom sprang up from the depths of the mind,-- The heart's thrilling fibres its tendrils entwine,
Affection's pure fountain has watered the germ, The bright sun of intellect cherished its form, It's petals were colored in fancy's rich dye, Till they, with the hues of the rainbow may vie; I'll pluck thee, sweet blossom, pure fragrance I find, When the rich perfumes are inhaled by the mind.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 5: A volume of poems.]
THE MINISTER
AT THE FAMILY ALTAR. COMPOSED FOR THE REV. W. FOSS, OF LEEDS.
The father, still in manhood's prime, Was bowed in humble prayer; His partner, fair as when a bride, Was kneeling by him there.
Reclining on a sister's arm, The babe found sweet repose; While from the heart, in accents warm, The father's prayer arose.
And, fair as rosebuds bathed in dew; By morning zephyrs fanned, A blooming group of loved ones, too, Was ranged on either hand.
As many children God had given, As good old Jacob had; That he might meet them all in heaven, How fervently he prayed.
What deep emotions filled my breast, That scene my spirit stirred; Will not that family be blessed, That prayer in heaven be heard?
Though oft his duty calls abroad, Salvation's news to bear, The father leaves his charge with God, Confiding in his care.
AN APPEAL FOR IRELAND.
"Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shall find it after many days."--_Ecel_. xi; 1.
Hark! hear the cry of Erin's sons, By plague and famine frantic; The wail of wives and little ones Comes o'er the broad Atlantic.
O, heed the bitter piercing cry, That's pealing o'er the ocean; To us, to us, for aid they fly, As Israel fled to Goshen.
List! hear that sad and mournful sound, It is the parent sighing; Beside him, on the damp cold ground. His darling ones are lying.
A nation sinking to the grave; How thick death's shafts are flying! The loved, the lovely, and the brave, From want are daily dying.
They're calling to Columbia's sons, And to her happy daughters; Take of your bread, ye favor'd ones, And cast it on the waters.
THE LITTLE CLOUD.
All day the rain has patter'd down, In dense dark folds, clouds hang around, The humid air is dead and still, Thick vapors veil the distant hill.
But now, a little crimson cloud Beams from an opening in the shroud, Which, like a dusky pall, o'erspreads The azure vault above our heads.
Our fancy, while we gaze, takes wings And flits around earth's brighter things, Then whispers in our list'ning ears, "This earth is not all sighs and tears."
This cloud is like the robin's song, Whose notes were hushed all winter long, But comes to usher in the hours, Whose genial warmth revives the flowers.
Or like the south wind's gentle voice, Bidding all nature's works rejoice, Teaching the little birds, to sing A serenade to blooming spring.
Like budding flowers where thorns once grew, And beauty bursting into view Where all was dark, and drear, and wild, Nor pleasures in prospective smiled.
'Tis like the smile that beams through tears, When hope usurps the place of fears; Like health, new sparkling in the eye Of him, whom friends gave up to die.
Faint emblem of the glory shed Around the dying christian's bed, That prelude to the dazzling light Which bursts on his enraptured sight, When the freed spirit soars above, And faith is swallowed up in love.
LEWISTON,
AS IT WAS, AND AS IT IS.
It was a wild, sequestered spot, With here and there a humble cot; Yet, nature's richest robes were thrown Around those hills and valleys lone. 'Twas quiet, fair, and lovely, then, Though beasts of prey and savage men Roamed o'er those hills of graceful form, Whose trees for ages braved the storm, Yet, humbly stooping to behold The broad majestic stream, that rolled Through smiling mead and woody plain, Fast speeding onward to the main, Or, dashing from its rocky height, Proclaims the great Creator's might, Its deep toned music, strangely meet To mingle with the anthem sweet, That floated on each whisp'ring breeze, Which came, soft stealing through the trees That grew upon the winding shore, In giant ranks, in days of yore. When genial spring her magic spell, Cast 'round each lovely woodland dell, And woke to life the warbling throng, While streamlets gaily danced along; If such a spot on earth be found, Those hills and vallies all around Smiled, like the paradise of God, When first by sinless beings trod. Thus, rude, romantic, grand, sublime, Was Lewiston, in olden time. But Art and Genius, passing by, Saw this fair spot neglected lie, Then said, in deep emotion's tone, "Shall these bright waves go dancing on, Just like a thoughtless child at play, Who throws his strength and skill away?" Anon, they raised the useful mills, The sparkling waters moved the wheels, And industry, with cheerful air, Was pleased to take her station there. The proud old forest bowed, his head, With sullen frowns the savage fled, The timid beaver left the shore, The deer and moose were seen no more. Rich cultivated fields appeared. Neat tasteful dwellings soon were reared, In graceful ranks we see them stand, With spacious streets on either hand. Where