Inklings

To please, instruct, has been the only aim
Which honest efforts for the work may claim-
To throw a moral sunshine round the hearth,
The dear-loved place where virtues have their birth.

You, who have been a friendless orphan boy-
You, who have wept upon an orphan's grave,
And learned the fleeting moments to employ
In teaching men their moral worth to save-
Whose heart, once touched with the Promethean fire
Sent from above to light the dark within,

Now scathed, not blighted, soars aloft still higher,.
As burn the ligaments of earthly sin-
You, who so well and truly learn to blend
Two things so rarely to be found in man,

The unbribed critic with the sincere friend

You, who would teach the moral worth to scan, Shall be my patron friend. The star of hope Still cheer you onward to that better land,

Where you with adverse winds no more may cope,

Where all is sinless, beautiful and grand!

POMPEY, N. Y., September, 1852.

THE AUTHOR.

TO THE READER.

Friends, Patrons, all! I make my bow in rhyme, And ask a leisure moment of your time,

From care and labor, which all may attend,

To listen to me only as a friend.

And if, one aching heart, these lines could soothe,
Life's rugged pathway for a day could smooth,
How sweet the task, to cheer a lonely one,
Who walks in shadows 'neath a shining sun!
No metaphysics, to perplex the mind,
And leave man groping for truth left behind,
May here be found; so gently onward pass,
And learn of nature from the mingling mass.
Truth may be in a well, but seems to me,
In field and meadow it may likewise be;
In singing bird, in rivulet, and man,
Where spicy breezes fevered brows may fan,
Where tempest howls around the lonely form
Which seeks for shelter from the pelting storm,
And where the petals of the spring unfold,
Mix with the air their fragrant wealth untold.