PROPHECY AND FULFILMENT.
When leaves were falling thickly in the pale November day,
A bird dropped here this feather upon her pensive way.
Another bird has found it in the snow-chilled April day;
It brings to him the music of all her summer's lay.
Thus sweet birds, though unmated, do never sing in vain;
The lonely notes they utter to free them from their pain,
Caught up by the echoes, ring through the blue dome,
And by good spirits guided pierce to some gentle home.
The pencil moved prophetic: together now men read
In the fair book of nature, and find the hope they need.
The wreath woven by the river is by the seaside worn,
And one of fate's best arrows to its due mark is borne.
VERSES
GIVEN TO W. C. WITH A BLANK BOOK, MARCH, 1844.
Thy other book to fill, more than eight years
Have paid chance tribute of their smiles and tears;
Many bright strokes portray the varied scene—
Wild sports, sweet ties the days of toil between;
And those related both in mind and blood,
The wise, the true, the lovely, and the good,
Have left their impress here; nor such alone,
But those chance toys that lively feelings own
Weave their gay flourishes 'mid lines sincere,
As 'mid the shadowy thickets bound the deer
Accept a volume where the coming time
Will join, I hope, much reason with the rhyme,
And that the stair his steady feet ascend
May prove a Jacob's ladder to my friend,
Peopled with angel-shapes of promise bright,
And ending only in the realms of light.
May purity be stamped upon his brow,
Yet leave the manly footsteps free as now;
May generous love glow in his inmost heart,
Truth to its utterance lend the only art;
While more a man, may he be more the child;
More thoughtful be, but the more sweet and mild;
May growing wisdom, mixed with sprightly cheer,
Bless his own breast and those which hold him dear;
Each act be worthy of his worthiest aim,
And love of goodness keep him free from blame,
Without a need straight rules for life to frame.
Good Spirit, teach him what he ought to be,
Best to fulfil his proper destiny,
To serve himself, his fellow-men, and thee.
These pages then will show how Nature wild
Accepts her Master, cherishes her child;
And many flowers, ere eight years more are done,
Shall bless and blossom in the western sun.
EAGLES AND DOVES.
GŒTHE.
A new-fledged eaglet spread his wings
To seek for prey;
Then flew the huntsman's dart and cut
The right wing's sinewy strength away.
Headlong he falls into a myrtle grove;
There three days long devoured his grief,
And writhed in pain
Three long, long nights, three days as weary.
At length he feels
The all-healing power
Of Nature's balsam.
Forth from the shady bush he creeps,
And tries his wing; but, ah!
The power to soar is gone!
He scarce can lift himself
Along the ground
In search of food to keep mere life awake;
Then rests, deep mourning,
On a low rock by the brook;
He looks up to the oak tree's top,
Far up to heaven,
And a tear glistens in his haughty eye.
Just then come by a pair of fondling doves,
Playfully rustling through the grove.
Cooing and toying, they go tripping
Over golden sand and brook;
And, turning here and there,
Their rose-tinged eyes descry
The inly-mourning bird.
The dove, with friendly curiosity,
Flutters to the next bush, and looks
With tender sweetness on the wounded king.
"Ah, why so sad?" he cooes;
"Be of good cheer, my friend!
Hast thou not all the means of tranquil bliss
Around thee here?
Canst thou not meet with swelling breast
The last rays of the setting sun
On the brook's mossy brink?
Canst wander 'mid the dewy flowers,
And, from the superfluous wealth
Of the wood-bushes, pluck at will
Wholesome and delicate food,
And at the silvery fountain quench thy thirst?
O friend! the spirit of content
Gives all that we can know of bliss;
And this sweet spirit of content
Finds every where its food."
"O, wise one!" said the eagle, deeper still
Into himself retiring;
"O wisdom, thou speakest as a dove!"
TO A FRIEND, WITH HEARTSEASE.
Content in purple lustre clad,
Kingly serene, and golden glad;
No demi hues of sad contrition,
No pallors of enforced submission;
Give me such content as this,
And keep a while the rosy bliss.