The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Youth's Coronal, by Hannah Flagg Gould
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THE YOUTH'S CORONAL.
BY HANNAH FLAGG GOULD
AUTHOR OF "POEMS," ETC., ETC.
Whate'er the good instruction may reveal,
The head must take, before the heart can feel.
THE MORALIZER.
1851
ADDRESS
TO THE YOUTH OF MY COUNTRY.
In preparing the following pages, my aim has been, to produce a book alike entertaining and instructive;—one which, in the reading, should afford an amusement to the mind, pleasant as the spring-blossoms on the tree; and, in its influences on the heart in after life, be like the good fruits that succeed and ripen, to refresh and nourish us, when the vernal season is over and gone, and the voices of the singing-birds are lost in the distance.
Choosing an appropriate title for such a presentation, I have borrowed my idea from the words of the wise king of Israel:—"Hear the instruction of thy father, and forsake not the law of thy mother; for they shall be an ornament of grace unto thy head," &c., and other Scripture passages of similar figurative meaning; for, though often given in a sportive way, it is my design that no moral shall be conveyed in the volume, but such as a good and judicious parent would wish a child to imbibe.
Accept, then, my young Friends, this new CORONAL of the little flowers of poesy which I have woven for you. When you shall have examined and scented it, and found no thorn to pierce—no juice or odor to poison you in its whole circle, wear it for the giver's sake; and enjoy it and profit by its healthful influences, for your own.
Gladly would I feel assured that, in some future years,—when I shall have done with earthly flowers, and you will be engaged in the busy scenes and arduous duties of mature life,—the import of these leaves may from time to time arise to your memory, in all its dewy freshness, like the fragrance which the summer-breeze wafts after us, from the lilies and violets we have passed and left far behind us, in our morning rambles. Then, if not to-day, you will be convinced that I was—as now I am,
Your true Friend,
H. F. GOULD.
Newburyport, Mass., August, 1850.
CONTENTS
[Sudden Elevation; or The Empaled Butterfly]
[The Bee, Clover, and Thistle]
[The Stove and the Grate-Setter]
[Humility; or, The Mushroom's Soliloquy]
[The Bat's Flight By Daylight An Allegory]
The Sale of the Water-Lily
And these would sometimes come, and cheer
The widow with a song,
To let her feel a neighbor near,
And wing an hour along.
A pond, supplied by hidden springs,
With lilies bordered round,
Was found among the richest things,
That blessed the widow's ground.
She had, besides, a gentle brook,
That wound the meadow through,
Which from the pond its being took,
And had its treasures too.
Her eldest orphan was a son;
For, children she had three;
She called him, though a little one,
Her hope for days to be.
And well he might be reckoned so;
If, from the tender shoot,
We know the way the branch will grow;
Or, by the flower, the fruit.
His tongue was true, his mind was bright;
His temper smooth and mild:
He was—the parent's chief delight—
A good and pleasant child.
He'd gather chips and sticks of wood
The winter fire to make;
And help his mother dress their food,
Or tend the baking cake.
In summer time he'd kindly lead
His little sisters out,
To pick wild berries on the mead,
And fish the brook for trout.
He stirred his thoughts for ways to earn
Some little gain; and hence,
Contrived the silver pond to turn.
In part, to silver pence.
He found the lilies blooming there
So spicy sweet to smell,
And to the eye so pure and fair,
He plucked them up to sell.
He could not to the market go:
He had too young a head,
The distant city's ways to know;
The route he could not tread.
But, when the coming coach-wheels rolled
To pass his humble cot,
His bunch of lilies to be sold
Was ready on the spot.
He'd stand beside the way, and hold
His treasures up to show,
That looked like yellow stars of gold
Just set in leaves of snow.
"O buy my lilies!" he would say;
"You'll find them new and sweet:
So fresh from out the pond are they,
I haven't dried my feet!"
And then he showed the dust that clung
Upon his garment's hem,
Where late the water-drops had hung,
When he had gathered them.
