Kitabı oku: «Mother's Dream and Other Poems», sayfa 4

THE MOCKING BIRD

 
A Mocking Bird was he,
In a bushy, blooming tree,
Imbosomed by the foliage and flower.
And there he sat and sang,
Till all around him rang,
With sounds, from out the merry mimic’s bower.
 
 
The little satirist
Piped, chattered, shrieked, and hissed;
He then would moan, and whistle, quack, and caw;
Then, carol, drawl, and croak,
As if he ’d pass a joke
On every other winged one he saw.
 
 
Together he would catch
A gay and plaintive snatch,
And mingle notes of half the feathered throng.
For well the mocker knew,
Of every thing that flew,
To imitate the manner and the song.
 
 
The other birds drew near,
And paused awhile to hear
How well he gave their voices and their airs.
And some became amused;
While some, disturbed, refused
To own the sounds that others said were theirs.
 
 
The sensitive were shocked,
To find their honors mocked
By one so pert and voluble as he;
They knew not if ’t was done
In earnest or in fun;
And fluttered off in silence from the tree.
 
 
The silliest grew vain,
To think a song or strain
Of theirs, however weak, or loud, or hoarse,
Was worthy to be heard
Repeated by the bird;
For of his wit they could not feel the force.
 
 
The charitable said,
“Poor fellow! if his head
Is turned, or cracked, or has no talent left;
But feels the want of powers,
And plumes itself from ours,
Why, we shall not be losers by the theft.”
 
 
The haughty said, “He thus,
It seems, would mimic us,
And steal our songs, to pass them for his own!
But if he only quotes
In honor of our notes,
We then were quite as honored, let alone.”
 
 
The wisest said, “If foe,
Or friend, we still may know
By him, wherein our greatest failing lies.
So, let us not be moved,
Since first to be improved
By every thing, becomes the truly wise.”
 

THE BIRD’S HOME

 
O where is thy home, sweet bird,
With the song, and the bright, glossy plume?
“I ’ll tell thee where I rest,
If thou wilt not rob my nest; —
I built among the sweet apple bloom.”
 
 
But what ’s in thy nest, bright bird?
What ’s there, in the snug, downy cell?
“If thou wilt not rob the tree;
Nor go too near, to see
My quiet little home, I will tell.”
 
 
O! I will not thy trust betray,
But closely thy secret I will keep.
“I ’ve three little tender things,
That have never used their wings!
I left them there, at home, fast asleep.”
 
 
Then, why art thou here, my bird,
Away from thy young, helpless brood?
“To pay thee with a song,
Just to let me pass along,
Nor harm me, as I look for their food!”
 

THE BIRD UNCAGED

 
She opened the cage, and away there flew
A bright little bird, as a short adieu
It hastily whistled, and passed the door,
And felt that its sorrowful hours were o’er.
 
 
An anthem of freedom it seemed to sing;
To utter its joy for an outspread wing, —
That now it could sport in the boundless air,
And might go any and every where.
 
 
And Anna rejoiced in her bird’s delight;
But her eye was wet, as she marked its flight;
Till, this was the song that she seemed to hear;
And, merrily warbled, it dried the tear:
 
 
“I had a mistress, and she was kind,
In all, but keeping her bird confined;
She ministered food and drink to me,
But, O I was pining for liberty!
 
 
“My fluttering bosom she loved to smooth;
While the heart within it, she could not soothe:
I sickened and longed for the wildwood breeze,
My feathery kindred, and fresh green trees.
 
 
“A prisoner there, with a useless wing,
I looked with sorrow on every thing;
I lost my voice, and forgot my song,
And mourned in silence, the whole day long.
 
 
“But I will go back, with a mellower pipe,
And sing, when the cherries are round and ripe;
On the topmost bough, as I lock my feet,
To help myself, in my leafy seat.
 
 
“My merriest notes shall there be heard,
To draw her eye to her franchised bird;
The burden, then, of my song shall be,
‘Earth for the wingless! but air for me!’”
 

DAME BIDDY

 
Dame Biddy abode in a coop,
Because it so chanced, that dame Biddy
Had round her a family group
Of chicks, young, and helpless and giddy.
 
 
And when she had freedom to roam,
She fancied the life of a ranger;
And led off her brood, far from home,
To fall into mischief or danger.
 
 
She ’d trail through the grass to be mown,
And call all her children to follow;
And scratch up the seeds that were sown,
Then, lie in their places and wallow.
 
