And moving up from high to higher,
Becomes, on Fortune's crowning slope,
The pillar of a people's hope,
The centre of a world's desire;
Yet feels, as in a pensive dream,
When all his active powers are still,
A distant dearness in the hill,
A secret sweetness in the stream,
The limit of his narrower fate,
While yet beside its vocal springs
He played at counsellors and kings, With one that was his earliest mate;
Who ploughs with pain his native lea,
And reaps the labour of his hands,
Or in the furrow musing stands ;—
Does my old friend remember me?
A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR.
SHE had been told that God made all the stars
That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood
Watching the coming of the twilight on,
As if it were a new and perfect world,
And this were its first eve. How beautiful
Must be the work of Nature to a child,
In its first fresh impression! Laura stood
By the low window, with the silken lash
Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth
Half parted with the new and strange delight
Of beauty that she could not comprehend,
And had not seen before. The purple folds
Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky
That looked so still and delicate above,
Filled her young heart with gladness, and the eve
Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still
Stood looking at the west with that half smile,
As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.
Presently, in the edge of the last tint
Of sunset, where the blue was melted in
To the faint golden mellowness, a Star
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight
Burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands,
Her simple thought broke forth expressively--
"Father, dear Father, God has made a Star!"
THE spring is here-the delicate-footed May,
With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers;
And with it comes a thirst to be away,
Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours
A feeling that is like a sense of wings,
Restless to soar above these perishing things.
We pass out from the city's feverish hum,
To find refreshment in the silent woods;
And nature, that is beautiful and dumb,
Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods.
Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal,
To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.
Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,
The waters tripping with their silver feet,
The turning to the light of leaves in June,
And the light whisper as their edges meet-
Strange that they fill not, with their tranquil tone,
The spirit, walking in their midst alone.
BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee,
Child of the sunny brow—
Bright as the dream flung over thee
By all that meets thee now.
Thy heart is beating joyously,
Thy voice is like a bird's,
And sweetly breaks the melody
Of thy imperfect words.
I know no fount that gushes out
As gladly as thy tiny shout.
I would that thou mightst ever be
As beautiful as now-
That time might ever leave as free
Thy yet unwritten brow.
I would life were "all poetry,"
To gentle measures set,
That nought but chastened melody,
Might stain thine eye of jet-
Nor one discordant note be spoken
Till God the cunning harp hath broken.
I would but deeper things than these
With woman's lot are wove,
Wrought of intenser sympathies,
And nerved by purer love.
By the strong spirit's discipline,
By the fierce wrong forgiven,
By all that wrings the heart of sin,
Is woman won to Heaven.
"Her lot is on thee" lovely child-
God keep thy spirit undefiled!
I fear thy gentle loveliness,
Thy witching tone and air;
Thine eye's beseeching earnestness
May be to thee a snare.
The silver stars may purely shine,
The waters taintless flow,
But they who kneel at woman's shrine
Breathe on it as they bow-
Ye may fling back the gift again,
But the crushed flower will leave a stain.
What shall preserve thee, beautiful child?
Keep thee as thou art now?
Bring thee, a spirit undefiled,
At God's pure throne to bow? The world is but a broken reed,
And life grows early dim;
Who shall be near thee in thy need,
To lead thee up to Him?
He who himself was "undefiled,"
With him we trust thee, beautiful child!
Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,
The waters tripping with their silver feet, The turning to the light of leaves in June,
And the light whisper as their edges meetStrange that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, The spirit, walking in their midst alone.
BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee,
Child of the sunny brow-
Bright as the dream flung over thee
By all that meets thee now.
Thy heart is beating joyously,
Thy voice is like a bird's,
And sweetly breaks the melody
Of thy imperfect words.
I know no fount that gushes out
As gladly as thy tiny shout.
I would that thou mightst ever be
As beautiful as now
That time might ever leave as free
Thy yet unwritten brow.
I would life were "all poetry,"
To gentle measures set,
That nought but chastened melody,
Might stain thine eye of jet-
Nor one discordant note be spoken
Till God the cunning harp hath broken.
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