And while the carriage checked its pace,
To take the lilies in,
His artless orphan tongue and face
Some bright return would win.
For many a noble stranger's hand,
With open purse, was seen,
To cast a coin upon the sand,
Or on the sloping green.
And many a smiling lady threw
The child a silver piece;
And thus, as fast as lilies grew,
He saw his wealth increase.
While little more—and little more,
Was gathered by their sale,
His widowed mother's frugal store
Would never wholly fail.
For He, who made, and feeds the bird,
Her little children fed.
He knew her trust: her cry he heard;
And answered it with bread.
And thus, protected by the Power,
Who made the lily fair,
Her orphans, like the meadow flower,
Grew up in beauty there.
Her son, the good and prudent boy,
Who wisely thus began,
Was long the aged widow's joy;
And lived an honored man.
He had a ship, for which he chose
"The LILY" as a name,
To keep in memory whence he rose,
And how his fortune came.'
He had a lily carved, and set,
Her emblem, on her stem;
And she was called, by all she met,
A beauteous ocean gem.
She bore sweet spices, treasures bright;
And, on the waters wide,
Her sails as lily-leaves were white:
Her name was well applied.
Her feeling owner never spurned
The presence of the poor;
And found that all he gave returned
In blessings rich and sure.
The God who by the lily-pond
Had drawn his heart above,
In after life preserved the bond
Of grateful, holy love.
The Humming-Bird's Anger
"Small as the humming-bird is, it has great courage and violent passions. If it find a flower that has been deprived of its honey, it will pluck it off, throw it on the ground, and sometimes tear it to pieces." BUFFON.
On light little wings as the humming-birds fly,
With plumes many-hued as the bow of the sky,
Suspended in ether, they shine to the light
As jewels of nature high-finished and bright.
Their vision-like forms are so buoyant and small
They hang o'er the flowers, as too airy to fall,
Up-borne by their beautiful pinions, that seem
Like glittering vapor, or parts of a dream.
The humming-bird feeds upon honey; and so,
Of course, 'tis a sweet little creature, you know.
But sweet little creatures have sometimes, they say,
A great deal that's bitter, or sour, to betray!
And often the humming-bird's delicate breast
Is found of a very high temper possessed.
Such essence of anger within it is pent,
'Twould burst did no safety-valve give it a vent.
Displeased, it will seem a bright vial of wrath,
Uncorked by its heat, the offender to scath;
And, taking occasion to let off its ire,
'Tis startling to witness how high it will fire.
A humming-bird once o'er a trumpet-flower hung,
And darted that sharp little member, the tongue,
At once to the nectarine cell, for the sweet
She felt at the bottom most certain to meet.
But, finding some other light child of the air
To rifle its store, had already been there;
And no drop of honey for her to draw up,
Her vengeance broke forth on the destitute cup.
She flew in a passion, that heightened her power;
And cuffing, and shaking the innocent flower,
Its tender corolla in shred after shred
She hastily stripped; then she snapped off its head.
A delicate ruin, on earth as it lay,
That bright little fury went, humming, away,
With gossamer softness, and fair to the eye,
Like some living brilliant, just dropped from the sky.
And since, when that curious bird I behold
Arrayed in rich colors, and dusted with gold,
I cannot but think of the wrath and the spite
She has in reserve, though they're now out of sight.
Ye two-footed, beautiful, passionate things,
If plumy or plumeless—without, or with wings,
Beware, lest ye break, in some hazardous hour,
Your vials of wrath, hot, or bitter, or sour!
And would ye but know how at times ye do seem
Transformed to bright furies, or frights in a dream,
Go, stand at the glass—to the painter go sit,
When anger is just at the height of its fit!
The Butterfly's Dream
A tulip, just opened, had offered to hold
A butterfly gaudy and gay;
And rocked in his cradle of crimson and gold,
The careless young slumberer lay.
For the butterfly slept;—as such thoughtless ones will,
At ease, and reclining on flowers;—
If ever they study, 'tis how they may kill
The best of their mid-summer hours!
