The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Snow-Drop, by Sarah S. Mower
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Snow-Drop
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Title: The Snow-Drop
Author: Sarah S. Mower
Release date: March 1, 2004 [eBook #11439]
Most recently updated: October 28, 2024
Language: English
Credits: E-text prepared by Amy Petri and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders from images provided by Internet Archive Children's Library and University of Florida
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SNOW-DROP ***
The Project Gutenberg eBook,
The Snow-Drop, by Sarah S. Mower
E-text prepared by Amy Petri and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
from images provided by Internet Archive Children's Library
and University of Florida
The Authoress of "THE SNOW-DROP" has been misfortune's child. Disease
laid its relentless hand upon her in early childhood. It deprived her of
a common school education and the world's sweet intercourse. Such has
been its nature, that, except on one occasion, she has not been able to
leave home for more than six years.
"THE SNOW-DROP" would never have appeared had not life's wintry hour
given it birth! It was written to beguile tedious time. Winds, as they
played through groves that surround her aged father's retired and humble
dwelling, sweet songsters, as they caroled from spray to spray, and the
ripple of the Androscoggin, as it glided past, to her ear, were nature's
sweet minstrels, that cheered her heart in solitude and inspired her,
too, to attempt the artless strains of nature.
This little work, at the suggestion of her friends, is presented and
dedicated to the benevolent public, humbly hoping and trusting that it
may give pastime to the leisure hour, impress more fully moral and
religious sentiment, and afford some little return for the thought she
has bestowed upon it.
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF S. WHITE, OF LIVERMORE,
WHO DIED DEC. 25TH, 1842, AGED 26.
Why do these tears bedew our eyes?
Why heaves the breast with bursting sighs?
We've seen a friend depart;
In vain we tune our harp and sing,
We cannot touch that thrilling string,
Which vibrates in the heart.
Engaging, graceful and refined,
Frank, open, generous and kind,
Was our departed friend;
His mental powers were deep and clear,—
His ardent friendship, most sincere,
With life alone could end.
His heart could feel for others' woe—
How oft his footsteps, soft and low,
Fell on the suff'rer's ear!
Each word he spake, their grief to quell,
Seemed waters gushing from a well,
Whose fount was deep and clear.
In early years he mourned for sin,
And prayed for garments white and clean,
Washed in the Savior's blood.
He journeyed on for many years,
Amidst temptations, doubts, and fears,
But found a pard'ning God.
His lustrous eyes are dim in death,
His voice passed like the zephyr's breath,
That heart has lost its lone;
But while we weep around his dust,
That soul its prison doors hath burst,
And worships 'round the throne.
But shall we murmur and complain?
Shall our warm tears descend like rain
Around his early grave?
While kindred dear must weep and mourn,
More sacred tears bedew his urn
Than ever friendship gave.
That brother, who with him has played
Beside the brook, or in the shade
Where feathered warblers sang,
And sported by the river side,
Or o'er the ice taught him to glide,
While merry laughter rang—
His love increased with growing years,
One were their hopes, their joys, their fears,
Their Savior, too, was one.
That brother's grief must be severe,
Yet from his lips we hope to hear,
"My Father's will be done."
Like ivy, round some youthful pine,
Did Julia's warm affections twine
Round his fraternal heart;
Through adverse scenes they struggled long,
Which rendered nature's ties more strong,
But they, alas! must part.
Should fell disease assail her now,
Place his pale signet on her brow,
And chill her heart with fear;
No more he'd stand beside her bed,—
Bathe her parched lips, and aching head,
And strive her mind to cheer.
She'll range the paths where they have strayed,
And wander through the silent shade,
And ask, "is brother here?"
She'll view the grave, and that will say
There's naught within but mould'ring clay,
No more will he appear.
That sister, who hath sought a friend
To share her grief till time shall end,
Must still in tears be drowned;
Although a partner soothes her grief,
And kindly strives to give relief,
And children cluster round;—
She sees their glossy ringlets flow,
In clusters o'er each little brow;
They speak of days gone by,
When she with brother often strayed,
O'er hill and dale and flow'ry glade,
Where golden sunbeams lie.
A fair young friend, whose aching heart
Now feels affliction's keenest dart,
Must long in sadness weep;
Her brightest hopes are fled away,
Alas! her sweetest joys decay,
They in the grave must sleep.
Her heart still bleeds at every pore,
That much loved form she'll see no more,
Till Gabriel's trump shall sound;
We trust they'll then in raptures rise,
To that blight world above the skies,
Where tears no more are found.
His aged parents feel the blow;
Long since they gazed upon his brow,
And blessed their infant boy;
Trembling with age, we hear them say,
"This dear support is torn away,
What now can yield us joy?
"Long years we watched our lovely plant,
With care supplied its every want,
And hoped it long might bloom;
But fierce disease has laid it low,
Reckless of tears that 'round it flow.
And laid it in the tomb.
"Long, long we nursed his fading form,
And strove to shun the gath'ring storm,
Which threaten'd in the sky;
Yet from our bleeding bosoms torn,
Our darling son leaves us to mourn;
Who can his place supply?"
But could their vision now extend
To those bright realms where dwells their friend,
Their tears would cease to flow;
They'd long to leave this dusky sphere,
And from their lips we soon should hear,
"Dear Savior, let me go."
No more they'd wish the seraph here,
To wander in this vale so drear,
And lay his glory by;
To suffer years of grief and pain,
And cross cold Jordan's stream again,
To reach the joys on high.
THE SISTER'S LAMENT
LINES SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF E. TORRY, OF PORTLAND
Oh, Edward, dear Edward! how precious that sound,
I seek for an equal—it cannot be found;
In tones soft and pensive it visits my ear,—
I fain would believe thou art hovering near.
Since thy happy spirit to heaven has fled,
Art thou with me by day, by night round my bed?
I visit thy grave and bedew it with tears,
To share in my sorrow, no Edward appears.
On earth 't was thy pleasure to soothe all my grief,
To wipe off my tears and to bring me relief;
Thy heart's warm affections were lavished on me,
I've spent happy moments conversing with thee.
