"Then since no parent we have here,
We'll go and search for God around,
Lady, pray, can you tell us where
That God, our Father, may be found?
"He lives in Heaven, mother said,
And Goody says that mother's there!
So, if she knows we want his aid,.
I think perhaps she'll send him here."
I clasped the prattlers to my breast,
And cried, "Come both and live with me;
I'll clothe you, feed you, give you rest,
And will a second mother be.
"And God shall be your Father still; 'Twas He in mercy sent me here, To teach you to obey His will,
Your steps to guide, your hearts to cheer."
THE WINTER'S DAY.
WHEN raging storms deform the air
And clouds of snow descend,
And o'er the landscape, once so fair,
Stern winter's shadows blend;
When biting frost rides on the wind
Bleak from the north and east,
And wealth is at his ease reclined,
Prepared to laugh and feast;
When the poor traveller treads the plain,
All dubious of his way,
And crawls with still increasing pain,
And dreads the parting day;
When poverty, in scant attire,
Shrinks from the biting blast,
Or hovers o'er the pigmy fire,
And fears it will not last;
When the fond mother clasps her child
Still closer to her breast,
And the poor infant, frost-beguiled,1
Scarce feels that it is pressed;-
Then let your bounteous hand extend
Its blessings to the poor,
Nor spurn the wretched, as they bend
All suppliant at your door.
THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.
SWEET to the morning traveller
The song amid the sky,
Where, twinkling in the dewy light,
The skylark soars on high.
And cheering to the traveller
The gales that round him play,
When faint and heavily he drags
Along his noontide way.
1 Frost-beguiled-benumbed, and rendered insensible by the frost.
And when beneath the unclouded sun
Full wearily toils he,
The flowing water makes to him
A soothing melody.
And when the evening light decays,
And all is calm around,
There is sweet music to his ear
In the distant sheep-bell's sound.
But oh! of all delightful sounds
Of evening or of morn,
The sweetest is the voice of love
That welcomes his return.
FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY.
A MISER, traversing his house,
Espied, unusual there, a mouse,
And thus his uninvited guest,
Briskly inquisitive, addressed:
"Tell me, my dear, to what cause is it
I owe this unexpected visit?"
The mouse her host obliquely eyed,
And, smiling, pleasantly replied:
"Fear not, good fellow, for your hoard!
I come to lodge, and not to board!"
1 Obliquely-with a sort of arch, sidelong glance.
EPITAPH ON A HERO.
HERE lies one who never drew
Blood himself, yet many slew;
Gave the gun its aim, and figure
Made in field, yet ne'er pulled trigger.
Armed men have gladly made
Him their guide, and him obeyed;
At his signified desire,
Would advance, present, and fire.
Stout he was, and large of limb,
Scores have fled at sight of him;
And to all this fame he rose
By only following his nose.
Neptune was he called, not he
Who controls the boisterous sea,
But of happier command,
Neptune of the furrowed land;
And your wonder vain to shorten,
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton.2
A FLORIST a sweet little blossom espied,
Which bloomed, like its ancestors, by the road-side; Its colours were simple, its charms they were few, Yet the flower looked fair on the spot where it grew;
1 Pointer-a dog that by its peculiar gestures points out the game to the sportsman.
2 A friend of Cowper, who lived at Weston, near Olney, Buckinghamshire.
The florist beheld it, and cried, "I'll enchant
The botanical world with this sweet little plant—
Its leaves shall be sheltered and carefully nursed,
It shall charm all the world, though I met with it first
Under a hedge."
He carried it home to his hot-house with care,
And he said, "Though the rarest exotics 1 are there,
My little pet plant, when I've nourished its stem,
In tint and in fragrance shall emulate them,
Though none shall suspect from the road-side it came;
Rhodum Sidum I'll call it a beautiful name-
When botanists look through their glasses and view
Its beauties, they'll never suspect that it grew
Under a hedge."
The little pet plant, when it shook off the dirt
Of its own native ditch, began to grow pert,
And tossed its small head; for perceiving that none
But exotics were round it, it thought itself one:
As a field-flower, all would have said it was fair,
And praised it, though gaudier blossoms were there;
But when it assumes hot-house airs we see through
The forced tint of its leaves, and suspect that it grew
Under a hedge.
In the bye-ways of life, oh! how many there
Who being born under some fortunate star,
Assisted by talent or beauty, grow rich,
And bloom in a hot-house instead of a ditch!
And while they disdain not their own simple stem,
The honours they grasp may gain honour for them;
But when, like the pet plant, such people grow pert,
We soon trace them to their original dirt
Under a hedge.
1 Erotics—foreign plants.
|