And the butterfly dreamed, as is often the case
With indolent lovers of change,
Who, keeping the body at ease in its place,
Give fancy permission to range.
He dreamed that he saw, what he could but despise,
The swarm from a neighboring hive;
Which, having come out for their winter supplies,
Had made the whole garden alive.
He looked with disgust, as the proud often do,
On the diligent movements of those,
Who, keeping both present and future in view,
Improve every hour as it goes.
As the brisk little alchymists passed to and fro,
With anger the butterfly swelled;
And called them mechanics—a rabble too low
To come near the station he held.
"Away from my presence!" said he, in his sleep,
"Ye humble plebeians! nor dare
Come here with your colorless winglets to sweep
The king of this brilliant parterre!"
He thought, at these words, that together they flew,
And, facing about, made a stand;
And then, to a terrible army they grew,
And fenced him on every hand.
Like hosts of huge giants, his numberless foes
Seemed spreading to measureless size:
Their wings with a mighty expansion arose,
And stretched like a veil o'er the skies.
Their eyes seemed like little volcanoes, for fire,—
Their hum, to a cannon-peal grown,—
Farina to bullets was rolled in their ire,
And, he thought, hurled at him and his throne.
He tried to cry quarter! his voice would not sound,
His head ached—his throne reeled and fell;
His enemy cheered, as he came to the ground,
And cried, "King Papilio, farewell!"
His fall chased the vision—the sleeper awoke,
The wonderful dream to expound;
The lightning's bright flash from the thunder-cloud broke,
And hail-stones were rattling around.
He'd slumbered so long, that now, over his head,
The tempest's artillery rolled;
The tulip was shattered—the whirl-blast had fled,
And borne off its crimson and gold.
'Tis said, for the fall and the pelting, combined
With suppressed ebullitions of pride.
This vain son of summer no balsam could find,
But he crept under covert and died!
The Boy and the Cricket
At length I have thee! my brisk new-comer,
Sounding thy lay to departing summer;
And I'll take thee up from thy bed of grass,
And carry thee home to a house of glass;
Where thy slender limbs, and the faded green
Of thy close-made coat, can all be seen.
For I long to know if the cricket
sings
,
Or
plays
the tune with his gauzy wings;—
To bring that shrill-toned pipe to light
Which kept me awake so long last night,
That I told the hours by the lazy clock,
Till I heard the crow of the noisy cock;
When, tossing and turning, at length I fell
In a sleep so strange, that the dream I'll tell.
Methought, on a flowery bank I lay,
By a beautiful stream; and watched the play
Of the sparkling wavelets, that fled so fast,
I could not number them as they passed.
But I marked the things which they carried by;
And a neat little skiff first caught my eye.
'Twas woven of reeds, and its sides were bound
By a tender vine, that had clasped it round;
And spreading within, had made it seem
A basket of leaves, borne down the stream.
And the skiff had neither a sail nor oar;
But a bright little boy stood up, and bore,
On his outstretched hands, a wreath so gay,
It looked like a crown for the Queen of May.
And while he was going, I heard him sing,
"O seize the garland of passing
Spring!
"
But I dared not reach, for the bank was steep;
And he bore it away, to the far off deep!
There came, then, a lady;—her eye was bright—
She was young and fair, and her bark was light;
Its mast was a living tree, that spread
Its boughs for a sail, o'er the lady's head.
And some of its fruits had just begun
To flush, on the side that was next the sun;
And some with the crimson streak were stained;
While others their size had not yet gained.
In passing she cried, "Oh! who can insure
The fruits of
Summer
to get mature?
For, fast as the waters beneath me flowing,
Beyond recall, I'm going! I'm going!"
I turned my eye, and beheld another,
That seemed as she might be Summer's mother.
She looked more grave; while her cheek was tinged
With a deeper brown; and her bark was fringed
With the tasselled heads of the wheaten sheaves
Along its sides; and the yellow leaves,
That had covered the deck concealed a throng
Of
Crickets!
—I knew by their choral song.
