Th' bustling cock-looks out-(aghast)—from his high shed;
No spot-t' scratch him a repast:-up comes his head,—
Starts-th' dull hamlet-with a blast,—and back-t' bed.
Old drowsy dobbin,—(at th' call,)—AMAZED—awakes,
And-(from th' window of his stall)—a view he takes;
While thick and faster-seem t' fall-th' silent flakes.
Th' barnyard gentry-(musing,)-chime their morning moan;
Like Memnon's music-of old time-(that voice of stone!)
So-warbled they,—and so sublime-their solemn tone.
Good Ruth-has called th' younger folk-t' drop-below;
Full welcome-was th' word she spoke,-down-down they go,—
Th' cottage quietude-is broke :-th' snow! th' SNOW!
Now-rises-(from around th' fire)—a pleasant strain;
Ye giddy sons-of mirth,-retire! and ye profane!
A hymn-t' the Eternal Sire-goes up again.
Th' patriarchal Book-divine-(upon th' knee,)—
Open-where th' gems of Judah shine,-(sweet minstrelsie !)
How soars each heart-with each fair line,-O God,-t' thee!
Around the altar-low they bend,—(devout—in prayer ;)—
As snows-upon th' roof descend,-so-angels-there
Come down,-that household-t' defend-with gentle care.
Now sings th' kettle-o'er th' blaze,-th' buckwheat-heaps;
Rare Mocha, (worth an Arab's praise,)-sweet Susan steeps;
The old round stand-her nod obeys,-and out-it leaps.
Unerring presages-declare-th' banquet near;
Soon-busy appetites-are there,-and disappear—
The glories of the ample fare,-(with thanks—sincere.)
Now-tiny snow-birds-venture nigh—from copse-and spray,—
(Sweet strangers! with th' winter's sky-t' pass away,)
And gather crumbs-in full supply-for all th' day.
Let now th' busy hours-begin:-out rolls th' churn;
Forth hastes th' farm-boy,—and brings in brush—ť' burn;—
Sweep, shovel,—scour,—sew,—knit,—and spin,—'till night's return.
T' delve his thrashing-John must hie; his sturdy shoe-
Can all th' subtle damps-defy; how wades he-through!
While dainty milkmaids,—(slow and shy,) his track pursue.
Each-t' the hour's-allotted care,-t' shell th' corn,-
Th' broken harness-t' repair,-th' sleigh-t' adorn,—
As cheerful,-tranquil,-frosty,-fair-speeds on th' morn.
While mounts-the eddying smoke amain-(from many a hearth)—
And all th' landscape-rings again-with rustic mirth,
So gladsome seems-(to every swain) th' snowy earth.
LIII.-SOUL-LONGING: ITS MEANING AND RESULTS. LOWELL.
Of all-th' myriad moods-of mind-
Th't thro' the soul-come thronging,-
Which one-was e'er so dear,-so kind,—
So beautiful-as-Longing?
Th' thing-we long for,—that—we are—
For one-transcendent moment,—
Before the present—(poor-and bare)—
Can make-its sneering—comment.
Still,-(thro' our paltry stir-and strife,)—
Glows down-th' wish'd Ideal,-
And Longing-molds-in clay-what Life-
Carves-in th' marble-real;
To let th' new life in,-we know,-
Desire-must ope the portal;
Perhaps th' longing to be so-
Helps make th' soul-immortal.
Longing is God's fresh-heavenward will,—
With our poor earthward-striving;
We quench it-th't we may be still
Content-with merely-living;
But, would we learn-that heart's-full scope-
Which we are hourly-wronging,—
Our lives-must climb-from hope to hope-
And realize-our longing.
Ah! let us hope-th't to our praise—
Good God-not only reckons
The moments-when we tread his ways,—
But when the spirit beckons,
Th't some slight good-is also wrought
Beyond-self-satisfaction,
When we are simply good-in thought,
Howe'er-we fail—in ACTION.
LIV. TO GIVE IS TO LIVE.
Forever-the sun-is pouring his gold— '
On hundreds of worlds-that beg-and borrow:
His warmth-he pours forth-on summits cold,
His wealth-on the homes-of want-and sorrow:
To withhold his largess-of precious light—
Is-to bury himself-in eternal night!
To give-is-to LIVE!
The flower-blossoms not—for itself—at all;
Its joy-is the joy—it freely diffuses;
Of beauty-and balm-it is prodigal,
And it lives-in the life-it sweetly loses:
No choice for the rose-bud but glory-or doom;
To exhale or to smother,—to wither—or bloom.
To deny-is-to die!
The seas-lend silvery rain-to the land;
The land-its sapphire-streams—to the ocean;
The heart-sends blood-to the brain-of command;
The brain-to the heart-its lightning motion;.
And ever-and ever-we yield our breath
Till the mirror-is dry-and images death.
To give is to live!
He-is dead whose hand-is not open wide-
To help the need-of a human brother;
He-doubles the length-of his life-long ride
Who gives his fortunate place—to another;
And a thousand million lives-are his
Who carries the world-in his sympathies.
To give is to LIVE.
Throw gold-to the far-dispersing waves,
And your ships-sail home-with tons of treasure; Care not-for comfort, all danger brave,
And evening-and age-shall sup-with pleasure;
Fling health-to the sunshine, wind,—and rain,
And roses-shall come to the cheek again.
To deny-is-to die!
What is wealth? Is it health—or strength?
If we (for humanity's sake)—will lose it,
We shall find it—a hundred-fold—at length;
While they shall forever lose who refuse it:
And nations-that save their union-and peace
At the cost of right-their woes-shall increase.
They-save-a grave!
LV.-OUR WEE WHITE ROSE. MASSEY.