My counselor, playmate, my guide, and my friend,
On whom I might always in safety depend,
In paths of fair virtue my feet thou hast led,
Where vice, that foul monster, dares not show his head.
Nor was all thy kindness bestowed upon one;
Thou wast an affectionate, dutiful son;
Thy dear honored parents drank deep of thy love,
None ever shared more but thy Father above.
Thy father now sinks 'neath a burden of woe,
His once brilliant eyes now with tears overflow;
Thy mother sits weeping, thy fond brothers sigh,
The dear little children cease playing and cry.
Fair nature is wearing a mantle of gloom,
Deep sorrow sits brooding all round our sweet home;
The soft venial zephyrs come sighing along,
The streamlets are murm'ring a sad, mournful song.
The gray twilight shades come attended with gloom,
While like a dark pall they encircle thy tomb;
When soft showers descend, something whispers to me,
That tears from the clouds are descending for thee.
No star spangled heavens nor cool shady bowers,
No deep ancient forest or fair fragrant flowers
Can fill up the void that I feel in my breast,
Although thou art tuning thy harp with the blest.
In dreams I behold thee when I am asleep,
It cheers up my spirits and I cease to weep;
Enshrined in my heart thy fair image shall dwell,
I'll keep it there always, I love it so well.
LINES UPON A LOCK OF HAIR.
I'll weave a bracelet of this hair,—
Although these locks so hallowed are,
It seems like sacrilege to wear
Such relics of the dead.
I've seen them clust'ring 'round a brow
Which drooped beneath affliction's blow,
And slumbers in the church-yard now,
With all its beauty flown.
The hand that dressed these locks with care,
And 'ranged them 'round that brow so fair,
And oft clasped mine with friendly air,
Is turning back to dust.
And closed those eyes, whose radiant beams
Surpass'd imagination's dreams,
Yet whisp'ring still, were but faint gleams
Emerging from the soul.
Farewell, dear friend, these locks I'll keep,
Till in the grave with thee I sleep;
There, like thee, may I cease to weep,
And, with thee, wake to sing.
LINES
SUGGESTED BY READING AN ACCOUNT OF THE LAST HOURS OF MRS.
SARAH JUDSON, SECOND WIFE OF THE LATE LAMENTED DR. JUDSON,
OF BURMAN.
"I am in a strait betwixt two, let the will of the Lord be
done."—Judson's Offering, 231st page. These were the words of Mrs.
Judson a few days previous to her death, when questioned as to her
desires respecting the issue of the affliction under which she was
suffering.
Life's trials and dangers will all soon be o'er,
I feel myself nearing the heavenly shore,
I'm weary of wand'ring, oh! fain would I rest
With Jesus, my Savior, and sleep on his breast.
I'm weary and thirsty, my spirit has flown
Almost to that river which bursts from the throne;—
I'd range its fair borders, and plunge in its flood,
And join with the angels in praising my God.
I'd rest in the shade of that tree, growing near,
Which yields its rich fruit every month in the year;
Its leaves are so healing, no sickness comes there,
To mar the new song as it floats through the air.
I think of the rest in those regions above,—
My soul spreads her pinions and soars like a dove,—
Yet I'm drawn back to earth by one tender tie,
Which oft clogs my wings;—then, oh! how can I fly!
I think of New England, my fair native land,
The friends of my childhood, that dear faithful band,
Who're waiting to greet me with hearts full of love,
Not knowing my bark will cast anchor above.
To see me, my kindred impatiently wait,—
I think of those dear ones,—my soul's in a strait,—
My father, my mother, my dear orphan son,—
Oh Lord, decide for me, let thy will be done'
JUDSON'S GRAVE.
Dear shepherd of the Burman sheep,
Where have they laid thee down to sleep?
Beside thy long lamented Ann,
Or 'midst thy charge at Aracan?
Or does that palm tree o'er thee wave,
Which shadows thy dear Sarah's grave?
I pause, and drop the silent tear,—
In mournful tones, a voice I hear,
Exclaiming, "Earth affords no space
For Judson's last calm resting place."
Ye spicy groves, perfume each breeze
That steals along the Indian seas,—
For we have felt a pang of woe,
Since, plunged in awful depths below,
Our much lamented Judson's clay,
Must 'neath its rolling billows lay,
Where monsters of the ocean creep,
'Round him o'er whom the nations weep.
No stone directs the stranger's eye
To where his sacred relics lie,
Nor can the weeping Burmans come
To shed their tears around his tomb.
And when their work on earth is done,
No mourning daughter, wife, or son
Can rest from toil the weary head,
Beside him in his ocean bed.
But while we shrink from such a grave,
He rests as sweetly 'neath the wave
As though in Auburn's bowers he lay,
Where sunbeams through green branches play,
And roses, wet with tear drops, bloom
Around th' unconscious sleeper's tomb.
Let no rude wind, no angry storm,
The ocean's heaving breast deform,—
'Tis hallowed as dear Judson's bed,
Until the sea gives up its dead.
Though mortals weep with fond regret,
The Lord that spot will ne'er forget;
He will a faithful record keep,—
He knows where all his children sleep.
Though monsters should that form devour,
'Twill rise in beauty, strength and power;
That voice, which rends the tombs and graves,
Will sound through all the ocean caves;
Then 'roused by heaven's eternal King,
He'll tune his golden harp and sing;
While, quick as thought, to join the song,
Will Burman converts round him throng,
And on that bright auspicious morn,
Like jewels his rich crown adorn.
LINES
SUGGESTED BY A REMARK MADE BY THE REV. WINTHROP
MORSE, WHILE ADDRESSING A CONGREGATION ASSEMBLED
ON THE BANKS OF THE SANDY RIVER, UPON A BAPTISMAL OCCASION.
The writer of the following, though but a child, was present, and, for
the first time, witnessed the administration of that solemn ordinance.
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"
God's faithful servant cried,
As he addressed the multitude
That thronged the water's side.
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"
He said with tearful eye,—
Then come, dear friends, and choose the path
That leads to joys on high.