once the Indian's wigwam stood, The factory, with its busy crowd, Dispenses blessings far and near, While rich and poor its products share. Here merchandise, with eagle eyes, His own and others' wants supplies; And science, like a swelling tide, Diffuses knowledge far and wide. The sweetly pealing sabbath bells, Now echo round those hills and dells, And call the villagers to meet Where they enjoy communion sweet, With Him who answers ev'ry prayer That humble faith can utter there. There's music in those sabbath bells, This pleasing truth methinks they tell, That God is held in rev'rence there, And worshiped in His house of prayer. In the fair background now are seen Sweet hills and dales, all robed in green, With here and there a pleasant grove Where every class delights to rove; There, age sits down beneath the shade, Where he has oft in childhood strayed; There, youths and maidens often walk, To spend an hour in friendly talk; There, little children, too, are seen, Like lambs they gambol o'er the green; They wander there in summer hours In quest of birds' nests, fruit, and flowers. The scholar loves this solitude, Where tumult never dares intrude; And here the stranger likes to roam, And think of loved ones left at home. The saint, at twilight's pensive hour, Here seeks the sweet secluded bower; While whisp'ring zephyrs linger near, And waft to heaven the humble prayer. And all who study nature's book, On this fair page delight to look; They'll range those hills and vallies o'er, And trace the river's winding shore. Nor can they e'er forget to look Upon the little murm'ring brook, Which, like a silver belt, winds round The hill, with oak and elm trees crowned. But that majestic waterfall, In grandeur still surpasses all.
Should Art and Genius there assemble, With solemn awe they'd stand and tremble; Than all their works, they'd own this greater, And bow before the great Creator.
TWILIGHT MUSINGS.
BY AMELIA.
I wandered out one summer night, 'Twas when my years were few, The wind was singing in the light, And I was singing too.
One fleecy cloud upon the air, Was all that met my eyes, It floated like an angel there, Between me and the skies.
I clapped my hands and warbled wild, As here and there I flew, For I was but a careless child, And did as children do.
I heard the laughing wind behind, 'Twas playing with my hair; The breezy fingers of the wind, How cool and moist they were.
The twilight hours came stealing by, And still I wandered free; Ten thousand stars were in the sky, Ten thousand on the sea.
For ev'ry wave with dimpled face, That leaped upon the air, Had caught a star in its embrace, And held it trembling there.
But wherefore weave such strains as these, And sing them day by day, When every bird upon the breeze Can sing a sweeter lay.
I'd give the world for their sweet art. The simple, the divine; I'd give the world to melt one heart, As they have melted mine.
TO AMELIA.
And wouldst thou, sweet minstrel, if earth should unfold To thee all her treasures of silver and gold, Resign all thy riches, thy wealth, fame and power, To sing like the birds in the green woodland bower?
Like thee, dear Amelia, I love the wild bird, Their soft melting strains, at grey twilight, I've heard; The whippowils, then, on the cool zephyr's wing, Their clear pensive notes in rich harmony fling.
I listen each morning with heartfelt delight, While birds bid adieu to the shadows of night. And greet in sweet anthems the bright king of day, As they through the forest are soaring away.
Yet thy flowing numbers, when breathing around, Awaken such echoes as these never found; A chord in my bosom, thy sonnet has stirred, Which never was touched by the notes of a bird.
But meekness in woman to me is so dear, I love thee the more when such language I hear; True greatness and modesty, when they combine, Like stars of the firmament sparkle and shine.
The birds of the forest thy spirits can cheer, Their songs fill with music thy sensitive ear, But has that fair dove in thy heart found a nest, Whose singing can make thee eternally blest?
MOONLIGHT MUSINGS.
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY VIEWING A ROW OF FINE TREES NEAR MY DWELLING.
These youthful pines, a verdant row, Cast their dark shadows on the snow; Just like a picture, or a dream, Or tale of fairy lands, they seem. I hear a soft melodious lay, The winds are with their tops at play; While moonbeams through their branches stealing, Wake up a wild romantic feeling.
The forest birds in spring will come, 'Neath these green boughs to make their home, To cheer us with their sweet wild song, To build their nests and rear their young. Child of the wood, in infancy, I learned to love the forest tree; I'm still the same romantic creature, Admiring all the works of nature.
The rocks, the fields, the groves and flowers, Are fraught with some mysterious powers, That bind me with a pleasing spell, Which naught can break while here I dwell. The wild bird's note, the woodland dell, Have charms beyond my power to tell; While winds are through the forest roaring, My spirit with the sound seems soaring.
