SPRING
Et nunc omnis ager, mine omms parturit arbos;
Nunc frondent sylvæ, nunc formostssimus annus.
—Virgil.
Delightful harbinger of joys to come,
Of summer's verdure and a fruitful year,
Who bids thee o'er our northern snow-fields roam,
And make all gladness in thy bright career?
Lo from the Indian Isle thou dost appear,
And dost a thousand pleasures with thee bring:
But why to us art thou so ever dear?
Bearest thou the hope—upon thy radiant wing—
Of Immortality, O soft, celestial Spring?
Yea, buds and flowers that fade not, they are thine,
And youth-renewing balms; the sear and old
Are young and gladsome at thy touch divine.
Thou breath'st upon the frozen earth—behold,
Meadows and vales of grass and floral gold,
Green-covered hills and leafy mountains grand:
Young life leaps up where all was dumb and cold,
As smoldering embers into flame are fanned,
Or the dead came back to life at the touch of the Savior's hand.
The snow-clouds fly the canopy of heaven;
The rivulets ripple with the merry tone
Of wanton waters, and the breezes given
To fan the budding hills are all thine own.
Returning songsters from the tropic zone
Their vernal love-songs in the tree tops sing,
And talk and twitter in a tongue unknown
Of joys that journey on thy golden wing,
And God who sends thee forth to wake the world, O Spring!
[ILLUSTRATION: SPRING ADA MARY HUNTLY WILLIE]
Emblem of youth—enchanting goddess, Spring;
Lo now the happy rustic wends his way
O'er meadows decked with violets from thy wing,
And laboring to the rhythm of song all day,
Performs the task the harvest shall repay
An hundredfold into the reaper's hand.
What recks the tiller of his toil in May?
What cares he if his cheeks are tinged and tanned
By thy warm sunshine-kiss and by thy breezes bland?
Hark to the tinkling bells of grazing kine!
The lambkins bleating on the mountain-side!
The red squirrel chippering in the proud old pine!
The pigeon-cock cooing to his vernal bride!
O'er all the land and o'er the peaceful tide,
Singing and praising every living thing,
Till one sweet anthem, echoed far and wide,
Makes all the broad blue bent of ether ring
With welcomings to thee, God-given, supernal Spring.
TO MOLLIE
O Mollie, I would I possessed such a heart;
It enchants me—so gentle and true;
I would I possessed all its magical art,
Then, Mollie, I would enchant you.
Those dear, rosy lips—tho' I never caressed them(?)—
Are as sweet as the wild honey-dew;
Your cheeks—all the angels in Heaven have blessed them,
But not one is as lovely as you.
Then give me that heart,—O that innocent heart!
For mine own is cold and perdu;
It enchants me, but give me its magical art,
Then, Mollie, I will enchant you.
1855.
TO SYLVA
I know thou art true, and I know thou art fair
As the rose-bud that blooms in thy beautiful hair;
Thou art far, but I feel the warm throb of thy heart;
Thou art far, but I love thee wherever thou art.
Wherever at noontide my spirit may be,
At evening it silently wanders to thee;
It seeks thee, my dear one, for comfort and rest,
As the weary-winged dove seeks at night-fall her nest.
Through the battle of life—through its sorrow and care—
Till the mortal sink down with its load of despair,—
Till we meet at the feet of the Father and Son,
I'll love thee and cherish thee, beautiful one.
1859.
THANKSGIVING.
[Nov. 26, 1857, during the great financial depression.]
Father, our thanks are due to thee
For many a blessing given,
By thy paternal love and care,
From the bounty-horn of heaven.
We know that still that horn is filled
With blessings for our race,
And we calmly look thro' winter's storm
To thy benignant face.
Father, we raise our thanks to Thee,—
Who seldom thanked before;
And seldom bent the stubborn knee
Thy goodness to adore:
But Father, thou hast blessings poured
On all our wayward days
And now thy mercies manifold
Have filled our hearts with praise
The winter-storm may rack and roar;
We do not fear its blast;
And we'll bear with faith and fortitude
The lot that thou hast cast.
But Father,—Father,—O look down
On the poor and homeless head
And feed the hungry thousands
That cry to thee for bread.
Thou givest us our daily bread;
We would not ask for more;
But, Father, give their daily bread
To the multitudes of poor.
In all the cities of the land
The naked and hungry are;
O feed them with thy manna, Lord,
And clothe them with thy care.
Thou dost not give a serpent, Lord,
We will not give a stone;
For the bread and meat thou givest us
Are not for us alone.
And while a loaf is given to us
From thy all-bounteous horn
We'll cheerfully divide that loaf
With the hungry and forlorn.
CHARITY
Frail are the best of us, brothers—
God's charity cover us all—
Yet we ask for perfection in others,
And scoff when they stumble and fall.
Shall we give him a fish—or a serpent—
Who stretches his hand in his need?
Let the proud give a stone, but the manly
Will give him a hand full of bread.
Let us search our own hearts and behavior
Ere we cast at a brother a stone,
And remember the words of the Savior
To the frail and unfortunate one;
Remember when others displease us
The Nazarene's holy command,
For the only word written by Jesus
Was charity—writ in the sand.