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"
The convert seemed to say,—
I'll trace the path my Savior marked,
Though through these waves it lay.
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"
Was echoed from the stream,
Like me your days will swiftly glide,
Or like a fleeting dream.
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"
The Holy Spirit said,—
And sweetly whispered to the soul,
"I'll be thy heavenly guide."
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"
That sentence reached my heart,
I trembled lest I there should hear
That awful word, "depart."
Yes, trav'ling to eternity,
While overwhelmed with guilt,—
Afraid that Jesus' pard'ning love,
By me would ne'er be felt.
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"—
It rings upon my ear;
The hills which echoed back that sound,
Still to my heart are dear.
"We're traveling to eternity,"
Said that dear faithful friend,
Whose image in my mem'ry lives,
And will, till life shall end.
"We're traveling to eternity,"
Soon, soon we there shall meet,
And is my deathless soul prepared,
That friend in heaven to greet?
THE INQUIRY.
Am I a Christian far astray,
And slumb'ring on enchanted ground;
Or did my feet ne'er find the way,
Which Bunyan's humble pilgrim found?
Whence was that strange delight I felt?
Why did the gospel charm my ear?
What caused this stubborn heart to melt?
Why was the Savior's name so dear?
Why was the fountain of his blood,
So precious in my mental eye?
Why did such deep sensations crowd
Around the scene on Calvary?
Why did the Godhead shine so bright?
Why did I love the garb he wore,
Alike, when justice claimed his right,
And when sweet mercy's name he bore?
Did airy phantoms fill my brain?—
Did vain delusions cheat my soul?—
Must those bright hopes prove false and vain?
And must I miss the heavenly goal?
"There is joy in Heaven, in the presence of the angels, over one sinner
that repenteth."—Scripture.
What's this that breaks upon my ear?
Music sweet;
From golden harps, methinks I hear
Glorious strains!
"There's joy in Heaven," the angels sing,
"A soul repents and owns our King;"
From Heaven to earth the echoes ring,
Pard'ning love!
JEPHTHAH'S VOW.
The warrior left the battle field,—
Jehovah there had been his shield,—
He heard his solemn vow.
The foe had in confusion fled,
While thousands on the field lay dead,
All, all were vanquish'd now.
Though that brave heart was cased in steel.
Which flashed forth wrath that all might feel,
Who Israel's right oppressed;
Yet, in its sacred chambers rose
As pure a flame as ever glows
Within a parent's breast.
He turned him to that sacred spot,
Where one loved being shared his lot,—
(It was an only child;)
Though long she'd wept and quaked with fear,
When "victory," fell upon her ear,
She wiped her eyes and smiled.
Like as the lark outspreads her wings,
And, while she's soaring, sweetly sings
To charm the listener's ears,
The maiden, springing from her seat,
Flew forth, her coming friend to greet.
Her father now appears.
As her light footsteps pressed the ground,
Melodious music floated round,
Forth gushing from her heart.
"Alas! my child," the father sighed,
"What sent thee here, my love?" he cried,
"To tell that we must part?"
"Thy father made a solemn vow,—
He sees, he feels his error now,
Yes, made a vow to God;
And he will claim my darling now,
He bids me pay that awful vow,
And pay it with thy blood."
"But how can I thy life destroy?
Thou art my solace, hope, and joy,
My cherished only child."
The lustre beaming from her eye,
Seemed caught from radiant orbs on high,
So brilliant, yet so mild.
"Pay to the Lord thy vow," she said,
"God's altar is a pleasant bed,
From thence to heaven I'll rise.
The Lord has answered thy request,
Israel is free, our land at rest,
I'll be thy sacrifice."
"Like a lost sheep I have gone astray."—Psalms.
Like sheep that wander far astray,
Nor ask the shepherd's care,
Did I forsake the narrow way,
Nor seek my God in prayer.
I wandered in a desert wild.
Where snares beset me 'round;
Trifles and toys my feet beguiled,
And all my senses drowned.
Though clouds encompassed me around,
In darkness on I sped,
Still wand'ring on enchanted ground,
Till hope seemed almost fled.
I murmured, at the righteous hand
That held the chast'ning rod,
Like one that could not understand
The precepts of his God.
Well might the Father's smile depart,
The Savior hide his face,
And God, the spirit, shun my heart,
That foul polluted place.
We never find the heavenly dove
Perched on an idol throne;
Those, who would share Jehovah's love,
Must worship him alone.
"And the vail of the temple was rent in twain."—Scripture.
AT THE FAMILY ALTAR. COMPOSED FOR THE REV. W. FOSS,
OF LEEDS.
The father, still in manhood's prime,
Was bowed in humble prayer;
His partner, fair as when a bride,
Was kneeling by him there.
Reclining on a sister's arm,
The babe found sweet repose;
While from the heart, in accents warm,
The father's prayer arose.
And, fair as rosebuds bathed in dew;
By morning zephyrs fanned,
A blooming group of loved ones, too,
Was ranged on either hand.
As many children God had given,
As good old Jacob had;
That he might meet them all in heaven,
How fervently he prayed.
What deep emotions filled my breast,
That scene my spirit stirred;
Will not that family be blessed,
That prayer in heaven be heard?
Though oft his duty calls abroad,
Salvation's news to bear,
The father leaves his charge with God,
Confiding in his care.
AN APPEAL FOR IRELAND.
"Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shall find it after many
days."—Ecel. xi; 1.
Hark! hear the cry of Erin's sons,
By plague and famine frantic;
The wail of wives and little ones
Comes o'er the broad Atlantic.
O, heed the bitter piercing cry,
That's pealing o'er the ocean;
To us, to us, for aid they fly,
As Israel fled to Goshen.
List! hear that sad and mournful sound,
It is the parent sighing;
Beside him, on the damp cold ground.
His darling ones are lying.
A nation sinking to the grave;
How thick death's shafts are flying!
The loved, the lovely, and the brave,
From want are daily dying.