And at
Autumn's
feet lay the golden corn,
While her hands were raised, to invert a horn
That was filled with a sweet and mellow store,
And the purple clusters were hanging o'er.
She bade me seize on the fruit that should last
When the harvest was gone, and Autumn had past.
But, when I had paused to make the choice,
I saw no bark! and I heard no voice!
Then I looked on a sight that chilled my blood!
'Twas a mass of ice, where an old man stood
On his frozen float; while his shrivelled hand
Had clenched, as a staff by which to stand,
A whitened branch that the blast had broke
From the lifeless trunk of an aged oak.
The icicles hung from the naked limb,
And the old man's eye was sunken and dim.
But his scattering locks were silver bright,
His beard with gathering frost was white;
The tears congealed on his furrowed cheek,
His garb was thin, and the winds were bleak.
He faintly uttered, while drawing near,
"
Winter
, the death of the short-lived year,
Can yield thee nought, as I downward tend
To the boundless sea, where the Seasons end!
But I trust from others, who've gone before,
Thou'st clothed thy form, and supplied thy store
And now, what tidings am I to bear
Of thee—for I shall be questioned there?"
I asked my mother, who o'er me bent,
What all this show of the Seasons meant?
She said 'twas a picture of Life, I saw;
And the useful moral myself must draw!
I woke, and found that thy song was stilled,
And the sun's bright beams my room had filled!
But I think, my Cricket, I long shall keep
In mind the dream of my morning sleep!
Fanny Spy
Lucy, Lucy, come away!
Never climb for things so high.
Don't you know, the other day,
What fell out with Fanny Spy?
Fanny spied, a loaf of cake,
Wisely set above her reach;
Yet did Fanny think to make
In its tempting side a breach.
When she thought the family
Out of sight and hearing too,
Forth a polished table she
Quickly to the closet drew.
First, she stepped upon a chair;
Then the table—then a shelf;
Thinking she securely there
Might, unnoticed, help herself.
Then she seized a heavy slice,
Leaving in the loaf a cleft
Wider than a dozen mice,
Feasted there all night, had left.
Stepping backward, Fanny slid
On the table's polished face:—
Down she came, with dish and lid,
Silver—glass—and china vase!
In, from every room they rushed,
Father—mother—servants—all,
Thinking all the closet crushed,
By the racket and the fall.
'Mid the uproar of the house,
Fanny, in her shame and fright,
Wished herself indeed a mouse,
But to run and hide from sight.
Yet was she to learn how vain,
Poor and worthless, is a wish.
Wishing could not lull her pain,
Hide her shame, nor mend a dish.
There she lay, but could not speak;
For a tooth had made a pass
Through her lip; and to her cheek
Clung a piece of shivered glass.
From her altered features gushed
Rolling tears, and streaming gore;
While, untasted still, and crushed,
Lay her cake upon the floor.
Then the doctor hurried in:
Fanny at his needle swooned,
As he held her crimson chin,
And together stitched the wound.
Now her face a scar must wear,
Ever till her dying day!
Questioned how it happened there,
What can blushing Fanny say?
Sudden Elevation; or The Empaled Butterfly
"Ho!" said the Butterfly, "here am I,
Up in the air, who used to lie
Flat on the ground, for the passers by
To treat with utter neglect!
But none will suspect that I am the same;
With a bright, new coat, and a different name;
The piece of nothingness whence I came
In me they'll never detect.
"That horrible night in the chrysalis,
Which brought me at length to a day like this,
In a form of beauty—a state of bliss,
Was little enough to give
For freedom to range from bower to bower,
To flirt with the buds, and flatter the flower,
And bask in the sunbeams hour by hour,
The envy of all that live.
"Why, this is a world of curious things,
Where those who crawl, and those that have wings,
Are ranked in the classes of beggars, and kings,
No matter how much the worth
May be on the side of those who creep,
Where the vain, the light, and the bold will sweep,
Others from notice, and proudly keep
Uppermost on the earth!
