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So serious should my youth appear
More grave than they, That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the holly-tree.
THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL.
What! and not one to heave the pious sigh?
Not one whose sorrow-swollen and aching eye
For social scenes, for life's endearments fled,
Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the dead!
Poor wretched outcast! I will weep for thee,
And sorrow for forlorn humanity. Yes, I will weep; but not that thou art come
To the stern sabbath of the silent tomb:
For squalid want, and the black scorpion care,
Heart-withering fiends' shall never enter there.
I sorrow for the ills thy life hath known,
As through the world's long pilgrimage, alone, Haunted by poverty, and woebegone, Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on:
Thy youth in ignorance and labor
And thine old age all barrenness and blast.
Hard was thy fate, which, while it
doomed to woe, Denied thee wisdom to support the
And robbed of all its energy thy mind, Ere yet it cast thee on thy fellowkind.
Abject of thought, the victim of distress,
To wander in the world's wide wilderness.
Poor outcast, sleep in peace! the wintry storm
Blows bleak no more on thy unsheltered form;
Thy woes are past; thou restest in the tomb; —
I pause, and ponder on the days to come.
WRITTEN ON SUNDAY MORNING.
Go thou and seek the house of prayer!
I to the woodlands wend, and there In lovely nature see the God of love. The swelling organ's peal Wakes not my soul to zeal, Like the wild music of the windswept grove. The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest
Rouse not such ardor in my breast, As where the noon-tide beam Flashed from the broken stream,
Quick vibrates on the dazzled sight; Or where the cloud-suspended rain Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain;
Or when reclining on the cliffs huge height,
I mark the billows burst in silver light.
Go thou and seek the house of prayer!
I to the woodlands shall repair, Feed with all nature's charms mine eyes,
And hear all nature's melodies. The primrose bank shall there dispense
Faint fragrance to the awakened
The morning beams that life and
joy impart, Shall with their influence warm my
And the full tear that down my
cheek will steal, Shall speak the prayer of praise I
Go thou and seek the house of prayer!
I to the woodlands bend my way
And meet religion there. She needs not haunt the high-arched
dome to pray Where storied windows dim the
doubtful day. With Liberty she loves to rove. Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslipt dale; Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove, Or with the streamlet wind along the vale.
Sweet are these scenes to her; and
when the night Pours in the north her silver streams
She woos reflection in the silent gloom,
And ponders on the world to come.
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.
It was a summer evening.
Old Kaspar's work was done;
Was sitting in the sun,
She saw her brother Peterkln
That he beside the rivulet
He came to ask what he had found,
That w as so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspartook it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head.
And with a natural sigh, 'Tis some poor fellow's skull, said he, Who fell in the great victory.
I find them in the garden, for
There's many hereabout.
The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men, said he, Were slain in the great victory.
Now tell us what 'twas all about,
Young Peterkin he cries, And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
It was the English, Kaspar cried,
But what they killed each other for,
But everybody said, quoth he,
That 'twas a famous victory.
My father lived at Blenheim then,
They burnt his dwelling to the
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And new-born infant, died; But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
They say it was a shocking sight,
After the field was won,
Lay rotting in the sun; But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene. Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!
Said little Wilhehnine. Nay — nay — my little girl, quoth he, It was a famous victory.
And everybody praised the Duke
Who such a fight did win.
Quoth little Peterkin.
THE CATARACT OF LODORE.
"How does the water
Come down at I„odore!"
My little boy asked me
Thus, once on a time;
To tell him in rhyme.
And then came another,
comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar,
They had seen it before.
So I told them in rhyme,
For their recreation
That so I should sing;
To them and the king.
From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell; From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills; Through moss and through brake, It runs and it creeps For a while, till it sleeps
In its own little lake,
In sun and in shade,
The cataract strong
Rising and leaping,
Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And driving and riving and striving.
And sprinkling and twinkling and
wrinkling. And sounding and bounding and
rounding, And bubbling and troubling and
doubling, And grumbling and rumbling and
tumbling, And clattering and battering and
Retreating and beating and meeting
and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing
and spraying, Advancing and prancing and glancing
and dancing. Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping, and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping.
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending.
Sounds and motions forever and ever
are blending All at once, and all o'er, with a
mighty uproar, — And this way, the water comes down
Slowly thy flowing tide Came in, old Avon! scarcely did
mine eyes, As watchfully I roamed thy greenwood side, Behold the gentle rise.
With many a stroke and strong. The laboring boatmen upward plied
their oars, And yet the eye beheld them laboring long Between thy winding shores.
Now down thine ebbing tide The unlabored boat falls rapidly along,
The solitary helmsman sits to guide, And sings an idle song.
Now o'er the rocks, that lay So silent late, the shallow current roars;
Fast flow thy waters on their seaward way Through wider-spreading shores.
Avon! I gaze and know! The wisdom emblemed in thy varying way,
It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, So rapidly decay.
Kingdoms that long have stood, And slow to strength and power attained at last, Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood Ebb to their ruin fast.
So tardily appears
The course of time to manhood's envied stage,
Alas! how hurryingly the ebbing years
Then hasten to old age!
TO THE FIRE.
My friendly fire, thou blazest clear and bright, Nor smoke nor ashes soil thy grateful flame; Thy temperate splendor cheers the gloom of night, Thy genial heat enlivens the chilled frame.
I love to muse me o'er the evening hearth,
I love to pause in meditation's sway;
And whilst each object gives reflection birth, Mark thy brisk rise, and see thy slow decay;
And I would wish, like thee, to shine serene,
Like thee, within mine influence, all to cheer; And wish at last in life's declining scene,
As I had beamed as bright, to fade
So might my children pondero'ermy
And o'er my ashes muse, as I will muse o'er thine.
CONTENT AND RICH.
My conscience is my crown;
Contented thoughts, my rest; My heart is happy in itself,
My bliss is in my breast.
Enough I reckon wealth;
That mean, the surest lot, That lies too high for base contempt,
Too low for envy's shot.
My wishes are but few;
All easy to fulfil:
The bounds unto my will.
I fear no care for gold,
Well-doing is my wealth; My mind to me an empire is,
While grace affordeth health.
I clip high-climbing thoughts,
Their fall is worst that from the height
Since sails of largest size
I bear so low and small a sail
I wrestle not with rage
While fury's flame'doth burn;
It is in vain to stop the stream
lint when the flame is out,
I turn a late enraged foe
And, taught with often proof,
A tempered calm I find To be most solace to itself,
Best cure for angry mind.
Spare diet is my fare,
My clothes more fit than fine; I know I feed and clothe a foe,
That pampered would repine.
I envy not their hap
I take no pleasure in their pain
To rise by others' fall
I deem a losing gain;
To ruin run amain.
No change of Fortune's calm
When Fortune smiles, I smile to think
And when, in froward mood,
She proved an angry foe, Small gain, I found, to let her come—
Less loss to let her go.