They're calling to Columbia's sons,
And to her happy daughters;
Take of your bread, ye favor'd ones,
And cast it on the waters.
THE LITTLE CLOUD.
All day the rain has patter'd down,
In dense dark folds, clouds hang around,
The humid air is dead and still,
Thick vapors veil the distant hill.
But now, a little crimson cloud
Beams from an opening in the shroud,
Which, like a dusky pall, o'erspreads
The azure vault above our heads.
Our fancy, while we gaze, takes wings
And flits around earth's brighter things,
Then whispers in our list'ning ears,
"This earth is not all sighs and tears."
This cloud is like the robin's song,
Whose notes were hushed all winter long,
But comes to usher in the hours,
Whose genial warmth revives the flowers.
Or like the south wind's gentle voice,
Bidding all nature's works rejoice,
Teaching the little birds, to sing
A serenade to blooming spring.
Like budding flowers where thorns once grew,
And beauty bursting into view
Where all was dark, and drear, and wild,
Nor pleasures in prospective smiled.
'Tis like the smile that beams through tears,
When hope usurps the place of fears;
Like health, new sparkling in the eye
Of him, whom friends gave up to die.
Faint emblem of the glory shed
Around the dying christian's bed,
That prelude to the dazzling light
Which bursts on his enraptured sight,
When the freed spirit soars above,
And faith is swallowed up in love.
LEWISTON,
AS IT WAS, AND AS IT IS.
It was a wild, sequestered spot,
With here and there a humble cot;
Yet, nature's richest robes were thrown
Around those hills and valleys lone.
'Twas quiet, fair, and lovely, then,
Though beasts of prey and savage men
Roamed o'er those hills of graceful form,
Whose trees for ages braved the storm,
Yet, humbly stooping to behold
The broad majestic stream, that rolled
Through smiling mead and woody plain,
Fast speeding onward to the main,
Or, dashing from its rocky height,
Proclaims the great Creator's might,
Its deep toned music, strangely meet
To mingle with the anthem sweet,
That floated on each whisp'ring breeze,
Which came, soft stealing through the trees
That grew upon the winding shore,
In giant ranks, in days of yore.
When genial spring her magic spell,
Cast 'round each lovely woodland dell,
And woke to life the warbling throng,
While streamlets gaily danced along;
If such a spot on earth be found,
Those hills and vallies all around
Smiled, like the paradise of God,
When first by sinless beings trod.
Thus, rude, romantic, grand, sublime,
Was Lewiston, in olden time.
But Art and Genius, passing by,
Saw this fair spot neglected lie,
Then said, in deep emotion's tone,
"Shall these bright waves go dancing on,
Just like a thoughtless child at play,
Who throws his strength and skill away?"
Anon, they raised the useful mills,
The sparkling waters moved the wheels,
And industry, with cheerful air,
Was pleased to take her station there.
The proud old forest bowed, his head,
With sullen frowns the savage fled,
The timid beaver left the shore,
The deer and moose were seen no more.
Rich cultivated fields appeared.
Neat tasteful dwellings soon were reared,
In graceful ranks we see them stand,
With spacious streets on either hand.
Where once the Indian's wigwam stood,
The factory, with its busy crowd,
Dispenses blessings far and near,
While rich and poor its products share.
Here merchandise, with eagle eyes,
His own and others' wants supplies;
And science, like a swelling tide,
Diffuses knowledge far and wide.
The sweetly pealing sabbath bells,
Now echo round those hills and dells,
And call the villagers to meet
Where they enjoy communion sweet,
With Him who answers ev'ry prayer
That humble faith can utter there.
There's music in those sabbath bells,
This pleasing truth methinks they tell,
That God is held in rev'rence there,
And worshiped in His house of prayer.
In the fair background now are seen
Sweet hills and dales, all robed in green,
With here and there a pleasant grove
Where every class delights to rove;
There, age sits down beneath the shade,
Where he has oft in childhood strayed;
There, youths and maidens often walk,
To spend an hour in friendly talk;
There, little children, too, are seen,
Like lambs they gambol o'er the green;
They wander there in summer hours
In quest of birds' nests, fruit, and flowers.
The scholar loves this solitude,
Where tumult never dares intrude;
And here the stranger likes to roam,
And think of loved ones left at home.
The saint, at twilight's pensive hour,
Here seeks the sweet secluded bower;
While whisp'ring zephyrs linger near,
And waft to heaven the humble prayer.
And all who study nature's book,
On this fair page delight to look;
They'll range those hills and vallies o'er,
And trace the river's winding shore.
Nor can they e'er forget to look
Upon the little murm'ring brook,
Which, like a silver belt, winds round
The hill, with oak and elm trees crowned.
But that majestic waterfall,
In grandeur still surpasses all.
Should Art and Genius there assemble,
With solemn awe they'd stand and tremble;
Than all their works, they'd own this greater,
And bow before the great Creator.
TWILIGHT MUSINGS.
BY AMELIA.
I wandered out one summer night,
'Twas when my years were few,
The wind was singing in the light,
And I was singing too.
One fleecy cloud upon the air,
Was all that met my eyes,
It floated like an angel there,
Between me and the skies.
I clapped my hands and warbled wild,
As here and there I flew,
For I was but a careless child,
And did as children do.
I heard the laughing wind behind,
'Twas playing with my hair;
The breezy fingers of the wind,
How cool and moist they were.
The twilight hours came stealing by,
And still I wandered free;
Ten thousand stars were in the sky,
Ten thousand on the sea.
For ev'ry wave with dimpled face,
That leaped upon the air,
Had caught a star in its embrace,
And held it trembling there.
But wherefore weave such strains as these,
And sing them day by day,
When every bird upon the breeze
Can sing a sweeter lay.
I'd give the world for their sweet art.
The simple, the divine;
I'd give the world to melt one heart,
As they have melted mine.
TO AMELIA.
And wouldst thou, sweet minstrel, if earth should unfold
To thee all her treasures of silver and gold,
Resign all thy riches, thy wealth, fame and power,
To sing like the birds in the green woodland bower?