 
She ’d go where the corn in the hill,
Its first little blade had been shooting,
And try, by the strength of her bill,
To learn if the kernel was rooting.
 
 
And when she went out on a walk
Of pleasure, through thicket and brambles,
The covetous eye of a hawk
Delighted in marking her rambles.
 
 
“I spy,” to himself he would say,
“A prize of which I ’ll be the winner!”
So down would he pounce on his prey,
And bear off a chicken for dinner.
 
 
The poor frighted matron, that heard
The cry of her youngling in dying,
Would scream at the merciless bird,
That high with his booty was flying.
 
 
But shrieks could not ease her distress,
Nor grief her lost darling recover.
She now had a chicken the less,
For acting the part of a rover.
 
 
And there lay the feathers, all torn,
And flying one way and another,
That still her dear child might have worn,
Had she been more wise as a mother.
 
 
Her owner then thought he must teach
Dame Biddy a little subjection;
And cooped her up, out of the reach
Of hawking, with time for reflection.
 
 
And, throwing a net o’er a pile
Of brush-wood that near her was lying,
He hoped to its meshes to wile
The fowler, that o’er her was flying.
 
 
For Hawk, not forgetting his fare,
And having a taste to renew it,
Sailed round near the coop, high in air,
With cruel intention, to view it.
 
 
The owner then said, “Master Hawk,
If you love my chickens so dearly,
Come down to my yard for a walk,
That you may address them more nearly.”
 
 
But, “No,” thought the sharp-taloned foe
Of Biddy, “my circuit is higher!
If I to his premises go,
’T will be when I see he ’s not nigh her.”
 
 
The Farmer strewed barley, and toled
The chickens the brush to run under,
And left them, while Hawk growing bold,
Thus tempted, came near for his plunder.
 
 
As closer and closer he drew,
With appetite stronger and stronger,
He found he ’d but one thing to do,
And plunged, to defer it no longer.
 
 
But now had he come to a pause,
At once in the net-work entangled,
While through it his head and his claws
In hopeless vacuity dangled.
 
 
The chicks saw him hang overhead,
Where they for their barley had huddled;
And all in a flutter they fled,
And soon through the coop holes had scuddled.
 
 
The farmer came out to his snare.
He saw the bold captive was in it;
And said, “If this play be unfair,
Remember, I did not begin it!”
 
 
He then put a cork on his beak,
The airy assassin disarming,
Unspurred him, and rendered him weak,
By blunting each talent for harming.
 
 
And into the coop he was thrown:
The chickens hid under their mother,
For he, by his feathers was known
As he, who had murdered their brother.
 
 
Dame Biddy, beholding his plight,
Determined to show him no quarter,
In action gave vent to her spite;
As motherly tenderness taught her.
 
 
She shouted, and blustered; and then
Attacked the poor captive unfriended;
And you, (who have witnessed a hen
In anger,) may guess how it ended.
 
 
She made him a touching address,
If pecking and scratching could do it,
Till, sinking in silent distress,
He perished before she got through it.
 
 
We would not, however, convey
A thought like approving the fury,
That gave, in this summary way,
Punition, without judge or jury.
 
 
Whenever thus given, it tends
To lessen the angry bestower;
The fowl that inflicts it, descends —
The featherless biped, still lower.
 

THE ENVIOUS LOBSTER

 
A Lobster from the water came,
And saw another, just the same
In form and size; but gayly clad
In scarlet clothing; while she had
No other raiment to her back
Than her old suit of greenish black.
 
 
“So ho!” she cried, “’t is very fine!
Your dress was yesterday like mine;
And in the mud below the sea,
You lived, a crawling thing, like me.
But now, because you ’ve come ashore,
You ’ve grown so proud, that what you wore —
Your strong old suit of bottle-green,
You think improper to be seen.
To tell the truth, I don ’t see why
You should be better dressed than I.
And I should like a suit of red
As bright as yours, from feet to head.
I think I’ m quite as good as you,
And might be clothed in scarlet, too.”
 
 
“Will you be boiled?” her owner said,
“To be arrayed in glowing red?
Come here, my discontented miss,
And hear the scalding kettle hiss!
Will you go in, and there be boiled,
To have your dress, so old and soiled,
Exchanged for one of scarlet hue?”
“Yes,” cried the lobster, “that I ’ll do,
And twice as much, if needs must be,
To be as gayly clad as she.”
Then, in she made a fatal dive,
And never more was seen alive!
 
