Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

Why should the preacher ever rave
Of sorrow, death, and "dust to dust?"
We know that we shall fill a grave,-
But why be sad before we must?

Look round the world and we shall see,
Despite the cynic's snarling groan,
Much to awaken thankful glee,

As well as wring the hopeless moan.

Perchance the laden tree we shake
May have a reptile at its root;
But shall we only see the snake,
And quite forget the grateful fruit?

Shall we forget each sunny morn,
And tell of one dire lightning-stroke?

Of all the suits that we have worn,
Shall we but keep the funeral cloak?

Oh! why should our own hands be twining
Dark chaplets from the cypress-tree?
Why stand in gloomy spots, repining,
When further on sweet buds may be?

'Tis true that nightshade oft will bind us,
That eyes, the brightest, will be dim;
Old wrinkled Care too oft will find us,
But why should we go seeking him?

ELIZA COOK, 1818 –

ODE TO DUTY.

OFFSPRING of holy Truth,

Maternal guide of youth,

Lo! to thy shrine no costly gifts I bring;
But thou with aspect stern

Wilt not, O Duty, spurn
Feeling's spontaneous simple offering.

Not mine the song of flame;

Not mine the hero's name ;

Yet wilt thou not my humble efforts bless?
For I would call thee friend,

Thy voice with joy attend,

And walk with thee in silent usefulness.

Oft when I shuddering eye

The dark futurity,

That silent untried path! and meditate
On all the ills and cares,

The sorrows, and the snares,

Which there the young adventurer await :

And think with sickening glance

Upon life's awful chance,

How great the danger, and the task how vast! From the dark torrent's brink

I like a coward shrink,

Fear to plunge in, and wildly wish it past.

Then thou with frown severe

Reprov'st my servile fear;

"Why tremble thus, while Duty is thy pride? While beams my steady light,

Fear not the blackest night,

For ill shall ne'er befall thee at my side."

And trust in thee I will;

Oh, keep me near thee still,

And teach me every terror to dismiss!
For ne'er have I believed,

And thou my hopes deceived,

Thy yoke is easy, and thine end is bliss!

Should Love's seductive wiles,

Should Beauty's melting smiles,

From prudence tempt my youthful heart to err, While phantoms of delight

Dance by my dazzled sight,

And eager Hope forbids me to defer.

Oh, then oppose thy shield,
Nor let me weakly yield,

But bow submissive, and await thy will:
Within my throbbing breast,

Be every sigh represt,

And every fond aspiring hope be still!

Yet never shall my heart
Be taught the Stoic art:

Far-far the apathy of pride remove!
Oh! better 'twere to feel

The wound that ne'er can heal,
Than, cold and callous grown, forget to love.

Where'er thou lead'st the way,

The summons I'll obey;

Bid me come to thee o'er the yielding wave,
For thou wilt o'er the tide

My steps upholding guide,

And when I'm sinking, stretch thine arm to save.

E'en shall thy stern command

Forbid my youthful hand

To hold sweet converse with the much-loved lyre,
Though not without a sigh,

I'd hang it up on high,

And bid with fond adieu the Muse retire.

Then, when in swift decay,

Fast ebbs my life away,

How sweet to hear thy soft approving voice!

How will thine angel-smile

The last sad hour beguile,

The dying pillow smoothe-the sinking heart rejoice!

-Poetical Register, 1810-11.

ON THE PICTURE OF A "CHILD TIRED AT PLAY."

TIRED of play! tired of play!

What hast thou done this livelong day?
The birds are silent, and so is the bee;
The sun is creeping up steeple and tree;
The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves,
And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves;
Twilight gathers, and day is done-

How hast thou spent it-restless one?

Playing? But what hast thou done beside
To tell thy mother at eventide?

What promise of morn is left unbroken?
What kind word to thy playmates spoken?
What hast thou pified, and whom forgiven?
How with thy faults has duty striven?
What hast thou learn'd by field and hill,
By greenwood path, and by singing rill?

There will come an eve to a longer day,
That will find thee tired-but not of play!
And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now,
With drooping limbs and aching brow,
And wish the shadows would faster creep,
And long to go to thy quiet sleep.—
Well were it then if thine aching brow
Were as free from sin and shame as now!

« ПредишнаНапред »