Like thee, dear Amelia, I love the wild bird,
Their soft melting strains, at grey twilight, I've heard;
The whippowils, then, on the cool zephyr's wing,
Their clear pensive notes in rich harmony fling.
I listen each morning with heartfelt delight,
While birds bid adieu to the shadows of night.
And greet in sweet anthems the bright king of day,
As they through the forest are soaring away.
Yet thy flowing numbers, when breathing around,
Awaken such echoes as these never found;
A chord in my bosom, thy sonnet has stirred,
Which never was touched by the notes of a bird.
But meekness in woman to me is so dear,
I love thee the more when such language I hear;
True greatness and modesty, when they combine,
Like stars of the firmament sparkle and shine.
The birds of the forest thy spirits can cheer,
Their songs fill with music thy sensitive ear,
But has that fair dove in thy heart found a nest,
Whose singing can make thee eternally blest?
MOONLIGHT MUSINGS.
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY VIEWING A ROW OF FINE TREES NEAR
MY DWELLING.
These youthful pines, a verdant row,
Cast their dark shadows on the snow;
Just like a picture, or a dream,
Or tale of fairy lands, they seem.
I hear a soft melodious lay,
The winds are with their tops at play;
While moonbeams through their branches stealing,
Wake up a wild romantic feeling.
The forest birds in spring will come,
'Neath these green boughs to make their home,
To cheer us with their sweet wild song,
To build their nests and rear their young.
Child of the wood, in infancy,
I learned to love the forest tree;
I'm still the same romantic creature,
Admiring all the works of nature.
The rocks, the fields, the groves and flowers,
Are fraught with some mysterious powers,
That bind me with a pleasing spell,
Which naught can break while here I dwell.
The wild bird's note, the woodland dell,
Have charms beyond my power to tell;
While winds are through the forest roaring,
My spirit with the sound seems soaring.
The rosy morn, the sunset sky,
The glitt'ring retinue on high,
The sun's broad blaze, the moon's mild beams,
Reflected from the lakes and streams,
The lightning's flash, the thunder's roar,
The ocean dashing on the shore,
And meteors streaming through the air,
Proclaim that God is everywhere.
THOUGHTS
SUGGESTED BY VIEWING A PETUNIA.
Fair plant, well pleased on thee I look,
Thou art a page in nature's book,
Which I delight to read;
Though stoics set thee quite at naught,
And say that none but children ought
On such vain trifles spend a thought,
Their words I little heed.
A child I'd ever wish to be,
With an instructer just like thee,
And listen to her voice;
Fain wouldst thou our best passions move,
And lead our wandering thoughts above,
Where, at the fount of boundless love,
We ever might rejoice.
Our tender care thou dost repay,
Though watched and guarded night and day,
Thus teaching thoughtless man;
When thou art nursed and watered well,
Thy bursting buds with fragrance swell,
And thus the grateful story tell,
That we do all we can.
Thy blooming petals love the light.
The sun smiles on them, they grow bright,
Withdraws his beams, they faint;
Yet, when beneath his radiant gaze,
The modest blush that o'er them plays,
To every thinking mind, portrays
The contrite, humble saint.
Sweet plant, I love thee, yes, I do,
And all thy blooming kindred too,
(More than the works of art,)
For in them, I can ever find
Such beauty, skill and power combined,
As captivate and soothe the mind,
And cheer the drooping heart.
Fair gift, by royal donor given,
dipped in the radiant dyes of heaven,
And strown o'er every land,
Ye shed your fragrance o'er the tomb,
Steal from deep solitude its gloom,
And when the gardener gives you room,
You bless his fostering hand.
Not Newton, though he soared so high,
And traced the planets through the sky,
With such amazing power,
Nor Franklin, whom we praise so loud,
Though lightnings in their misty shroud,
Obeyed his voice and left the cloud,
Could make the simplest flower.
Nor could the chemist's skill suffice
To mingle such exquisite dyes,
As in the flowers appear;
And were all human powers combined,
And centred in one single mind,
Its best productions, we should find,
Stand halting in the rear.
When, veiled in flesh, God dwelt below,
He deigned his watchful care to show,
For man's ungrateful race;
When sin their drowsy eyes had sealed,
He took the lily of the field,
And bade them think what that revealed,
And learn to trust his grace.
The garden which Jehovah planned,
And planted with his own right hand,
Was decked with fragrant flowers;
And shall we boast that we now slight
What God designed to give delight,
Ere sin had cast its with'ring blight
O'er all our mental powers?
TO A WHITE HOLLYHOCK.
Sweet plant, so fair, so pure thy blossoms look,
I almost fancy that some angel, from
His wing the feathers plucked, and of them, at
The twilight hour, thy snowy petals made.
But fancy leads astray. Not one of all
That shining throng, which worship 'round the throne,
Could e'er such work perform. None but the hand
Divine, these curious fabrics wrought.
LINES
SUGGESTED BY VIEWING THE MINIATURE OF A PAIR OF LOVELY
TWIN BOYS, WHO WERE DEPRIVED OF THEIR MOTHER AT THE
AGE OF TWO MONTHS, AND WERE THE ONLY REMAINING CHILDREN
OF THEIR FATHER.
I gaze upon this picture fair,
And find strange beauty mirrored there;
Its magic spell with power is fraught,
To ope the fount of hidden thought.
Sweet childhood's opening blossoms here,
In all their loveliness appear;
Pure innocence, with touching grace,
Smiles in each feature of the face,
Like rosy morning's cheerful rays,
O'er childhood's artless brow, it plays.
The lips, half open, almost speak,
While on the fresh, young, dimpled cheek,
The bloom is like those vernal flowers,
Whose fragrance fills our woodland bowers.
Those speaking eyes the power have caught,
To mirror forth the germs of thought;
Their silent language, deep and strong,
Can touch the hidden springs of song;
Their melting beams can reach the mind,
Where they our best affections find.
Why did these twin-born, smiling boys,
Come here to wake maternal joys,
In that fond, faithful mother's breast,
Where they could but a moment rest?