 
Now, if you ever chance to know
Of one as fond of dress and show
As that vain lobster, and withal
As envious, you ’ll perhaps recall
To mind her folly, and the plight
In which she reappeared to sight.
She had obtained a bright array,
But for it, thrown herself away!
Her life and death were best untold,
But for the moral they unfold!
 

KIT WITH THE ROSE

 
A rose tree stood in the parlor,
When kit came frolicking by;
So up went her feet on the window-seat,
To a rose, that had caught her eye.
 
 
She gave it a cuff, and it trembled
Beneath her ominous paw;
And while it shook, with a threatening look
She coveted what she saw.
 
 
Thought she, “What a beautiful toss-ball,
If I could but give it a snap,
Now all are out, nor thinking about
Their rose, or the least mishap!”
 
 
She twisted the stem, and she twirled it;
And, seizing the flower it bore
With the timely aid of her teeth, she made
A leap to the parlor floor.
 
 
And over the carpet she tossed it,
All fresh in its morning bloom,
Till shattered and rent, its leaves were sent
To every side of the room.
 
 
At length, with her sport grown weary,
She laid herself down to sun,
Inclining to doze, forgetting the rose
And the mischief she had done.
 
 
By and by her young mistress entered,
And uttered a piteous cry,
When she saw the fate of what had so late
Delighted her watchful eye.
 
 
But where was the one, who had spoiled it,
Concealing his guilty face?
She had not a clue whereby to pursue
The rogue to his lurking-place.
 
 
Thought kit, “I ’ll keep still till ’t is over,
And none will suspect it was I.”
For the puss awoke, when her mistress spoke,
And she well understood the cry.
 
 
But, mewing at length for her dinner,
Kit’s mouth confessed the whole truth:
It opened so wide, that her mistress spied
A rose-leaf pierced by her tooth.
 
 
Then kit was expelled from the parlor
All covered with shame. And those
Inclined, like her, in secret to err,
Should remember kit with the rose.
 

THE STORM IN THE FOREST

 
The storm in the forest is rending and sweeping;
While tree after tree bows its stately green head;
The flowerets beneath them are bending and weeping;
And leaves, torn and trembling, all round them are spread.
 
 
The bird that had roamed, till she thinks her benighted,
Dismayed, hastens back to her home in the wood;
And flags not a wing, till her bosom, affrighted,
Has laid its warm down o’er her own little brood.
 
 
And they, since that fond one so quickly has found them,
To shelter their heads from the rain and the blast,
Shall fearless repose, while the bolts burst around them;
And lie calm and safe, till the darkness is past.
 
 
Hast thou, too, not felt, when the tempest was drearest,
And rending thy covert, or shaking thy rest,
Thine own blessed angel that moment the nearest —
Thy screen in his pinion – thy shield in his breast?
 
 
When clouds frowned the darkest, and perils beset thee,
Till each prop of earth seemed to bend, or to break,
Did e’er thy good angel turn off, and forget thee?
The mother her little ones, then, may forsake!
 
 
Ah, no! thou shalt feel thy protector the surer —
The sun, in returning, more cheering and warm;
And all things around thee, seem fresher and purer,
And touched with new glory, because of the storm!
 

THE UPROOTED ELM

 
Alas! alas! my good old tree,
A fatal change is past on thee!
And now thine aged form I see,
All helpless, lying low:
The rending tempest, in its flight
’Mid darkness of the wintry night,
Hath struck thee, passing in its might,
And felled thee at a blow.
 
 
And never more the blooming spring
Shall to thy boughs rich verdure bring,
Or her gay birds, to flit and sing
Where their first plumage grew;
For thou, so long, so fondly made
My eye’s delight, my summer shade,
Here, as a lifeless king, art laid
In state, for all to view.
 
 
Thy noble trunk and reverend head,
Defined on that cold, snow-white bed,
And those old arms, so widely spread,
Thy hopelessness declare:
Thy roots, in earth concealed so long —
That struck so deep, with hold so strong,
Upturned with many a broken prong,
Are quivering high in air.
 
 
But yester-eve I saw thee stand,
With lofty front, with aspect grand,
Where thou hadst braved the ruthless hand
Of time, and spread, and towered;
And stood the rain, the hail, the blast,
Till more than hundred years had passed:
To fall so suddenly at last,
Forever overpowered!
 
 
Yet, while I sadly ponder o’er
What now thou art, and wast before,
Were sighs to rise, and tears to pour,
Like summer winds and rain;
Not all the sighs and drops of grief
Could bring to thee one bud or leaf;
Thou liest so like a stricken chief,
By one swift arrow slain.
 