"Many a one that has loathed the sight
Of the piteous worm, will take delight
In welcoming me, as I look so bright
In my new and beautiful dress.
But some I shall pass with a scornful glance,
Some, with an elegant nonchalance;
And others will woo me, till I advance
To give them a slight caress."
"Ha, ha!" said the Pin, "you are just the one
Through which I'm commissioned, at once, to run
From back to breast, till, your fluttering done,
Your form may be fairly shown.
And when my point shall have reached your heart,
'T will be as a balm to the wounded part,
To think how you're to be copied by art,
And your beauty will all be known!"
The Stricken Bird
Here's the last food your poor mother can bring!
Take it, my suffering brood.
Oh! they have stricken me under the wing;
See, it is dripping with blood!
Fair was the morn, and I wished them to rise,
Enjoying its beauties with me.
The air was all fragrance—all splendor the skies,
While bright shone the earth and the sea.
Little I thought, when so freely I went,
Employing my earliest breath,
To wake them with song, it could be their intent
To pay me with arrows and death!
Fear that my nestlings would feel them forgot,
Helped me a moment to fly;
Else I had given up life on the spot,
Under my murderer's eye.
Yet, I can never brood o'er you again,
Closing you under my breast!
Its coldness would chill you; my blood would but stain
And spoil the warm down of your nest.
Ere the night-coming, your mother will lie,
All motionless, under the tree;
Where, deafened, and silent, I still shall be nigh,
While you will be moaning for me!
The Young Sportsman
Harry had a dog and gun;
And he loved to set the one,
Barking, out upon the run,
While he held the other,
Often charged so heavily,
'Twas a dangerous thing to be
With so young a wight as he
Mindless of his mother.
Earnestly she warned her child
To forego a sport so wild;
While he, turning, frowned or smiled,
And away would sidle.
For, to give him short and long,
Harry had a head so strong,
In the right or in the wrong,
It was hard to bridle.
On his gunning madly bent,
Often in his clothes a rent
Told the reckless way he went,
Over hedge and brambles.
Homeward then would Harry slouch,
With his gun and empty pouch,
Looking like a scaramouch
Coming from his rambles.
Sometimes when he scaled a wall,
Headlong there to pitch and fall,
Ratling stones, and gun and all.
Down together tumbled.
Tray would bark to tell the news
Of his master with a bruise,
Hatless, and with grated shoes,
Lying flat and humbled!
Where he saw the bushes stirred,
Harry, sure of hare or bird,
Drew,—and at a flash was heard
Noise like little thunder.
When he ran his game to find,
Disappointment 'mazed his mind;—
Finding he'd but shot the wind,
Dumb he stood with wonder!
Over muddy pool or bog,
Not so nimble as his dog,
When he walked the plank or log,
There his balance losing,
Splash! he went—a rueful plight!
If his face before was white,
'Twas like morning turned to night,
Much against his choosing.
Now, like many a hasty one,
Whether quadruped or gun,
Or a mother's wayward son
Given to disaster,
Harry's gun was rather quick;
And it had a naughty trick,—
It would snap itself, and kick
Fiercely at its master.
So, this snappish habit grew
With a power for him to rue;
Just as all bad habits do
Grow, as age increases.
When, one day, with noise and smoke,
Over-charged, the barrel broke,
Harry's hand the mischief spoke—
It was blown to pieces!
Tray came crouching round, and growled,—
Saw the gore, and whined, and howled,
While his owner groaned and scowled,
And the blood was running.
With the horrors of his state,
And with anguish desperate,
Then poor Harry owned too late,
He was sick of gunning!
While his mother bent to mourn
As her froward son was borne,
With his hand all burnt and torn,
Faint and pale, before her,
Harry's pain must be endured,—
And the wound—it might be cured;
But, for fingers uninsured,
There was no restorer!
The Pebble and the Acorn
"I am a Pebble! I yield to none!"
Were the swelling words of a tiny stone,
"Nor time nor season can alter me;
I am abiding, while ages flee.