With love too deep for words to speak,
She pressed each tender infant cheek,
With quivering lips and falt'ring breath,
Before the opening gates of death,
While faintly burned the vital spark,
Within life's frail and shattered bark,
Just mooring in the port of bliss,
She paused to steal one last, fond kiss.
In death's embrace those lips were cold,
Ere half their thrilling tale was told;
The mother and her babes must part,
Before the tender infant heart,
By her soft winning tones, had learned
What love within her bosom burned
Before her counsels, blessed and wise,
Could train her offspring to the skies.
Sweet babes! so helpless, frail and fair,
Why here, without her watchful care?
Your sainted brother never wept
Beside the grave, where loved ones slept,
While clouds were gathering round his head,
He to the Savior's bosom fled.
Then why not plume your tiny wings,
And soar to where your mother sings?
Why tarry on this barren shore;
Till waves of trouble round you roar?
Ah! now I know; you linger here,
Your father's lonely hours to cheer.
Death would not pluck the last fair flower,
That bloomed in his connubial bower;
He fondly loves his orphan boys,
They half restore his withered joys.
Sweet rosebuds, springing from the tomb,
Long round his hearthstone may you bloom,
With smiles of love your father greet,
And fill your mother's vacant seat.
THE CULTIVATION OF FLOWERS.
Where can we find a more healthy and delightful employment, than the
cultivation of flowers? Though of less importance than those plants
which are necessary for the support of animal life, yet, rightly
considered, they yield a pleasant and instructive entertainment for the
intellectual powers, and may justly be termed food for the mind.
"Nonsense" some of our readers exclaim, "Nonsense, to talk of feeding
the immortal mind, with flowers! For one, I think people may find some
more useful employment than that of persuading their fellow beings to
spend the precious hours of this short life upon these useless
playthings."
But pause, my readers, and consider who gave this finishing touch to the
face of nature. Who strewed the fields with flowers? Were they not
brought into existence by the same All-wise Being who created the earth
upon which we dwell, with its millions of intelligent beings, its vast
oceans, its towering mountains, its flaming volcanoes and its majestic
rivers with their awe inspiring cataracts; who created the sun, that
great fountain of light and heat, and the centre of attraction for those
vast globes which revolve around it, and then counterpoised with such
precision the different forces which produce and continue their motion,
that they continue to perform their appointed revolutions, without the
least deviation from that orbit, in which they were placed at creation's
dawn; who "made the stars also," that innumerable multitude of fixed
stars, or suns with their attending planets which inhabit the boundless
regions of space; whose wonderful works are so numerous as to overwhelm
the feeble mind of man, and to compel him to conclude at the
commencement, by saying that they are infinite? And shall we be so
impious as to hush the voice of reason, and disregard the words of holy
writ enough to say, that even the little violet was made in vain? I
should sooner believe that Washington, the father of our country, while
the destiny of our nation was placed, as it were, in his hands, was in
the habit of deserting his army while on the battle field, engaged in
the most bloody conflict with a mortal foe, for the sole purpose of
amusing himself with soap bubbles and firebrand ribbons.
"But," says one, "they were created for a scourge and a snare to fallen
man; for while we are compelled to spend much of our time in destroying
thorns and thistles from our premises, they are continually tempting the
weaker part of our race to spend their strength and time upon that,
which at best, can yield no profit." But against this assertion, the
scriptures afford us ample proof, for we are there informed, that they
were created before the fall, and pronounced very good, while thorns and
thistles were brought forth afterwards; for the Lord said, when
pronouncing the curse upon Adam, "Cursed be the ground for thy sake,
thorns and thistles shall it bring forth unto thee," thus implying that
they were not already in existence. And again, flowers are universally
spoken of in scripture as blessings, or used as emblems of things
valuable or pleasing, while thorns and thistles are always used to
represent things hurtful, or afflictive. And if any part of nature's
works retain their native purity and remain unchanged, save by the hand
of death, is it not flowers? It is true, they neither supply us with
food or clothing, and if they possess medical qualities, they might as
well be contained in the plant without the appendage of a flower. Nor
were they made for the fowls of the air, or the beasts of the field, for
they totally disregard them; we never see the ox, the horse, or the
sheep, stop to smell their fragrance or gaze upon their beauty. And many
of those who are termed the lords of creation, consider them beneath the
notice of intellectual beings, and yet they were made for some wise
purpose. We will therefore admit the truth of an assertion made by a
friend, who remarked that flowers were doubtless created for the sole
purpose of gratifying the weak and childish minds of the female sex. Be
it so, let us thankfully receive the gift, and think ourselves honored
by being thought worthy of the fairest and sweetest part of nature's
productions; for which she has reserved her most grateful perfumes, her
richest dyes, and the finest strokes of her pencil. Yes, we will
cultivate flowers, for we do not profess to be more scrupulous about the
manner in which we spend our time than the Lord of the universe was,
for he planted flowers in his garden. The scriptures inform us that he
planted every tree that was pleasant to the sight. And flowers certainly
were pleasant, even to the pure eyes of our Savior; for while speaking
of the lilies of the field, he says, "Even Solomon, in all his glory,
was not arrayed like one of these." And the wisest of men, when
searching the world over for comparisons worthy of his beloved, exclaims
in the fullness of a heart overflowing with love and gratitude, "He is
the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valley."
Sweet flowers, there is room enough for you in the female mind. We will
take you to our bosoms and cherish you with that affectionate regard,
which your lovely qualities deserve. We will admire your spotless purity
and innocence. You were thought worthy of a place in the blissful bowers
of Eden. And for aught we know, ye were the only part of nature's works
which were created solely for the purpose of charming the mind and
gratifying the senses of sinless beings. And may we make a profitable
use of these lovely relics of paradise! May they continually remind us
of the skill, wisdom and goodness of the great Architect of the
universe!
Where can we find a more transparent medium through which we may "look
through nature up to nature's God," than a veil interwoven with flowers?