The rosy morn, the sunset sky, The glitt'ring retinue on high, The sun's broad blaze, the moon's mild beams, Reflected from the lakes and streams, The lightning's flash, the thunder's roar, The ocean dashing on the shore, And meteors streaming through the air, Proclaim that God is everywhere.
THOUGHTS
SUGGESTED BY VIEWING A PETUNIA.
Fair plant, well pleased on thee I look, Thou art a page in nature's book, Which I delight to read; Though stoics set thee quite at naught, And say that none but children ought On such vain trifles spend a thought, Their words I little heed.
A child I'd ever wish to be, With an instructer just like thee, And listen to her voice; Fain wouldst thou our best passions move, And lead our wandering thoughts above, Where, at the fount of boundless love, We ever might rejoice.
Our tender care thou dost repay, Though watched and guarded night and day, Thus teaching thoughtless man; When thou art nursed and watered well, Thy bursting buds with fragrance swell, And thus the grateful story tell, That we do all we can.
Thy blooming petals love the light. The sun smiles on them, they grow bright, Withdraws his beams, they faint; Yet, when beneath his radiant gaze, The modest blush that o'er them plays, To every thinking mind, portrays The contrite, humble saint.
Sweet plant, I love thee, yes, I do, And all thy blooming kindred too, (More than the works of art,) For in them, I can ever find Such beauty, skill and power combined, As captivate and soothe the mind, And cheer the drooping heart.
Fair gift, by royal donor given, dipped in the radiant dyes of heaven, And strown o'er every land, Ye shed your fragrance o'er the tomb, Steal from deep solitude its gloom, And when the gardener gives you room, You bless his fostering hand.
Not Newton, though he soared so high, And traced the planets through the sky, With such amazing power, Nor Franklin, whom we praise so loud, Though lightnings in their misty shroud, Obeyed his voice and left the cloud, Could make the simplest flower.
Nor could the chemist's skill suffice To mingle such exquisite dyes, As in the flowers appear; And were all human powers combined, And centred in one single mind, Its best productions, we should find, Stand halting in the rear.
When, veiled in flesh, God dwelt below, He deigned his watchful care to show, For man's ungrateful race; When sin their drowsy eyes had sealed, He took the lily of the field, And bade them think what that revealed, And learn to trust his grace.
The garden which Jehovah planned, And planted with his own right hand, Was decked with fragrant flowers; And shall we boast that we now slight What God designed to give delight, Ere sin had cast its with'ring blight O'er all our mental powers?
TO A WHITE HOLLYHOCK.
Sweet plant, so fair, so pure thy blossoms look, I almost fancy that some angel, from His wing the feathers plucked, and of them, at The twilight hour, thy snowy petals made. But fancy leads astray. Not one of all That shining throng, which worship 'round the throne, Could e'er such work perform. None but the hand Divine, these curious fabrics wrought.
LINES
SUGGESTED BY VIEWING THE MINIATURE OF A PAIR OF LOVELY TWIN BOYS, WHO WERE DEPRIVED OF THEIR MOTHER AT THE AGE OF TWO MONTHS, AND WERE THE ONLY REMAINING CHILDREN OF THEIR FATHER.
I gaze upon this picture fair, And find strange beauty mirrored there; Its magic spell with power is fraught, To ope the fount of hidden thought. Sweet childhood's opening blossoms here, In all their loveliness appear; Pure innocence, with touching grace, Smiles in each feature of the face, Like rosy morning's cheerful rays, O'er childhood's artless brow, it plays. The lips, half open, almost speak, While on the fresh, young, dimpled cheek, The bloom is like those vernal flowers, Whose fragrance fills our woodland bowers. Those speaking eyes the power have caught, To mirror forth the germs of thought; Their silent language, deep and strong, Can touch the hidden springs of song; Their melting beams can reach the mind, Where they our best affections find. Why did these twin-born, smiling boys, Come here to wake maternal joys, In that fond, faithful mother's breast, Where they could but a moment rest? With love too deep for words to speak, She pressed each tender infant cheek, With quivering lips and falt'ring breath, Before the opening gates of death, While faintly burned the vital spark, Within life's frail and shattered bark, Just mooring in the port of bliss, She paused to steal one last, fond kiss. In death's embrace those lips were cold, Ere half their thrilling tale was told; The mother and her babes must part, Before the tender infant heart, By her soft winning tones, had learned What love within her bosom burned Before her counsels, blessed and wise, Could train her offspring to the skies. Sweet babes! so helpless, frail and fair, Why here, without her watchful care? Your sainted brother never wept Beside the grave, where loved ones slept, While clouds were gathering round his head, He to the Savior's bosom fled. Then why not plume your tiny wings, And soar to where your mother sings? Why tarry on this barren shore; Till waves of trouble round you roar?
