The Land of Song Volume Ii Part 27

Cowering among his pillows white He prays, his blue eyes dim with fright, "Father, save those at sea to-night!"-- _Miserere Domine._

The morning shone all clear and gay, On a ship at anchor in the bay, And on a little child at play,-- _Gloria tibi Domine!_

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

REST.

Rest is not quitting The busy career; Rest is the fitting Of self to one's sphere:

'Tis the brook's motion, Clear without strife; Fleeting to ocean, After its life:

'Tis loving and serving The highest and best; 'Tis onward, unswerving, And this is true rest.

GOETHE.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE GRa.s.sHOPPER.

Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee?

Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine!

Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; 'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self thy Ganymede.

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Happier than the happiest king!

All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee, All that summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice: Man for thee does sow and plow; Farmer he and landlord thou!

Thou dost innocently joy, Nor does thy luxury destroy.

The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he.

Thee, country minds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripened year: Thee Phoebus loves and does inspire; Phoebus is himself thy sire.

To thee of all things upon earth, Life is no longer than thy mirth.

Happy insect! happy thou, Dost neither age nor winter know: But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, (Voluptuous and wise withal, Epicurean animal,) Sated with the summer feast Thou retir'st to endless rest.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

THE CRICKET.

Little inmate, full of mirth, Chirping on my kitchen hearth, Wheresoe'er be thine abode, Always harbinger of good, Pay me for thy warm retreat With a song more soft and sweet; In return thou shalt receive Such a strain as I can give.

Thus thy praise shall be expressed, Inoffensive, welcome guest!

While the rat is on the scout, And the mouse with curious snout, With what vermin else infest Ev'ry dish, and spoil the best; Frisking thus before the fire, Thou hast all thine heart's desire.

Though in voice and shape they be Formed as if akin to thee, Thou surpa.s.sest, happier far, Happiest gra.s.shoppers that are; Theirs is but a summer's song, Thine endures the winter long, Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear, Melody throughout the year.

Neither night, nor dawn of day, Puts a period to thy play: Sing then--and extend thy span Far beyond the date of man.

Wretched man, whose years are spent In repining discontent, Lives not, aged though he be, Half a span, compared with thee.

WILLIAM COWPER.

A WREN'S NEST.

Among the dwellings framed by birds In field or forest with nice care, Is none that with the little wren's In snugness may compare.

No door the tenement requires, And seldom needs a labored roof; Yet is it to the fiercest sun Impervious, and stormproof.

So warm, so beautiful withal, In perfect fitness for its aim, That to the kind by special grace Their instinct surely came.

And when for their abodes they seek An opportune recess, The hermit has no finer eye For shadowy quietness.

These find, 'mid ivied abbey walls, A canopy in some still nook; Others are penthoused by a brae That overhangs a brook.

There to the brooding bird her mate Warbles by fits his low clear song; And by the busy streamlet both Are sung to all day long.

Or in sequestered lanes they build, Where, till the flitting bird's return, Her eggs within the nest repose, Like relics in an urn.

But still, where general choice is good, There is a better and a best; And, among fairest objects, some Are fairer than the rest;

This, one of those small builders proved In a green covert, where, from out The forehead of a pollard oak, The leafy antlers sprout;

For she who planned the mossy lodge, Mistrusting her evasive skill, Had to a primrose looked for aid Her wishes to fulfill.

High on the trunk's projecting brow, And fixed an infant's span above The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest, The prettiest of the grove!

The treasure proudly did I show To some whose minds without disdain Can turn to little things; but once Looked up for it in vain:

'Tis gone--a ruthless spoiler's prey, Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 'Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved Indignant at the wrong.

Just three days after, pa.s.sing by In clearer light the moss-built cell I saw, espied its shaded mouth; And felt that all was well.

The primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves; And thus, for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.

Concealed from friends who might disturb Thy quiet with no ill intent, Secure from evil eyes and hands On barbarous plunder bent,

Rest, mother bird! and when thy young Take flight, and thou art free to roam, When withered is the guardian flower, And empty thy late home,