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain
Have tried to soften me, long, in vain;
And the dew has tenderly sought to melt,
Or touch my heart; but it was not felt.
There's none to tell you about my birth,
For I am as old as the big, round earth.
The children of men arise, and pass
Out of the world, like blades of grass;
And many foot that on me has trod
Is gone from sight, and under the sod!
I am a Pebble! but who art
thou
,
Rattling along from the restless bough?"
The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute,
And lay for a moment abashed and mute:
She never before had been so near
This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere;
And she felt for a time at loss to know
How to answer a thing so coarse and low.
But to give reproof of a nobler sort
Than the angry look, or the keen retort,
At length she said, in a gentle tone,
"Since it has happened that I am thrown,
From the lighter element where I grew,
Down to another, so hard and new,
And beside a personage so august,
Abased, I'll cover my head with dust,
And quick retire from the sight of one
Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun,
Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel
Has ever subdued, or made to feel!"
And soon in the earth she sank away
From the cheerless spot where the Pebble lay.
But 'twas not long ere the soil was broke
By the jeering head of an infant oak!
As it arose, and its branches spread,
The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said,
"Ah, modest Acorn! never to tell
What was enclosed in its simple shell;—
That the pride of the forest was folded up
In the narrow space of its little cup!—
And meekly to sink in the darksome earth,
Which proves that nothing could hide her worth!
And O, how many will tread on me,
To come and admire the beautiful tree,
Whose head is towering towards the sky,
Above such a worthless thing as I!
Useless and vain, a cumberer here,
Have I been idling from year to year.
But never, from this, shall a vaunting word
From the humbled Pebble again be heard,
Till something without me or within
Shall show the purpose for which I've been!"
The Pebble could ne'er its vow forget,
And it lies there wrapt in silence yet.
The Grasshopper and the Ant
"Ant, look at me!" a young grasshopper said,
As nimbly he sprang from his green, summer-bed,
"See how I'm going to skip over your head,
And could o'er a thousand like you!
Ant, by your motion alone, I should judge
That Nature ordained you a slave and a drudge,
For ever and ever to keep on the trudge,
And always find something to do.
"Oh! there is nothing like having our day—
Taking our pleasure and ease while we may—
Bathing ourselves in the bright, mellow ray
That comes from the warm, golden sun!
Whilst I am up in the light and the air,
You, a sad picture of labor and care,
Still have some hard, heavy burden to bear,
And work that you never get done.
"I have an exercise healthful and good,
For tuning the nerves and digesting the food—
Graceful gymnastics for stirring the blood
Without the gross purpose of use
Ant, let me tell you 'tis not
à la mode
To plod like a pilgrim, and carry a load,
Perverting the limbs that for grace were bestowed,
By such a plebeian abuse!
"While the whole world with provisions is filled,
Who would keep toiling and toiling, to build
And lay in a store for himself, till he's killed
With work that another might do?
Come! drop your budget, and just give a spring;
Jump on a grass-blade, and balance and swing;
Soon you'll be light as a gnat on the wing,
Gay as a grasshopper, too!"
Ant trudged along, while the grasshopper sung,
Minding her business and holding her tongue,
Until she got home her own people among;
But these were her thoughts on the road.
"What will become of that poor, idle one
When the light sports of the summer are done?
And, where is the covert to which he may run
To find a safe winter abode?
"Oh! if I only could tell him how sweet
Toil makes my rest and the morsel I eat,
While hope gives a spur to my little black feet,
He'd never pity my lot!
He'd never ask me my burden to drop,
To join in his folly—to spring, and to hop;
And thus make the ant and her labor to stop,
When time, I am certain, would not.
"When the cold frost all the herbage has nipped,
When the bare branches with ice-drops are tipped,
Where will the grasshopper then be, that skipped
So careless and lightly to-day?
Frozen to death! '
a sad picture
,' indeed,
Of reckless indulgence and what must succeed,
That all his gymnastics can't shelter or feed,
Or quicken his pulse into play!
