Kitabı oku: «Wayside Weeds», sayfa 3

Consider the Lilies of the Field ¹

 
O weary child of toil and care,
Trembling at every cloud that lowers,
Come and behold how passing fair
Thy God hath made the flowers.
 
 
From every hillside’s sunny slope,
From every forest’s leafy shade
The flowers, sweet messengers of hope,
Bid thee “Be not afraid.”
 
 
The windflower blooms in yonder bower
All heedless of to-morrow’s storm,
Nor trembles for the coming shower
The lily’s stately form.
 
 
No busy shuttle plied to deck
With sunset tints the blushing rose,
And little does the harebell reck
Of toil and all its woes.
 
 
The water-lily, pure and white,
Floats idle on the summer stream,
Seeming almost too fair and bright
For aught but Poet’s dream.
 
 
The gorgeous tulip, though arrayed
In gold and gems, knows naught of care,
The violet in the mossy glade
Of labour has no share.
 
 
They toil not – yet the lily’s dyes
Phœnicean fabrics far surpass,
Nor India’s rarest gem out-vies
The little blue-eyed grass.
 
 
For God’s own hand hath clothed the flowers
With fairy form and rainbow hue,
Hath nurtured them with summer showers
And watered them with dew.
 
 
To-day, a thousand blossoms fair,
From sunny slope and sheltered glade,
With grateful incense fill the air —
To-morrow they shall fade.
 
 
But thou shalt live when sinks in night
Yon glorious sun, and shall not He
Who hath the flowers so richly dight,
Much rather care for thee?
 
 
O, faithless murmurer, thou may’st read
A lesson in the lowly sod,
Heaven will supply thine utmost need,
Fear not, but trust in God.
 

1865.

The Skunk Cabbage

“Along the oozing margins of swampy streams, where Spring seems to detach the sluggish ice from the softening mud, the Skunk Cabbage is boldly announcing nature’s revival. Handsome, vigorous and strong, richly coloured in purple, with delicate.. markings of yellow, it rises.. a pointed bulb-like flower, as large as a lemon… Even its devoted admirers, who seek it as the earliest of all the awakening flowers, feel constrained to apologise for the odour it exhales.” – S. T. Wood, in The Globe.

 
The soft south wind hath kissed the earth
That long a widowed bride hath been;
And she begins in tearful mirth,
To weave herself a robe of green.
The budding spray
On maples grey
Proclaims the quick approaching spring;
And brooks their new-found freedom sing.
 
 
Green is the moss in yonder glade
On cedars old that loves to grow;
And, underneath the pine tree’s shade,
The wintergreen peeps through the snow.
The fields no more
With frost are hoar;
But not a flower doth yet appear
In glade or wood or meadow sere.
 
 
The earth within her sheltering breast
The pale hepatica doth hide;
The bloodroot and wake-robin rest
In quiet slumber side by side;
The violet
Is sleeping yet;
And still the sweet spring-beauty lies
Beyond the reach of longing eyes.
 
 
But look! beside the silent stream,
Beneath the alders brown and bare,
What is it shines with purple gleam
’Mid withered leaves that moulder there?
I know thee well,
But may not tell
Thy name. Yet I rejoice to meet thee,
And from my heart, old friend, I greet thee!
 
 
The lily hangs her dainty head
To hear her charms so loudly sung;
The rose doth blush a deeper red
To know her praise on every tongue.
But no kind word
Is ever heard
Of thee: The poets all reject thee,
The vulgar scorn thee or neglect thee.
 
 
And yet I love thee. Thou dost bring
To me a thousand visions bright
Of joyous birds that soon will sing
Among the hawthorn blossoms white;
Of happy hours
’Mid dewy flowers;
The hum of bees; the silvery gleams
Of leaping trout in amber streams.
 
 
Soon as the snows of winter yield
To April sun and April floods,
Retiring from the open field
To strongholds in the thickest woods,
Then like a scout,
Dost thou peep out,
And cheerily lift up thy head
To tell the flowers the foe has fled.
 
 
O thou that comest our hearts to cheer,
The first of all the flowers of spring,
Brave herald of the opening year,
Accept the tribute that I bring,
When now once more,
The winter o’er,
Thy honest face has greeted us,
O Symplocarpus fœtidus!²
 

1904.

The Wanderer’s Song

 
We have left far behind us the dwellings of men,
We have traversed the forest, the lake and the fen,
From island to island like sea birds we roam,
The waves are our path, and the world is our home.
Juvallera, Juvallera, Juvallera, lera, lera!
Juvallera, Juvallera, Juvallera, lera, lera!
 
 
On the lone rugged rocks a rich table we spread,
The balsam and hemlock afford us a bed;
While the gleam of our camp fire illumines the sky,
And the murmuring pines sing a soft lullaby.
Juvallera, etc.
 
 
When the orient hues of the dawning of day
Emblazon the clouds and smile back from the bay,
We spring from our couch like the stag from his lair,
And drink in new life with the free morning air.
Juvallera, etc.
 
 
Then we launch our light bark on the silvery lake,
That dimples and breaks into smiles in our wake;
While we sweeten our toil with a tale or a song,
Or rest while the winds waft us bravely along.
Juvallera, etc.
At night when the deer to the thicket has fled,
And the scream of the night hawk is heard overhead,
We startle with laughter the wilderness dim,
Or the forests resound with our evening hymn.
Juvallera, etc.
 
 
Then Hurrah for the north, with its woods and its hills;
Hurrah for its rocks, and its lakes and its rills!
And long may its forests be lovely as now,
Untouched by the axe, and unscathed by the plow!
Juvallera, etc.
 

1870.

The Cowdung Fly

 
Of all the flies that ever I see
The Cowdung Fly is the fly for me
In cloud or shine, in wet or dry
You can’t find the beat of the Cowdung Fly!
So early in the morning or when the sun is sinking,
So early in the morning or any time of day.
 
 
The salmon fly shines in purple and gold
Brighter than Solomon shone of old
But give me the finest that money can buy
And I’ll give it you back for the Cowdung Fly!
So early, &c.
 
 
A cute little chap is the silver trout
When the wind is still and the sun shines out!
No maiden so coy and no widow so sly
But he’ll jump like a shot at the Cowdung Fly!
So early, &c.
 
 
A tough old cuss is the big black bass
It’s a mighty hard job to bring him to grass
But it makes no odds how hard he may try
He can’t resist the Cowdung Fly!
So early, &c.
 
 
There’s many a fly of old renown
Green Drake, Red Spinner and little March Brown,
Coachman, Professor, but Oh my eye!
They ain’t a patch on the Cowdung Fly!
So early, &c.
There are Hackles black and Hackles white
Good by day and good by night
Hackles brown and Hackles red
But the Cowdung Fly is away ahead!
So early, &c.
 
 
There’s the little black gnat when the sun shines bright
And the big white moth for the cool twilight
But of all the bugs in earth and sky
I’ll bet my boots on the Cowdung Fly!
So early, &c.
 
 
Then anglers all you can’t go wrong
If you’ve plenty of Cowdung Flies along
You never will want for fish to fry
If your book’s well stocked with the Cowdung Fly!