And strange bright birds, on their starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?
"Not there, not there, my child!"
Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold-
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand-
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land.
"Not there, not there, my child!
Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy,
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
Far beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child!"
199. MY FATHER'S NAME.
My father's name-my father's name!
How hallowed and how dear!
That sound it fell like melody
Upon my list'ning ear—
What, though a stranger spoke his praise!
So exquisite it came
At once I lov'd him as a friend
It was my father's name!
And cloudless will I keep that name,
If God his grace shall give ;
It never yet confess'd a blot
Still stainless may it live.
In woe, in weal, unsullied still
By shadow or by shame,
Proudly my heart shall beat to tell
It is my father's name.
And when, at length, they lay me down
Within the peaceful grave,
And He, the mighty Lord of all,
Shall claim the breath He gave;
Let but one line above my tomb-
One sculptur'd line proclaim-
"He found it spotless, and unstain'd
Is still his father's name."
The bird that soars on highest wing,
Builds on the ground her lowly nest;
And she that doth most sweetly sing,
Sings in the shade when all things rest:
In lark and nightingale we see
What honour hath humility.
201. THE LESSONS TAUGHT BY
NATURE.
For thus to man the voice of nature spake,
Go, from the creatures thy instruction take: Learn from the birds what food the thickets yield; Learn from the beasts the physic of the field:
The arts of building from the bee receive;
Learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave; Learn of the little nautilus [1] to sail,
Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale. Pope.
202. THE WOOD-LANE IN SPRING.
I know a lane, thick set with golden broom,
Where the pale primrose and tall orchis bloom,
And azure violets, lowly drooping, shed
Delicious perfume round their mossy bed;
And all the first-born blossoms of the year,
That spring uncultur'd, bud and blossom here.
Oh! 'tis a lovely spot! high overhead
Gigantic oaks their lofty branches spread;
The glossy ivy, the rich eglantine,
The rambling briony, and sweet woodbine,
Fling their fantastic wreaths from spray to spray,
And shower their treasures in the lap of May.
Here, the blithe blackbird trills his matin song,
Till woodland dells his bugle notes prolong;
And the gay linnet and the airy thrush
Responsive whistle from the hawthorn bush;
Near, though unseen, the lonely cuckoo floats,
And wakes the morn with his complaining notes.
Here the shy partridge leads her yellow brood,
And the majestic pheasant from the wood
No longer dreads the cruel fowler's gun,
But sports his gorgeous plumage in the sun.
'Tis passing sweet to rove these woodland bowers, When the young sun has shed on leaves and flowers A tender glory, and the balmy thorn
Spreads his white banner to the breath of morn→→
Sporting a coronal of living light,
Strung from the dew-drops of the weeping night.
'Tis sweet to trace the footsteps of the spring
O'er the green earth—to see her lightly fling
Her flowery wreaths on Nature's breathing shrine,
And round the hoary woods her garlands twine;
To hear her voice in every passing breeze
That stirs the new-born foliage on the trees.
'Tis sweet to hear the song of birds arise
At early dawn-to gaze on cloudless skies-
To scatter round you, as you lightly pass,
A shower of diamonds from each blade of grass;
And while your footsteps press the dewy sod,
To look through Nature up to Nature's God."
J. Unwin, Printer, 31, Bucklersbury.
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