As dancers in an airy hall,
That has n't room to hold them all,
While some keep up, and others fall,
The atoms shift, then, thick and swift,
They drive along to form the drift,
That waving up, so dazzling white,
Is rising like a wall of light.
But now the wind comes whistling loud,
To snatch and waft it as a cloud,
Or giant phantom in a shroud;
It spreads! it curls! it mounts and whirls!
At length, a mighty wing unfurls;
And then, away! but, where, none knows,
Or ever will. · It snows! it snows!
To-morrow will the storm be done;
Then, out will come the golden sun :
And we shall see, upon the run
Before his beams, in sparkling streams,
What now a curtain o'er him seems.
And thus, with life, it ever goes;
'Tis shade and shine!
"TIS 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.
THERE's more in words than I can teach :
Yet listen, Child! I would not preach;
But only give some plain directions
To guide your speech and your affections.
Say not you love a roasted Fowl,
But you may love a screaming Owl,
And if you can, the unwieldy Toad
That crawls from his secure abode
Within the mossy garden-wall
When evening dews begin to fall.
O, mark the beauty of his eye:
What wonders in that circle lie!
So clear, so bright, our fathers said.
He wears a jewel in his head!
And when, upon some showery day,
Into a path or public way,
A Frog leaps out from bordering grass,
Startling the timid as they pass,
Do you observe him, and endeavor
To take the intruder into favor;
Learning from him to find a reason
For a light heart in a dull season.
And you may love him in the pool,
That is for him a happy school,
In which he swims, as taught by nature,
A pattern for a human creature,
Glancing amid the water bright,
And sending upward sparkling light.
Nor blush if o'er your heart be stealing
A love for things that have no feeling;
The spring's first Rose, by you espied,
May fill your breast with joyful pride;
And you may love the Strawberry flower,
And love the Strawberry in its bower;
But when the fruit, so often praised
For beauty to your lip is raised,
Say not you love the delicate treat,
But like it, enjoy it, and thankfully eat.
Long may you love your pensioner Mouse,
Though one of a tribe that torment the house :
Nor dislike for her cruel sport the Cat,
That deadly foe of both mouse and rat:
Remember she follows the law of her kind,
And Instinct is neither wayward nor blind.
Then think of her beautiful gliding form,
Her tread that would not crush a worm,
And her soothing song by the winter fire,
Soft as the dying throb of the lyre.
I would not circumscribe your love:
It may soar with the eagle and brood with the dove,
May pierce the earth with the patient mole,
Or track the hedgehog 'to his hole.
Loving and liking are the solace of life,
They foster all joy, and extinguish all strife.
You love your father and your mother,
Your grown-up and your baby brother;
You love your sister, and your friends,
And countless blessings which God sends:
And while these right affections play,
You LIVE each moment of your day;
They lead you on to full content,
And likings fresh and innocent,
That store the mind, the memory feed,
And prompt to many a gentle deed:
But LIKINGS come, and pass away;
"Tis LOVE that remains till our latest day:
Our heavenward guide is holy love,
And it will be our bliss with saints above!
BLESSINGS on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace:
From my heart I give thee joy –
I was once a barefoot boy!
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy,
In the reach of ear and eye
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
O for boyhood's painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned in schools,
Of the wild-bee's morning chase,
Of the wild-flower's time and place,
Flight of fowl, and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!--
For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
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