"I must prepare for a winter to come,
I shall be glad of a home and a crumb,
When my frail form out of doors would be numb,
And I in the snow-storm should die.
Summer is lovely, but soon will be past.
Summer has plenty not always to last.
Summer's the time for the ant to make fast
Her stores for a future supply!"
The Rose-Bud of Autumn
Come out—pretty Rose-Bud,—my lone, timid one!
Come forth from thy green leaves, and peep at the sun!
For little he does, in these dull autumn hours,
At height'ning of beauty, or laughing with flowers.
His beams, on thy tender young cheek as he plays,
Will give it a blush that no other could raise:
Thy fine silken petals they'll softly unfold,
Thy pure bosom filling with spices and gold!
I would not instruct thee in coveting wealth;
Yet beauty, we know, is the offspring of health;
And health, the fair daughter of freedom! is bright
From drinking the breezes, and feasting on light.
Then, come, little gem, from thy covert look out;
And see what the glad, golden sun is about!
His shafts, do they strike thee, new charms will impart,
Thy form making fairer, and richer, thy heart.
Occasion, sweet Bud, is for thee and for me:
This hour it may give what again ne'er shall be.
O, let not the sunshine of life pass away,
Nor touch both our eye and our heart with its ray!
Frost, the Winter-Sprite
The Frost looked forth on a still, clear night,
And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley, and over the height
I'll silently take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
That make so much bustle and noise in vain.
But I'll be as busy as they!"
He flew up, and powdered the mountain's crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest
With diamonds and pearls;—and over the breast
Of the quivering Lake he spread
A bright coat of mail that it need not fear
The glittering point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock was rearing its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy crept;
Wherever he breathed—wherever he stepped—
Most beautiful things were seen
By morning's first light!--there flowers and trees,
With bevies of birds, and swarms of bright bees;—
There were cities—temples, and towers; and these,
All pictured in silvery sheen!
But one thing he did that was hardly fair—
He peeped in the cupboard, and, finding there
That none had remembered for him to prepare,
"Now, just to set them a-thinking,
I'll bite their rich basket of fruit," said he,
"This burly old pitcher—I'll burst it in three!
And the glass with the water they've left for me
Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking!"
Vivy Vain
Miss Vain was all given to dress—
Too fond of gay clothing; and so,
She'd gad about town
Just to show a new gown,
As a train-band their color to show.
Her head being empty and light,
Whene'er she obtained a new hat,
With pride in her air,
She'd go round, here and there,
For all whom she knew to see that.
Her folly was chiefly in this:
More highly she valued fine looks,
Than virtue or truth,
Or devoting her youth
To usefulness, friendship, or books.
Her passion for show was unchecked;
And therefore, it happened one day,
Arrayed in bright hues,
And with new hat and shoes,
Miss Vain walked abroad for display.
She took the most populous streets.
To cause but aversion in those,
Who saw how she prinked,
And the bystanders winked.
While the boys cried, "Halloo! there she goes!"
It chanced, that, in passing on way,
She came near a pool, and a green
With fence close and high;
And, as Vivy drew nigh,
A donkey stood near it unseen.
He put his mouth over its top,
The moment she came by his place;
And gave a loud bray
In her ear, when, away
She sprang, shrieked, and fell on her face.
She thought she was swallowed alive,
Awhile upon earth lying flat;
And the terrible sound
Seemed to furrow the ground
She embraced in her fine gown and hat.
She gathered herself up, and ran,
Yet heeded not whither or whence,
To flee from the roar,
That continued to pour
Behind her, from over the fence.
In passing a slope near the pool,
She slipped and rolled down to its brim;
The geese gave a shout,
And at length hissed her out
Of the bounds, where they'd gathered to swim.
In turning a corner, she met
Abruptly, the horns of a cow
That mooed, while the cur,
At her heels, turned from her,
And aimed at Miss Vain his "bow-wow."
Then Vivy's bright ribbons and skirt,
As she flew, flirted high on the wind;
The children at play,
Paused to see one so gay,
And all in a flutter behind.