All in our marriage garden
Grew, (smiling up-to God,)
A bonnier flower-than ever
Suck'd the green warmth-of the sod;
Oh, beautiful,—(unfathomably,)
Its little lips-unfurled;
And-crown of all things-was our wee
White Rose-of all the world.
From out a balmy bosom—
Our bud-of beauty-grew;
It fed on smiles-for sunshine,
On tears-for daintier dew.
Aye,-nestling warm-and tenderly,—
Our leaves of love-were curled-
So close-and close-about our wee
White Rose-of all the world.
With mystical-faint fragrance—
Our house of life-she filled;-
Revealed-(each hour)—some fairy tower-
Where winged hopes-might build!
We saw,-(tho' none-like us-might see,)—
Such precious promise pearled
Upon the petals-of our wee
White Rose-of all the world.
But-evermore-the halo-
Of angel-light-increased,—
Like the mystery-of moonlight—
Th't folds-some fairy feast.
Snow-white,-snow-soft,-snow-silently,
Our darling bud—up-curled,
And dropped-i' th' grave,—(Goď's lap,)—our wee
White Rose-of all the world.
Our Rose-was but in blossom,
Our life was but in spring,
When-(down the solemn midnight)—
We heard the spirit sing,-
(“Another bud—of infancy—
With holy dews impearled!")
And (in their hands)—they bore—our wee
White Rose-of all th' world.
You scarce could think-so small a thing-
Could leave a loss-so large;
Her little light-such shadow fling-
From dawn-to sunset's marge.
In other springs—our life—may be—
In bannered bloom-unfurled,
But never,-NEVER-match our wee
White Rose-of all the world.
LVI-BLESSINGS ON CHILDREN.
Blessings on the blessed children,-sweetest gifts-of heaven-to earth,—
Filling all the heart-with gladness,-all the house-with mirth;
Bringing with them-native sweetness,-pictures-of the primal bloom,—
(Which th' bliss—forever gladdens)—of the region-whence they come;
Bringing with them-joyous impulse-of a state without a care,—
And buoyant faith-in being-which makes all in nature fair;
Not a doubt-to dim the distance,-not a grief-to vex thee nigh,—
And a hope—th't—in (existence)—finds each hour—a luxury;
Going-singing,-bounding,-brightening,-never fearing,-(as they go,)
Th't the innocent-shall tremble,—and the loving-find a foe;
In the daylight,—in the starlight,—still with thought-th't freely flies,-
Prompt-and joyous,—with no question of the beauty—in the skies ;
Genial fancies-winning raptures-as the bee-still sucks her store,—
All th' present—still a garden—gleaned a thousand times—before':
All th' future-but a region-where th' happy serving thought-
Still depicts a thousand blessings—by the wingéd hunter caught;
Life-a chase where blushing pleasures-only seem to strive-in flight,—
Lingering to be caught,—and yielding gladly—to the proved delight ;
As the maiden-(thro' the allies,-looking backward—as she flies,)
Woes th' fond pursuer-on ward-with the love-light-in the eyes.
Oh! th' happy life—in children,—still restoring joy—to ours,—
Making (for the forest)-music,-planting-for the wayside flowers;
Back recalling-all the sweetness,—in a pleasure-pure—as rare,
Back-the past-of hope-and rapture bringing-to the heart of care.
How,-(as swell the happy voices,-bursting-thro' th' shady grove, )
Memories-take th' place of sorrows,-time-restores th' sway to love!
We are in the shouting comrades,-shaking off-th' load of years,
Thought-forgetting,-strifes-and trials,—doubts—and agonies—and tears.
We are in the bounding urchin,—as-o'er hill—and plain—he darts,—
Share the struggle—and the triumph,—gladdening-in his heart of hearts;
What an image-of the vigor-and th' glorious grace-we knew,
When-(to eager youth)—from boyhood—at a single bound-we grew!
Even such-our slender beauty,—such-upon our cheeks-th' glow;
In our eyes-the life-and gladness,—of our blood-the overflow.
Bless-the mother of the urchin !—in his form—we see her truth ;
He is now the very PICTURE-of th' memories-in our youth;
Never can we doubt the forehead,-nor-th' sunny, flowing hair,—
Nor th' smiling—in the dimple-speaking chin—and cheek—so fair;
Bless-the mother of the young one! He hath blended-in his grace-
All the hope and joy-and beauty-kindling-once-in either face!
Oh, the happy faith of children, that—is glad-in all it sees,
And with never need-of thinking,-pierces still-its mysteries!
In simplicity profoundest,—in their soul-abundance blest,
Wise-in value of the sportive,-and-(in restlessness)—at rest;
Lacking every creed,-yet-having faith-so large-in all they see
Th't to know-is still to gladden,—and 't is rapture—but to be.
What trim fancies-bring them-flowers! what rare spirits-walk their wood!
What a wondrous world-th' moonlight harbors-of th' gay-and good!
Unto them-th' very tempest-walks in glories—grateful—still,—
And th' lightning gleams,—(a seraph) to persuade them—to th' hill:
'Tis a sweet-and soothing spirit—th't throughout th' midnight reigns,—
Broods-beside the shuttered windows,-and (with gentle love)—complains ;
And how wooing,—how exalting,—(with th' richness—of her dyes,)
Spans the painter—of the rainbow-her bright arch—along th' skies,—
With a dream—(like Jacob's ladder)—showing-(to th' fancy's sight)
How 't were easy-for the sad one-to escape-to worlds of light!
Ah! the wisdom-of such fancies,—and th' truth-in every dream,
Th't-(to faith confiding)—offers,-(cheering every gloom,) a gleam!
Happy hearts-still cherish—(fondly) each delusion of your youth;
Joy-is born of well believing,—and the fiction—wraps th' truth.
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