When fatigued in body, where can we find a more pleasant resting place
than beneath the cool shade of an arbor, in the flower garden? When our
spirits are depressed or our minds perplexed with distracting care,
thither let us repair: it will prove a more effectual remedy than on
hour spent in gossipping, or an evening in the ball room. It can but
exert a healthful influence over the mind, to inhale such exquisite
odors, and gaze upon such beautiful colors and delicate tints, combined
with gracefulness and elegance of form. The art of man has long been
striving to imitate them, but the simplest flower that blooms still
eclipses their best performances. And yet the gorgeous canopy that decks
the monarch's throne owes half its splendor to the imperfect miniature
of the inhabitants of the flower garden.
And strange as it appears, how often do we see persons, who would blush
were they seen contemplating the simple beauties of a delicate flower,
pride themselves in embellishing their dwellings and equipage with its
coarsely wrought picture. But while they are pleasing themselves with
the shadow, we will feast ourselves on the substance.
"I am weary of this lecture upon flowers," the stoical reader exclaims:
If so, my friend, you are at liberty to retire to any place of
entertainment which your better judgment may suggest; but I will lay
aside my pen to walk among the flowers; and see if some of those silent,
though eloquent preachers, will not furnish the mind with some new idea,
which may serve as a foundation for another discourse.
MUSIC OF THE MIND.
What is music of the mind? Is it the soft harmonious strains of the
little minstrel which often steals into some secret nook within the
heart, and there tunes her silent harp to notes of sweetest melody?
Though we never hear her melting lays, yet persons in every station,
from the king upon his throne to the beggar by the wayside, and the rude
untutored savage roaming through his native forest, often experience
that exquisite pleasure produced by her magic spell.
We are continually surrounded by scenes calculated to produce this
music. The variegated scenery of different landscapes; the changing
seasons of the year; Spring with her balmy air, soft refreshing showers,
green fields, fragrant flowers, and merry cheerful birds; Summer, with
her sultry days, her cool inviting shades, her waving fields, and
delicious fruits; and Autumn, with his rich golden harvest, bright
pensive dreamy days, and clear moonlight evenings, have power to rouse
the minstrel from her slumbers; and even rude old Winter, clothed in
clouds and storms and drifting snows, can with his icy fingers sweep her
silent harp strings and wake their wildest melody.
We retire beneath the sacred shade of some ancient forest, and look upon
nature as she stands forth arrayed in all the charms of her primeval
beauty; where art has never plucked her native bloom, and tinged her
cheek with carmine. We there gaze upon the tall old trees, which have
for centuries been towering higher and higher, till they seem ambitious
to wave their lofty tops among the very clouds of heaven. We quench our
thirst with the sparkling waters of the pure spring, which bubbles up
cool and clear from its crystal fountain, washing the roots of the
trees, and trickling over the ground in bright streams, like threads of
molten silver, till they unite in one of those beautiful streamlets
which lend such enchantment to the woodland bowers; here, murmuring
melodiously among smooth rocks and bright pebbles, while the dimpling
eddies upon its surface reflect the rays of laughing sunshine which
quiver through the leafy canopy above; there, dashing over a projecting
rock forming a little cascade, and then flowing smoothly along, bearing
upon its tranquil bosom the fair images of the flowers which spring up
along its banks, upon the sloping hill-side and in every shady nook and
dell, smiling in strange beauty among the stern features of the woodland
scene. Sweet flowers, so fair and fragile, that they flourish only when
sheltered from the rude blast and pelting storm by some friendly shade,
and so modest and retiring in their habits, that they shun the open
field, where they must encounter the scrutinizing gaze of the noonday
sun, and choose this sweet seclusion for their home.
We stand upon the shores of the ocean, while the sun emerges from its
bed, lifting his broad shining disk above the blue waters, and tinging
the sparkling waves with every hue that decks the rainbow's form. We
gaze with rapture upon the scene, till, dazzled by its brilliancy, we
turn our eyes upon the white sails, gliding over the bosom of the deep,
like some noble bird winging its way through the air, or watch the
swelling waves, as they roll in grand procession towards us, and break
in thunder on the shore. We sit in a calm summer evening and watch the
shadows as they lengthen o'er the ground, till they lose themselves in
the deep rich green of the vales from winch the sun has disappeared, to
gild the tops of the forest trees and far off hills with more than
noonday splendor. The balmy zephyrs hold their breath, nor dare to
whisper in the softest tone, while the little forest birds, in sweetly
pensive strains, are chanting forth their evening hymn of praise and
homage to the sun, who, now all bright with parting smiles, sinks down
behind the western hills, tinging the clouds at first with light faint
orange streaks, which soon turn to crimson, and touched again by
sunset's magic wand, they glow in purple of the richest dyes, then
slowly fade to grey, while twilight draws around us her dewy curtains
and shuts the scene from our admiring gaze.
We walk abroad in the calm stillness of a moonlight evening, when night,
cheered by the presence of her fair queen, withholds her dusky pall and
contents herself by drawing a thin silvery veil over the fair-face of
nature, which only serves to cast a shade of pensive beauty upon her
lovely features. The rocks, the fields, the lakes and streams, the
distant hills and mountains, whose lofty peaks are crowned with the
white fleecy clouds which skirt the horizon, appear far more lovely when
viewed by the pure dreamy light now stealing around us, than when
displayed to our sight by the clear light of day. The trees and shrubs
lie pictured on the dewy earth, their fair images reposing in motionless
beauty, save when the cool breath of evening plays among the verdant
branches, disturbing their shadowy outlines. No sound breaks upon the
stillness of the scene, except the gentle murmur of the winding stream
or the roar of some far off waterfall, softened and subdued by distance,
till it mingles in harmony with the clear shrill notes of the
whippowils, who never close their waking eyes, but serenade the moon
till morning light, while every object upon which we turn our eyes
reminds us of the fancy sketch of some fairy land.