A group of glad schoolboys came by:
Said they, "So it seems, that to-day,
Miss Vain carries marks
At which the dog barks,
And that make sober Long-Ears to bray."
And when, all bedraggled and pale,
Poor Vivy approached her own door,
She went, swift and straight
As a dart, through the gate,
Abhorring the gay gear she wore.
She sat down, and thought of the scene
With humiliation and tears:
The words, and the noise
Of the brutes and the boys
Were echoing still in her ears.
She reasoned, and came at the cause,
Resolving that cause to remove;
And thence, her desire
Was for modest attire,
And her heart and her mind to improve.
And soon, all who knew her before
Remarked on the change and the gain
In mind, and in mien,
And in dress, that were seen
In the once flashy Miss Vivy Vain.
The Lost Kite
"My kite! my kite! I've lost my kite!
Oh! when I saw the steady flight,
With which she gained her lofty height,
How could I know, that letting go
That naughty string, would bring so low
My pretty, buoyant, darling kite,
To pass for ever out of sight?
"A purple cloud was sailing by,
With silver fringes, o'er the sky;
And then I thought, it seemed so nigh,
I'd make my kite go up and light
Upon its edge, so soft and bright;
To see how noble, high and proud
She'd look, while riding on a cloud!
"As near her shining mark she drew
I clapped my hands; the line slipped through
My silly fingers; and she flew,
Away! away! in airy play,
Right over where the water lay!
She veered and fluttered, swung and gave
A plunge, then vanished with the wave!
"I never more shall want to look
On that false cloud, or babbling brook;
Nor e'er to feel the breeze that took
My dearest joy, to thus destroy
The pastime of your happy boy.
My kite! my kite! how sad to think
She flew so high, so soon to sink!"
"Be this," the mother said, and smiled,
"A lesson to thee, simple child!
And when by fancies vain and wild,
As that which cost the kite that's lost,
The busy brain again is crossed,
Of shining vapor then beware,
Nor trust thy joys to fickle air.
"I have a darling treasure, too,
That sometimes would, by slipping through
My guardian hands, the way pursue,
From which, more tight than thou thy kite,
I hold my jewel, new and bright,
Lest he should stray without a guide,
To drown my hopes in sorrow's tide!"
A Summer-Morning Rumble
Oh! the happy Summer hours.
With their butterflies and flowers,
And the birds among the bowers
Sweetly singing;—
With the spices from the trees,
Vines, and lilies, while the bees
Come floating on the breeze,
Honey bringing!
All the East was rosy red,
When we woke and left our bed;
And to gather flowers we sped,
Gay and early.
Every clover-top was wet,
And the spider's silken net
With a thousand dew-drops set,
Pure and pearly.
With their modest eyes of blue
Were the violets peeping through
Tufts of grasses, where they grew,
Full of beauty,
At the lamb in snowy white,
O'er the meadow bounding light,
And the crow just taking flight,
Grave and sooty.
On our floral search intent,
Still away, away we went,—
Up and down the rugged bent,—
Through the wicket,—
Where the rock with water drops,—
Through the bushes and the copse,—
Where the greenwood pathway stops
In the thicket.
We heard the fountain gush,
And the singing of the thrush;
And we saw the squirrel's brush
In the hedges,
As along his back 't was thrown,
Like a glory of his own.
While the sun behind it, shone
Through its edges.
All the world appeared so fair,
And so fresh and free the air,—
Oh! it seemed that all the care
In creation
Belonged to God alone;
And that none beneath his throne,
Need to murmur or to groan
At his station.
Dear little brother Will!
He has leaped the hedge and rill,—
He has clambered up the hill,
Ere the beaming
Of the rising sun, to sweep
With its golden rays the steep,
Till he's tired, and dropped asleep,
Sweetly dreaming.
See, he threw aside his cap,
And the roses from his lap,
When his eyes were, for the nap,
Slowly closing:
Wit his sunny curls outspread,
On its fragrant mossy bed,
Now his precious infant head
Is reposing.
He is dreaming of his play—