Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air,
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth- and thou art there!

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set;-but all,

Thou hast ALL seasons for thine own, O Death! MRS. HEMANS.


I'm a strange contradiction; I'm new, and I'm old,
I am often in tatters, and oft deck'd with gold.
Though I never could read, yet letter'd I'm found;
Though blind, I enlighten; though loose, I am bound.
I am always in black, and I'm always in white;
I am grave and I'm gay, I am heavy and light.—
In form too I differ,-I'm thick and I'm thin,
I've no flesh and no bone, yet I'm covered with skin;
I've more points than the compass, more stops than
the flute;

I sing without voice, without speaking confute;
I'm English, I'm German, I'm French, and I'm

Some love me too fondly, some slight me too much;
I often die soon, though I sometimes live ages,
And no monarch alive has so many pages.



THE bleak winds of winter are past,
The frost and the snow are both gone,,
And the trees are beginning at last
To put their green leafiness on.

The snow-drop, like ivory white,
The crocus, as yellow as gold,
The hepatica, hardy and bright,

Have ventured their bloom to unfold.

And, sweeter than these, in the lane,

On its warm, shelter'd bank may be found, The violets in blossom again,

Shedding spring's richest odours around.

The primrose and cowslip are out,
And the fields are with daisies all gay;
While the butterflies, flitting about,
Seem glad in the sunshine to play.

Not more glad than the bee is to gather
New honey to store in his cell;
He too is abroad this fine weather,
To rifle cup, blossom, and bell.

The goldfinch, and blackbird, and thrush,
Are brimful of music and glee;

They have each got a nest in some bush,
And the rook has built his in a tree.

The lark's home is hid in the corn,

But he springs from his low nest-on high,

And warbles his welcome to morn,

Till he seems like a speck in the sky.

Oh! who would be sleeping in bed

When the skies with such melody ring,
And the bright earth beneath him is fed
With the beauty and fragrance of spring?


Weep not for me;

WHEN the spark of life is waning,

When the languid eye is straining,

Weep not for me;

When the feeble pulse is ceasing,
Start not at its swift decreasing,
'Tis the fetter'd soul's releasing ;-

Weep not for me.

Weep not for me;

When the pangs of death assail me,

Christ is mine-He cannot fail me,

Weep not for me;

Yes, though sin and doubt endeavour

From this love my soul to sever,

Jesus is my strength for ever

Weep not for me.



WHAT is that, mother?

The Lark, my child,

The morn has just look'd out, and smil'd,
When he starts from his humble, grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast

And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere, To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays

Tun'd, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, mother?

The Dove, my son,

And that low, sweet voice, like the widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,-
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, mother?

The Eagle, boy,

Proudly careering his course of joy,

Firm, in his own mountain vigour relying,

Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,

Onward and upward, true to the line.

What is that, mother?

The Swan, my love.

He is floating down from his native grove,

No lov'd one now, no nestling nigh;

He is floating down by himself to die.

Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet it may waft thee home.



Not worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep,
Need we to show that * God is here;
The daisy, fresh from nature's sleep,
Tells of His hand in lines as clear.

For who but He who arch'd the skies,
And pours the day-spring's living flood,
Wondrous alike in all He tries,

Could raise the daisy's purple bud;

Mould its green cup, its wiry stem,
Its fringéd border nicely spin,
And cut the gold-embosséd gem
That, set in silver, gleams within ;

And fling it unrestrain'd and free,
O'er hill and dale, and desert sod?
That man, where'er he walks, may see
In every step the hand of God.



How sweet to the heart is the thought of To-morrow,
When hope's fairy pictures bright colours display;
How sweet, when we can from futurity borrow
A balm for the griefs that afflict us to-day

When wearisome sickness has taught me to languish
For health, and the comforts it bears on its wing,
Let me hope, O how soon it would lessen my
anguish !

That To-morrow will ease and serenity bring.

* The few verbal alterations that are made in this volume from the original poems, are marked in italics.

« VorigeDoorgaan »