THE POET’S WEALTH.
My friends, I am not poor.
What though my purse be empty? Let it lie
An empty bauble still; my heart is full
Of gushing tenderness to all I love;
And I love every thing, save sin. Thank God!
That thing I do not love. I have been bathed,
With reverence let me utter it, in blood
Which hath a power to make the foulest clean;
And though I need to wash me every day
In that exhaustless fountain, from the stains
Which will on earth my struggling soul defile,
Still, still, I love not sin—my taste is changed.
But that aside, I do love every thing;
And this, sweet friends! is to be rich indeed;
I am content—’tis all the wealth I need.
I love this rich and varied world of ours,
Adorn’d with sunbeams, moonlight, stars, and flowers;
I love another better, where I see
With eye of faith, bright things in store for me;
But when I think my Father made this earth
So beautiful, to be th’ abode of man,
O! then I love it well—perhaps too well.
How oft with tremulous delight I’ve gazed
Upon th’ unquiet ocean—while in sport
He tossed his billows in a thousand forms,
And crown’d them all with snowy wreaths of foam!
Long have I stood upon the shelving beach,
With feelings elevated by the scene.
Who does not love the ocean? Who can stand
Spectator of that most sublime expanse—
The fathomless, the ever changing sea,
And feel not reverence, gratitude, and love,
To Him who keeps the waters in their bounds,
Who holds them in the hollow of his hand?
If there be such a man, that man is poor,
Though sums untold within his coffers lie.
I love the sun—the bright impartial sun,
Which shineth on the evil and the good!
I love the moon—the pale and pensive moon,
When, walking thoughtful in the silent night,
She throws her mellow rays on every scene,
Peopling with fairy forms the forest shades,
As her mild eye looks through the moving trees.
I love the stars—“the poetry of Heaven!”
Those meeting places for fond lovers’ eyes,
Who tenderly, at some appointed hour,
With earnest looks gaze on their fav’rite star!
I love the clouds—th’ embroidery of the sky!
Work’d out in bold relief, in figures fine,
Upon a ground of never fading blue!
I even love the frowning thunder cloud,
Clothing the skies in mourning, ere the rain
May weep its torrents o’er the thirsty land.
I love the flowers—fair ornaments of earth!
The many color’d gems which deck her breast—
The scented sprigs upon her robe of green!
I love the trees—which throw their leafy shade,
To screen us from the scorching noontide ray,
Or spread their arms, well fill’d with golden fruit,
Inviting us to taste the rich repast.
I love the birds—those cheerful choristers,
Which sing to us in ever tuneful strains,
Unpaid, and often unregarded too.
I love the noble beasts—untamed which roam,
Or those which patient bear man’s heavy yoke,
Or those which minister to our delight,
By giving food, or bearing friend to friend.
I love mankind—though I would keep afar
From those whose minds are meanly chain’d to earth,
Unless they’d listen to my pleading voice,
Telling of things all fair and beautiful.
I love with all my heart, a little child,
Pure, fresh, and beauteous in its early bloom—
A blossom soon to shed its fragrance far,
Or scatter baleful poison all around.
I love the aged man, whose hoary hair
Lies thinly scatter’d o’er his temples bare;
I love to see him cheerfully descend
The hill of life. The winter of his days
A prelude is to one eternal spring.
And I love sorrow too; it teaches me
The lessons I shall ne’er forget. It breaks
My heart, that love divine may enter in,
And, while it heals the breach, may there abide.
And last, not least, I love sweet poetry,
The only never failing alchemy
Which turneth all it touches into gold.
So much for earth; now for exalted love!
I love, O! how I love, my future home!
Here language fails me. Eye hath never seen,
Ear has not heard, nor heart of man conceiv’d
The things that are reserved for us in Heaven!
Ye see the Christian poet is not poor;
Though bread and water all my portion be,
Still am I rich indeed—I ask no more.
For know ye not that all these things are mine?
They’re mine and yours, for our enjoyment given.
Remember it was said, “All things are yours—
And ye are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s.”
January 14, 1841.