A blessing such as this our hearts might reap, The freshness of the garden they might share, Through the long day a heavenly freshness keep, If, knowing how the day and the day's glare Must beat upon them, we would largely steep And water them betimes with dews of prayer. WHEN hearts are full of yearning tenderness, For the loved absent, whom we can not reach By deed or token, gesture or kind speech, The spirit's true affection to express; When hearts are full of innermost distress, by, And we are doomed to stand inactive Watching the soul's or body's agony, Which human effort helps not to make less Then like a cup capacious to contain The overflowings of the heart, is prayer: The longing of the soul is satisfied, The keenest darts of anguish blunted are; And, though we can not cease to yearn or grieve, Yet we have learned in patience to abide. SADNESS BORN OF BEAUTY. ALL beautiful things bring sadness, nor alone Music, whereof that wisest poet Because in us keen longings they spake;* awake After the good for which we pine and groan, From which exiled we make continua! moan, * I am never merry when I hear swee music. SHAKESPEARE. But as sure as there's a power that makes the grass appear, Our land shall be green with liberty, the blade-time shall be here. Be patient! oh, be patient-go and watch the wheat ears grow So imperceptibly that ye can mark nor change nor throe Day after day, day after day, till the ear is fully grown, And then again day after day, till the ripened field is brown. Be patient! oh, be patient! - though yet our hopes are green, The harvest-fields of freedom shall be crowned with sunny sheen. Be ripening! be ripening!- mature your silent way, Till the whole broad land is tongued with fire on freedom's harvest day! THE ERMINE. To miry places me the hunters drive, Where I my robes of purest white must stain; Then yield I, nor for life will longer strive, For spotless death, ere spotted life, is gain. THE BEES. WE light on fruits and flowers, and purest things; For if on carcases or aught unclean, When homeward we returned, with mortal stings Would slay us the keen watchers round our queen. THE NIGHTINGALE. LEANING my bosom on a pointed thorn, I bleed, and dieeding sing my sweetest strain: For sweetest songs of saddest hearts are born, And who may here dissever love and pain? THE SNAKE. MYSELF I force some narrowest passage through, Leaving my old and wrinkled skin behind, And issuing forth in splendor of my new: Hard entrance into life all creatures find. THE TIGER. HEARING sweet music, as in fell despite, Himself the tiger doth in pieces tear: The melody of other men's delight There are, alas! who can as little bear. THE DIAMOND. I ONLY polished am in mine own dust Naught else against my hardness will prevail: And thou, O man, in thine own sufferings must Be polished: every meaner art will fail. FALLING STARS. ANGELS are we, that, once from heaven exiled, Would climb its crystal battlements again; But have their keen-eyed watchers not beguiled, Hurled by their glittering lances back amain. HARMOSAN. Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne was done, Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader to defy, Then exclaimed that noble captive: "Lo! I perish in my thirst; In his hand he took the goblet, but awhile the draught forbore, Well might then have paused the bravest - for around him angry foes 66 "But what fear'st thou ?" cried the caliph; -" is it, friend, a secret blow ? Fear it not!—our gallant Moslem no such treacherous dealing know. "Thou mayst quench thy thirst securely, for thou shalt not die before Thou hast drunk that cup of water— this reprieve is thine no more!" Quick the satrap dashed the goblet down to earth with ready hand, And the liquid sank for ever, lost amid the burning sand. "Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that cup For a moment stood the caliph as by doubtful passions stirred- "Bring another cup, and straightway to the noble Persian give: Drink, I said before, and perish-now I bid thee drink and live!" JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. THE NAME IN THE BARK. THE self of so long ago, And the self I struggle to know, I sometimes think we are two,- or are we shadows of one? Returns in the sweet summer calm To trace where the earlier shadow flitted awhile in the sun. Once more in the dewy morn I came through the whispering corn; Cool to my fevered cheek soft breezy kisses were blown; Leaned over the flattering glass, And the sunny waters trilled the same low musical tone. To the gray old birch I came, Where I whittled my school-boy name: The nimble squirrel once more ran skippingly over the rail, The alders noisily sung, And under the blackberry-brier whistled the serious quail. I came, remembering well As I painfully reached and wrote to leave to the future a sign: A half-healed, curious wound. An ancient scar in the bark, but no initial of mine! Then the wise old boughs overhead Took counsel together, and said,- And the buzz of their leafy lips like a murmur of prophecy passed,"He is busily carving a name In the tough old wrinkles of fame; But, cut he as deep as he may, the lines will close over at last!" Sadly I pondered awhile, Then I lifted my soul with a smile, And I said "Not cheerful men, but anxious children are we, As we toil at the letters of life, Just marring a little the rind, never piercing the heart of the tree." And now by the rivulet's brink I leisurely saunter, and think How idle this strife will appear when circling ages have run, If then the real I am Descend from the heavenly calm, To trace where the shadow I seem once flitted awhile in the sun. |