It lifts its head, spreads forth its bloom,
Smiles to the sky, and sheds perfume,
A child of woe, sprung from the clod,
Through Thee seeks to ascend to GOD.
YOU'RE Spinning for my lady, worm!
Silk garments for the fair;
You 're spinning rainbows for a form
More beautiful than air,—
When air is bright with sun-beams,
And morning mists arise,
From woody vales and mountain streams,
To blue autumnal skies.
You 're training for my lady, flower!
You 're opening for my love;
The glory of her Summer bower,
While sky-larks soar above,
Go, twine her locks with rose-buds,
Or breathe upon her breast,
While zephyrs curl the water-floods,
And rock the halcyon's nest.
But oh there is another worm
Ere long will visit her,
And revel on her lovely form
In the dark sepulchre :
Yet from that sepulchre shall spring
A flower as sweet as this;
Hard by the nightingale shall sing,
Soft winds its petals kiss.
Frail emblems of frail beauty, ye!
In beauty who would trust?
Since all that charms the eye must be
Consigned to the dust :
Yet, like the flower that decks the tomb,
Her spirit shall quit the clod,
And shine, in amaranthine bloom,
Fast by the throne of GOD.
MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire !
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,
Was nurs'd in whirling storms,
And cradled in the winds.
Thee when young Spring first question'd Winter's sway, And dar'd the sturdy blusterer to the fight,
Thee on this bank he threw
To mark the victory.
In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou open'st to the nipping gale,
Unnotic'd and alone,
Thy tender elegance.
So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk
Of life she rears her head,
Obscure and unobserv'd;
While every bleaching breeze, that on her blows,
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,
And hardens her to bear
Serene the ills of life.
АH! gentle Shepherd! thine the lot to tend,
Of all that feels distress, the most assail'd,
Feeble, defenceless : lenient be thy care:
But spread around thy tenderest diligence
In flowery Spring-time, when the new-dropp'd Lamb,
Tottering with weakness by his mother's side,
Feels the fresh world about him; and each thorn,
Hillock, or furrow, trips his feeble feet:
O, guard his meek sweet innocence from all
Th' innumerous ills, that rush around his life;
Mark the quick Kite, with beak and talons prone,
Circling the skies to snatch him from the plain;
Observe the lurking Crows; beware the brake,—
There the sly Fox the careless minute waits;
Nor trust thy neighbour's dog, nor earth, nor sky:
Thy bosom to a thousand cares divide :
Eurus oft flings his hail; the tardy fields
Pay not their promis'd food; and oft the dam
O'er her weak twins with empty udder mourns,
Or fails to guard, when the bold bird of prey
Alights, and hops in many turns around,
And tires her also turning: to her aid
Be nimble, and the weakest in thine arms
Gently convey to the warm cote, and oft
Between the lark's note, and the nightingale's,
His hungry bleating still with tepid milk ;—
In this soft office may thy children join,
And charitable actions learn in sport.
Nor yield him to himself, ere vernal airs
Sprinkle the little croft with daisy flowers:
Nor yet forget him: life has rising ills.
BENEATH a shivering canopy reclin'd,
Of aspen leaves that wave without a wind,
I love to lie, when lulling breezes stir
The spiry cones that tremble on the fir;
Or wander 'mid the dark-green fields of broom,
When peers in scatter'd tufts the yellow bloom:
Or trace the path with tangling furze o'er-run,
When bursting seed-bells crackle in the sun,
And pittering grasshoppers, confus'dly shrill,
Pipe giddily along the glowing hill:
Sweet grasshopper, who lov'st at noon to lie,
Serenely in the green-ribb'd clover's eye,
To sun thy filmy wings and emerald vest,
Unseen thy form and undisturb'd thy rest;
Oft have I listening mus'd the sultry day,
And wonder'd what thy chirping song might say,
When nought was heard along the blossom'd lea,
To join thy music, save the listless bee.
THE Dove let loose in Eastern skies,
Returning fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam;
But high she shoots through air and light,
Above all low delay;
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
Nor shadow dims her way.
So grant me, LORD! from every stain
Of sinful passion free,
Aloft, through virtue's purer air,
To steer my course to THEE!
No sin to cloud, no lure to stay
My soul, as home she springs;
Thy sunshine on her joyful way,
Thy freedom on her wings.
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