TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER.
The songster heard this short oration,
And warbling out its approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.
Hence jarring sectaries may learn
Their real interest to discern ;
That brother should not war with brother,
And worry and devour each other,
But sing and shine by sweet consent,
Till life's poor transient night is spent ;
Respecting, in each other's case,
The gifts of nature and of grace.
Those Christians best deserve the name
Who studiously make peace their aim:
Peace, both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps and him that flies.
THY fruit full well the schoolboy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake,
So put thou forth thy small white rose,--
I love it for his sake.
Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow
O'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show
Thy satin threaded flowers.
For dull the eye, the heart as dull,
That cannot feel how fair,
Amid all beauty beautiful,
Thy tender blossoms are!
How delicate thy gauzy frill!
How rich thy branchy stem!
How soft thy voice when woods are still,
And thou sing'st hymns to them!
While silent showers are falling slow,
And 'mid the general hush,
A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Love whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone,
The hawthorn flower is dead,
The violet by the moss'd gray stone
Hath laid her weary head.
But thou, wild bramble, back dost bring,
In all their beauteous power,
The fresh green days of life's fair spring,
And boyhood's blossoming hour.
Scorned bramble of the brake, once more
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,
To gad with thee, the woodland o'er,
In freedom and in joy.
HYMN TO CONTENTMENT.
LOVELY lasting peace of mind,
Sweet delight of human kind,
Heavenly born and bred on high,
To crown the favourites of the sky,
With more of happiness below
Than victors in a triumph know;
Whither, oh, whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek, contented head?
What happy region dost thou please
To make the seat of calm and ease?
Ambition searches all its sphere
Of pomp and state to meet thee there;
Increasing avarice would find
Thy presence in its gold enshrined.
HYMN TO CONTENTMENT.
The bold adventurer ploughs his way
Through rocks amidst the foaming sea,
To gain thy love, and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves.
The silent heart which grief assails,
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales,
Sees daisies open, rivers run,
And seeks, as I have vainly done,
Amusing thought; but learns to know
That solitude's the nurse of woe.
No real happiness is found
In trailing purple o'er the ground,
Or in a soul exalted high
To range the circuit of the sky;
Converse with stars above, and know
All nature in its forms below.
The rest it seeks in seeking dies,
And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise.
Lovely lasting peace, appear!
The world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.
'T was thus, as under shade I stood,
I sung my wishes to the wood,
And, lost in thought, no more perceived
The branches whisper as they waved.
It seemed as all the quiet place
Confessed the presence of his grace.
When thus she spoke: "Go, rule thy will;
Bid thy wild passions all be still;
Know God, and bring thy heart to know
The joys which from religion flow;
Then every grace shall prove its guest,
And I'll be there to crown the rest."
Oh! by yonder mossy seat,
In my hours of cool retreat,
Might I thus my soul employ
With sense of gratitude and joy ;
Raised as ancient prophets were,
In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer ;
Pleasing all men, hurting none,
Pleased and blessed with God alone;
Then while the gardens take my sight
With all the colours of delight,
While silver waters glide along,
To please my ear and court my song,
I'll lift my voice and tune my string,
And Thee, great Source of nature, sing.
The sun that walks his airy way
To light the world and give the day,
The moon that shines with borrowed light,
The stars that gild the gloomy night,
The seas that roll unnumbered waves,
The wood that spreads his shady leaves,
The field whose ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain,
All of these, and all I see,
Should be sung, and sung by me.
They speak their Maker as they can,
But want and ask the tongue of man.
Go, search among your idle dreams,
Your busy or your vain extremes,
And find a life of equal bliss,
Or own the next begun in this.
THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE.
STAY, lady, stay, for mercy's sake!
And hear a helpless orphan's tale; Ah! sure my looks must pity wake,'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale.
Yet I was once a mother's pride,
And my brave father's hope and joy ; But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an orphan boy.
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