Ah! now I know; you linger here, Your father's lonely hours to cheer. Death would not pluck the last fair flower, That bloomed in his connubial bower; He fondly loves his orphan boys, They half restore his withered joys. Sweet rosebuds, springing from the tomb, Long round his hearthstone may you bloom, With smiles of love your father greet, And fill your mother's vacant seat.
THE CULTIVATION OF FLOWERS.
Where can we find a more healthy and delightful employment, than the cultivation of flowers? Though of less importance than those plants which are necessary for the support of animal life, yet, rightly considered, they yield a pleasant and instructive entertainment for the intellectual powers, and may justly be termed food for the mind.
"Nonsense" some of our readers exclaim, "Nonsense, to talk of feeding the immortal mind, with flowers! For one, I think people may find some more useful employment than that of persuading their fellow beings to spend the precious hours of this _short_ life upon these useless playthings."
But pause, my readers, and consider who gave this finishing touch to the face of nature. Who strewed the fields with flowers? Were they not brought into existence by the same All-wise Being who created the earth upon which we dwell, with its millions of intelligent beings, its vast oceans, its towering mountains, its flaming volcanoes and its majestic rivers with their awe inspiring cataracts; who created the sun, that great fountain of light and heat, and the centre of attraction for those vast globes which revolve around it, and then counterpoised with such precision the different forces which produce and continue their motion, that they continue to perform their appointed revolutions, without the least deviation from that orbit, in which they were placed at creation's dawn; who "made the stars also," that innumerable multitude of fixed stars, or suns with their attending planets which inhabit the boundless regions of space; whose wonderful works are so numerous as to overwhelm the feeble mind of man, and to compel him to conclude at the commencement, by saying that they are infinite? And shall we be so impious as to hush the voice of reason, and disregard the words of holy writ enough to say, that even the little violet was made in vain? I should sooner believe that Washington, the father of our country, while the destiny of our nation was placed, as it were, in his hands, was in the habit of deserting his army while on the battle field, engaged in the most bloody conflict with a mortal foe, for the sole purpose of amusing himself with soap bubbles and firebrand ribbons.
"But," says one, "they were created for a scourge and a snare to fallen man; for while we are compelled to spend much of our time in destroying thorns and thistles from our premises, they are continually tempting the weaker part of our race to spend their strength and time upon that, which at best, can yield no profit." But against this assertion, the scriptures afford us ample proof, for we are there informed, that they were created before the fall, and pronounced very good, while thorns and thistles were brought forth afterwards; for the Lord said, when pronouncing the curse upon Adam, "Cursed be the ground for thy sake, thorns and thistles shall it bring forth unto thee," thus implying that they were not already in existence. And again, flowers are universally spoken of in scripture as blessings, or used as emblems of things valuable or pleasing, while thorns and thistles are always used to represent things hurtful, or afflictive. And if any part of nature's works retain their native purity and remain unchanged, save by the hand of death, is it not flowers? It is true, they neither supply us with food or clothing, and if they possess medical qualities, they might as well be contained in the plant without the appendage of a flower. Nor were they made for the fowls of the air, or the beasts of the field, for they totally disregard them; we never see the ox, the horse, or the sheep, stop to smell their fragrance or gaze upon their beauty. And many of those who are termed the lords of creation, consider them beneath the notice of intellectual beings, and yet they were made for some wise purpose. We will therefore admit the truth of an assertion made by a friend, who remarked that flowers were doubtless created for the sole purpose of gratifying the weak and childish minds of the female sex. Be it so, let us thankfully receive the gift, and think ourselves honored by being thought worthy of the fairest and sweetest part of nature's productions; for which she has reserved her most grateful perfumes, her richest dyes, and the finest strokes of her pencil. Yes, we _will_ cultivate flowers, for we do not profess to be more scrupulous about the manner in which we spend our time than the Lord of the universe was, for he planted flowers in _his_ garden. The scriptures inform us that he planted every tree that was pleasant to the sight. And flowers certainly were pleasant, even to the pure eyes of our Savior; for while speaking of the lilies of the field, he says, "Even Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these." And the wisest of men, when searching the world over for comparisons worthy of his beloved, exclaims in the fullness of a heart overflowing with love and gratitude, "He is the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valley."
Sweet flowers, there is room enough for you in the female mind. We will take you to our bosoms and cherish you with that affectionate regard, which your lovely qualities deserve. We will admire your spotless purity and innocence. You were thought worthy of a place in the blissful bowers of Eden. And for aught we know, ye were the only part of nature's works which were created solely for the purpose of charming the mind and gratifying the senses of sinless beings. And may we make a profitable use of these lovely relics of paradise! May they continually remind us of the skill, wisdom and goodness of the great Architect of the universe!