Thou hast yearn'd for consolation,
And no cheering word's been said;
With want perchance thou'st struggled,
And none have given thee bread;
Fell poverty hath seized thee,-
And, all wretched worn and bare,
And succourless, thou hast gainsay'd
That kind hearts are every-where!
Yet recall thy harsh assertion,
For amid the Polar snows,
And on Afric's burning sand-plains,
Have been found for human woes
A solace and a balsam,
A tenderness and care;
Yea the wounded, lorn, and weary,
Have found even kind hearts there!
Battle proudly with misfortune,
Nor heed how long the fight,-
Assistance when least look'd for,
Oft comes to aid the right.
Hope on, hope aye, though spirit-crush'd,
Ne'er yield thee to despair;
Through blackest clouds the sunlight breaks,
And kind hearts are every-where!
TO THE CUCKOO.
WORDSWORTH.
O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee, and rejoice.
O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering voice?
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear,
That seems to fill the whole air's space,
As loud, far off, as near.
Though babbling only to the vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery.
The same whom in my schoolboy days
I listen'd to; that cry
Which made me look a thousand ways,
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still long'd for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet,
Can lie upon the plain,
And listen till I do beget
That golden time again.
JAMES MONTGOMERY.
NIGHT is the time for rest;
How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose:
Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed.
Night is the time for death,
When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, From sin and suffering cease;
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends;-such death be mine.
In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail—
If thine eye should grow dim, and thy courage depart,
"Look aloft" and be firm, and be fearless of heart.
If the friends who embraced in prosperity's glow,
With a smile for each joy, and a tear for each woe,
Should betray thee, when sorrows like clouds are
array'd
"Look aloft" to the friendship that never can fade.
Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret, "Look aloft" to the sun that never can set.
Should those who are dearest-the child of thy heart, The wife of thy bosom, in sorrow depart,
"Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb, To that land where "affection is ever in bloom."
And, oh! when death comes in terrors, to cast
His fears on thy future-his pall on the past-
In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart,
And a smile in thy eye, “look aloft" and depart.
Он, when I was a tiny boy
My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blythe and kind!
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,
To cast a look behind!
A hoop was an eternal round
Of pleasure. In those days I found
A top a joyous thing;-
But now those past delights I drop,
My head, alas! is all my top,
And careful thoughts the string!
My joys are wingless all, and dead;
My dumps are made of more than lead;
My flights soon find a fall;
My fears prevail, my fancies droop,
Joy never cometh with a whoop,
And seldom with a call!
Oh, for the garb that mark'd the boy—
The trousers made of corduroy,
Well ink'd with black and red;-
The crownless hat,-ne'er deem'd an ill,-
It only let the sunshine still
Repose upon my head!
Oh, for that small, small beer anew!
And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue,
That wash'd my sweet meals down;
The master even!-and that small Turk
That fagg'd me!-worse is now my work—
A fag for all the town!
Oh, for the lessons learn'd by heart
Ay, though the very birch's smart
Should mark those hours again;
I'd "kiss the rod," and be resign'd
Beneath the stroke,-and even find
Some sugar in the cane!
omne bene"-Christmas come! The prize of merit, won for home,— Merit had prizes then!
But now I write for days and days-
For fame-a deal of empty praise,
Without the silver pen!
Then home, sweet home! the crowded coach:The joyous shout,-the loud approach,
The winding horns like rams'!
The meeting sweet, that made me thrill,-
The sweetmeats almost sweeter still,
No "satis" to the "jams!"
THE LAPSE OF TIME.
W. C. BRYANT.
LAMENT who will, in fruitless tears,
The speed with which our moments fly;
I sigh not over vanish'd years,
But watch the years that hasten by.
Look, how they come !-a mingled crowd
Of bright and dark, but rapid days;
Beneath them, like a summer cloud,
The wide world changes as I gaze.
What! grieve that time has brought so soon
The sober age of manhood on?
As idly might I weep, at noon,
To see the blush of morning gone.
Could I give up the hopes that glow
In prospect, like Elysian isles;
And let the charming future go,
With all her promises and smiles?
The future!-cruel were the power
Whose doom would tear thee from my heart,
Thou sweet'ner of the present hour!
We cannot-no-we will not part.
Oh! leave me, still, the rapid flight
That makes the changing seasons gay,
The grateful speed that brings the night,
The swift and glad return of day.
|