The Snow-Drop Part 12

The twilight hours came stealing by, And still I wandered free; Ten thousand stars were in the sky, Ten thousand on the sea.

For ev'ry wave with dimpled face, That leaped upon the air, Had caught a star in its embrace, And held it trembling there.

But wherefore weave such strains as these, And sing them day by day, When every bird upon the breeze Can sing a sweeter lay.

I'd give the world for their sweet art.

The simple, the divine; I'd give the world to melt one heart, As they have melted mine.

TO AMELIA.

And wouldst thou, sweet minstrel, if earth should unfold To thee all her treasures of silver and gold, Resign all thy riches, thy wealth, fame and power, To sing like the birds in the green woodland bower?

Like thee, dear Amelia, I love the wild bird, Their soft melting strains, at grey twilight, I've heard; The whippowils, then, on the cool zephyr's wing, Their clear pensive notes in rich harmony fling.

I listen each morning with heartfelt delight, While birds bid adieu to the shadows of night.

And greet in sweet anthems the bright king of day, As they through the forest are soaring away.

Yet thy flowing numbers, when breathing around, Awaken such echoes as these never found; A chord in my bosom, thy sonnet has stirred, Which never was touched by the notes of a bird.

But meekness in woman to me is so dear, I love thee the more when such language I hear; True greatness and modesty, when they combine, Like stars of the firmament sparkle and shine.

The birds of the forest thy spirits can cheer, Their songs fill with music thy sensitive ear, But has that fair dove in thy heart found a nest, Whose singing can make thee eternally blest?

MOONLIGHT MUSINGS.

THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY VIEWING A ROW OF FINE TREES NEAR MY DWELLING.

These youthful pines, a verdant row, Cast their dark shadows on the snow; Just like a picture, or a dream, Or tale of fairy lands, they seem.

I hear a soft melodious lay, The winds are with their tops at play; While moonbeams through their branches stealing, Wake up a wild romantic feeling.

The forest birds in spring will come, 'Neath these green boughs to make their home, To cheer us with their sweet wild song, To build their nests and rear their young.

Child of the wood, in infancy, I learned to love the forest tree; I'm still the same romantic creature, Admiring all the works of nature.

The rocks, the fields, the groves and flowers, Are fraught with some mysterious powers, That bind me with a pleasing spell, Which naught can break while here I dwell.

The wild bird's note, the woodland dell, Have charms beyond my power to tell; While winds are through the forest roaring, My spirit with the sound seems soaring.

The rosy morn, the sunset sky, The glitt'ring retinue on high, The sun's broad blaze, the moon's mild beams, Reflected from the lakes and streams, The lightning's flash, the thunder's roar, The ocean dashing on the sh.o.r.e, And meteors streaming through the air, Proclaim that G.o.d is everywhere.

THOUGHTS

SUGGESTED BY VIEWING A PETUNIA.

Fair plant, well pleased on thee I look, Thou art a page in nature's book, Which I delight to read; Though stoics set thee quite at naught, And say that none but children ought On such vain trifles spend a thought, Their words I little heed.

A child I'd ever wish to be, With an instructer just like thee, And listen to her voice; Fain wouldst thou our best pa.s.sions move, And lead our wandering thoughts above, Where, at the fount of boundless love, We ever might rejoice.

Our tender care thou dost repay, Though watched and guarded night and day, Thus teaching thoughtless man; When thou art nursed and watered well, Thy bursting buds with fragrance swell, And thus the grateful story tell, That we do all we can.

Thy blooming petals love the light.

The sun smiles on them, they grow bright, Withdraws his beams, they faint; Yet, when beneath his radiant gaze, The modest blush that o'er them plays, To every thinking mind, portrays The contrite, humble saint.

Sweet plant, I love thee, yes, I do, And all thy blooming kindred too, (More than the works of art,) For in them, I can ever find Such beauty, skill and power combined, As captivate and soothe the mind, And cheer the drooping heart.

Fair gift, by royal donor given, dipped in the radiant dyes of heaven, And strown o'er every land, Ye shed your fragrance o'er the tomb, Steal from deep solitude its gloom, And when the gardener gives you room, You bless his fostering hand.

Not Newton, though he soared so high, And traced the planets through the sky, With such amazing power, Nor Franklin, whom we praise so loud, Though lightnings in their misty shroud, Obeyed his voice and left the cloud, Could make the simplest flower.

Nor could the chemist's skill suffice To mingle such exquisite dyes, As in the flowers appear; And were all human powers combined, And centred in one single mind, Its best productions, we should find, Stand halting in the rear.

When, veiled in flesh, G.o.d dwelt below, He deigned his watchful care to show, For man's ungrateful race; When sin their drowsy eyes had sealed, He took the lily of the field, And bade them think what that revealed, And learn to trust his grace.

The garden which Jehovah planned, And planted with his own right hand, Was decked with fragrant flowers; And shall we boast that we now slight What G.o.d designed to give delight, Ere sin had cast its with'ring blight O'er all our mental powers?

TO A WHITE HOLLYHOCK.

Sweet plant, so fair, so pure thy blossoms look, I almost fancy that some angel, from His wing the feathers plucked, and of them, at The twilight hour, thy snowy petals made.

But fancy leads astray. Not one of all That shining throng, which worship 'round the throne, Could e'er such work perform. None but the hand Divine, these curious fabrics wrought.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY VIEWING THE MINIATURE OF A PAIR OF LOVELY TWIN BOYS, WHO WERE DEPRIVED OF THEIR MOTHER AT THE AGE OF TWO MONTHS, AND WERE THE ONLY REMAINING CHILDREN OF THEIR FATHER.

I gaze upon this picture fair, And find strange beauty mirrored there; Its magic spell with power is fraught, To ope the fount of hidden thought.

Sweet childhood's opening blossoms here, In all their loveliness appear; Pure innocence, with touching grace, Smiles in each feature of the face, Like rosy morning's cheerful rays, O'er childhood's artless brow, it plays.

The lips, half open, almost speak, While on the fresh, young, dimpled cheek, The bloom is like those vernal flowers, Whose fragrance fills our woodland bowers.

Those speaking eyes the power have caught, To mirror forth the germs of thought; Their silent language, deep and strong, Can touch the hidden springs of song; Their melting beams can reach the mind, Where they our best affections find.

Why did these twin-born, smiling boys, Come here to wake maternal joys, In that fond, faithful mother's breast, Where they could but a moment rest?

With love too deep for words to speak, She pressed each tender infant cheek, With quivering lips and falt'ring breath, Before the opening gates of death, While faintly burned the vital spark, Within life's frail and shattered bark, Just mooring in the port of bliss, She paused to steal one last, fond kiss.

In death's embrace those lips were cold, Ere half their thrilling tale was told; The mother and her babes must part, Before the tender infant heart, By her soft winning tones, had learned What love within her bosom burned Before her counsels, blessed and wise, Could train her offspring to the skies.

Sweet babes! so helpless, frail and fair, Why here, without her watchful care?

Your sainted brother never wept Beside the grave, where loved ones slept, While clouds were gathering round his head, He to the Savior's bosom fled.

Then why not plume your tiny wings, And soar to where your mother sings?

Why tarry on this barren sh.o.r.e; Till waves of trouble round you roar?