OH! gracious power! for thy beloved approach
The expecting earth lay wrapt in kindling smiles,
Struggling with tears, and often overcome.
A blessing sent before thee from the heavens,
A balmy spirit breathing tenderness,
Prepared thy way, and all created things
Felt that the angel of delight was near;
Thou cam'st at last, and such a heavenly smile
Shone round thee, as beseem'd the eldest-born
Of nature's guardian spirits. The great sun,
Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile,
Came forth to do thee homage; a sweet hymn
Was by the low winds chaunted in the sky;
And when thy feet descended on the earth,
Scarce could they move among the clustering
By nature strewn o'er valley, hill, and field,
To hail her best deliverer! Ye fair trees,
How are ye changed, and changing while I gaze!
It seems as if some gleam of verdant light
Fell on you from a rainbow; but it lives
Amid your tendrils, brightening every hour
Into a deeper radiance. Ye sweet birds,
Were you asleep through all the wintry hours,
Beneath the waters, or in mossy caves?
There are, 'tis said, birds that pursue the spring,
Where'er she flies, or else in death-like sleep
Abide her annual reign, when forth they come
With freshen'd plumage, and enraptured song
As ye do now, unwearied choristers,
Till the land ring with joy. Yet are ye not,
Sporting in tree and air, more beautiful
Than the young lambs, that from the valley-side
Send a soft bleating like an infant's voice,
Half happy, half afraid! O blessed things!
At sight of this your perfect innocence
The sterner thoughts of manhood melt away
Into a mood as mild as woman's dreams.
The strife of working intellect, the stir
Of hopes ambitious; the disturbing sound
Of fame, and all that worshipp'd pageantry
That ardent spirits burn for in their pride,
Fly like disparting clouds, and leave the soul
Pure, and serene as the blue depths of heaven.
THE IMPORTANCE OF TRIFLES.
SINCE trifles make the sum of human things,
And half our misery from our foibles springs:
Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease,
And few can save, or serve, but all can please :
Oh ! let th' ungentle spirit learn, from hence,
A small unkindness is a great offence:
Large bounties to bestow we wish in vain,
But all may shun the guilt of giving pain.
To bless mankind with tides of flowing wealth,
With power to grace them, or to crown with health,
Our little lot denies; but Heav'n decrees
To all the gift of minist❜ring to ease:
The gentle offices of patient love,
Beyond all flatt'ry, and all praise above;
The mild forbearance of another's fault;
The taunting word suppress'd as soon as thought;
On these Heaven bade the sweets of life depend;
And crush'd ill-fortune when she gave a friend.
A solitary blessing few can find;
Our joys with those we love are intertwined;
And he whose wakeful tenderness removes
Th' obstructing thorn which wounds the breast he loves,
Smooths not another's rugged path alone,
But scatters roses to adorn his own.
Small slights, contempt, neglect, unmix'd with hate, Make up in number what they want in weight: These, and a thousand griefs minute as these, Corrode our comforts, and destroy our peace.
THE HAREBELL AND THE FOX-GLOVE.
IN a valley obscure, on a bank of green shade,
A sweet little Harebell her dwelling had made;
Her roof was a woodbine, that tastefully spread
Its close-woven tendrils, o'erarching her head;
Her bed was of moss, that each morning made
new;
She dined on a sunbeam, and supp'd on the dew;
Her neighbour, the nightingale, sung her to rest;
And care had ne'er planted a thorn in her breast.
One morning she saw, on the opposite side,
A Foxglove displaying his colours of pride :
She gazed on his form that in stateliness grew,
And envied his height, and his brilliance of hue;
She mark'd how the flow'rets all gave way before
him,
While they press'd round her dwelling with far less decorum:
Dissatisfied, jealous, and peevish she grows,
And the sight of this Foxglove destroys her repose.
She tires of her vesture, and swelling with spleen, Cries, "Ne'er such a dowdy blue mantle was seen!"
Nor keeps to herself any longer her pain, But thus to a Primrose begins to complain: "I envy your mood, that can patient abide The respect paid that Foxglove, his airs and his pride:
There you sit, still the same, with your colourless cheek;
But you have no spirit-would I were as meek."
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