We gaze upon the grand array, when Aurora Borealis plays her antic
freaks, fights her mimic battles, waves her flaming banner along the
northern skies. We look out upon the blue expanse above, when the bright
and beautiful stars, with their sparkling eyes, are looking from their
distant homes upon our little earth like angels commissioned to watch
over its slumbering inhabitants, till the clear light of day arouses
them to life and consciousness. In view of objects and scenes like
these, a pleasing sensation steals over the mind, till no language can
express the emotions which struggle for vent within our bosoms and the
full heart flutters like an imprisoned bird against the walls of its
cage.
This is what we call music of the mind. Yet when no love to the Creator
mingles with our contemplations, it is music of an inferior order. But
when an individual is brought to realize and "believe with all his
heart" that the author of all the scenes of beauty, grandeur and
sublimity, which nature presents to the eye, has condescended to drop
the sceptre from his hand, lay by his dazzling crown and leave his
throne of glory, while he descended to our earth, and gave his life to
ransom guilty rebels against his righteous government, pouring out his
blood on Calvary till the fountain is sufficient to cleanse the foulest
stains of sin, even from the most polluted soul; then it is that his
mind is filled with music, and that too, which is as much superior to
any ever experienced by an unregenerate soul, as the full blaze of the
noonday sun is to the faint light which glimmers from the burning taper.
For every fibre of the heart, now touched by the finger of God, wakes in
harmony, and vibrates with the richest music of which earth or heaven
can boast. It is the very same which animates the spirits of just men
made perfect, and none but blood washed sinners can ever learn the song.
No music, borne from Eden's bowers,
On heaven's own balmy wings,
No song, that angels ever sang.
Could roach these lofty strings;
For Gabriel with his golden harp,
Tuned by the heavenly dove,
Could never touch the thrilling notes
Of God's redeeming love.
APPENDIX.
The Pastoral was published in one of the papers of the day. As it gave
rise to a little mirth, we insert it with the poems annexed.
NOTE. If Jere isn't "done brown" now, we are no judge of human nater.
Cheer up, Jere, "a faint heart never won a fair lady." "Pull up your
dicky up," and try again; and if you get "sacked," remember and
practice the advice of the old Poet:—
"Chase your shadow, it will fly you;
Fly yourself, it will pursue;
Court a girl, if she deny you,
Drop your suit, and she'll court you."—Editor.
NEIGHBORS' ADVICE TO INVALIDS.
Why sit you here, pining in languor and gloom?
Except you do something, you'll sink to the tomb;
Ah, where's the red roses that bloomed on your brow,
Where nothing but white ones are languishing now?
Go, learn of the red men, they certainly know,
They find healing plants, and will tell where they grow;
God gave them this knowledge; their skill is the best;
Make use of such means, they will surely be blest.
No poisonous minerals fill up his chest,
But herbs that will heal you when sick and distressed,
Designed by our Maker all pain to subdue,
Which tortures the frame where these antidotes grew.
O, shun the rude savage who roams through the wood,
With knowledge too scanty to choose wholesome food;
Thomsonians will help you, they'll heal your disease;
Emetics and numbers will soon give you ease.
The brave number one all disease can expel,
And make you exclaim, I am perfectly well;
All poisonous drugs in your system will die,
Each pain will take wings, and the calomel fly.
These hot-crops will kill you with pepper and steam,
Pork, mince pies and pancakes, hot puddings and cream;
They'll double your fever, dyspepsia and pain;
I beg you take warning; by thousands they've slain.
On boasting pretenders I'd now turn my back,
No longer I'd deal with that ignorant quack;
He cannot distinguish the heart from the brain,
King's evil or dropsy from pleurisy pain.
Apply to the man who is bred in our schools,
His drugs are examined by chemical rules;
Whatever he uses is put to the test;
I like to take analyzed medicine best.
His science trained eye your whole system will scan,
From him naught is hidden which preys upon man;
He'll find ev'ry pain, with its cause and effect,
Plain reason might teach you that he's most correct.
Oh, shun this deceiver, his motives are gain,
He oftener augments, than alleviates, pain;
His boasted attainments are nothing but show,
Put him with the rest, they'll just make a row.
He'll steal the warm crimson, that flows through your heart,
He'll haunt you with blisters and plasters that smart,
Torment you with setons, with leaches and cups,
His calomel poisons, the blood it corrupts.
Emetics reduce you, and tonics distress,
While morphine distracts you and seldom gives rest.
Now leave him, Oh, leave him! your life he'll not save;
Except you obey me, you'll sink to the grave.
Come, leave all the doctors; resort to the shops
Which peddle pills, balsams, elixirs and drops;
Each cures ev'ry malady whenever used,
Altho' by base slander they're greatly abus'd.
I hate these vile patents; they often make worse;
Hear my good advice, let your mother be nurse;
Ten thousand rare medical plants grow around.
Their ne'er failing virtues old women have found.
There's catfoot and mugwort, archangel and balm,
Possessing great virtues, and never do harm;
While spleenwort, and whiteweed, and hyssop, and sage,
Have cured the consumption in every stage.
Take saffron and goldthread, white poplar and rue,
They've cured the dyspepsia wherever they grew;
Use clover and nightshade, and drink wintergreen,
They'll cure the worst cancer that ever was seen.
But I have no faith in these simple herb teas
They never can lessen or cure a disease;
And do not take pills, nasty powders and drops,
Till you are filled up like the medical shops.
Still, something is needful, of that I am sure,
But I've the most faith in the cold water cure;
'Twill strengthen, invigorate, open the pores,
'Tis curing sick people by dozens and scores.
Don't wrap yourself up in that cold dripping sheet,
I always take cold, only wetting my feet;
Yet there is an agent which I would apply,
The red forked lightning which darts through the sky.
Old Franklin has tamed it and brought it to earth,
And men are now learning how much it is worth;
'Twill dart through the stomach, the heart, and the brain,
Each pore it will open and drive out the pain.
Come, quit all this fussing, take rich hearty food,
And soon, I assure you, your health will be good;
Leave your warm stifling beds, your soft cushioned chair,
Run ten miles a day in the cool healthful air.
If I went thus, moping and lounging about,
'Twould bring on dyspepsia, consumption, or gout;
Now here is good counsel, why will you be shy,
You'd much better take it than lie down and die.
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