 
But may’st thou prove an emblem true
Of what the spoiler’s hand shall do
With one, who pensive here would view
A shadowy type in thee!
Let not the conqueror piecemeal slay,
With power by power in slow decay;
But strike, and all in ashes lay!
Farewell, my good old tree!
 

THROUGH THE CLOUDS

 
Through the clouds that veil the sky,
Come, O sun, and sweetly smile!
Show thy glory to mine eye,
So my heart may beam the while.
 
 
Come, and chase this day of night,
For the world is sadly dim.
To thy blessed face of light
Let my spirit sing her hymn.
 
 
Now, in silence and alone,
I, to pass the heavy hour,
Sit and fancy nature’s moan
After thy reviving power.
 
 
Blasts of wildered, wandering air,
Asking where thy face can be,
Chill and cheerless, every where,
Sighing, wailing, seek for thee.
 
 
Mourning o’er the earth is spread;
Bud and flower look pale with grief.
Sick, the plant has hung its head;
Dulness weighs on every leaf.
 
 
Not a bird is heard to sing.
Reft of thine inspiring ray.
As a lyre of every string,
Each from sight is hid away.
 
 
Sable clouds, that veil the blue
Of the skies, their shadows throw
Here, until their sombre hue
Gives a cast to all below.
 
 
Come, O sun, and through the gloom
Let thy beaming vesture fall!
Bringing music, joy and bloom,
Spread thy mantle o’er us all.
 
 
What were there on earth to love —
What were beauteous, bright, or dear,
Wert thou not so true above,
And thy holy influence here?
 

MY ROSE TREE

 
Rose tree, O! my beauteous rose tree,
Often have I longed to know
How thy tender leaves were moulded —
How thy buds are burst, and blow.
 
 
I have watered, sunned, and trained thee,
And have watched thee many an hour,
Yet I never could discover
How a bud becomes a flower.
 
 
So, last night I thought about thee
On my pillow, till, at last,
I was gone in quiet slumber;
And a dream before me passed.
 
 
In it, I beheld my rose tree
Stripped of flower, and bud and leaf;
While thy naked stalk and branches
Filled me with surprise and grief.
 
 
Then, methought, I wept to see thee
Spoiled of all that made thee dear,
Till a band of smiling angels
Mildly shining, hovered near.
 
 
Gently as they gathered round thee,
All in silence, one of them
Laid his soft, fair fingers on thee,
Pulling leaves from out the stem.
 
 
One by one thy twigs he furnished
With a dress of foliage green;
While another angel followed,
Bringing buds the leaves between.
 
 
Then came one the buds to open;
He their silken rolls unsheathed,
While the one who tints the roses,
Through their loosened foldings breathed.
 
 
Then the angel of the odors
Filled each golden-bottomed cell,
Till, between the parting petals,
Free on air the fragrance fell.
 
 
Lifting then their shining pinions,
Quick the angels passed from sight;
Leaving, where aloft they vanished,
But a stream of fading light.
 
 
There I heard sweet strains of music,
And their voices far above,
Dying in the azure distance,
Naming thee a gift of love.
 
 
And, my rose tree stood before me,
Finished thus by angel hands;
Perfect in its bloom and fragrance,
Beautiful, as now it stands.
 
 
Hence, whenever I behold thee,
I shall think of angels too;
And the countless works of goodness
They descend on earth to do.
 
 
All unseen and silent, round us
They their careful watches keep;
Whether we may wake, or slumber,
Guardian angels never sleep!
 

THE INFANT BAPTIST

And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, and was in the deserts until the day of his showing unto Israel.

Luke i. 80.

 
Child, amid the honeyed flowers
Passing life’s bright morning hours —
Playing in the silver rills,
Where they bathe Judea’s hills —
Looking, with an earnest eye,
At the wild bird flitting by —
Infant of the joyous heart,
Canst thou tell me who thou art?
 
 
Thou, whose little hand in play
Hurls the clustered grapes away;
While thou lov’st to watch the bee,
Or to win a lamb to thee,
And to see the fleecy flock
Resting by the shadowy rock, —
Know’st thou, tender, beauteous boy,
What ’s thine errand – whence thy joy?
 
 
’T was thy name that Gabriel spoke,
By the altar, while the smoke
From thy father’s incense rolled,
When thy being was foretold!
Thou art come, the promised one,
As the dayspring to the sun,
Soon to usher in new light
Through the realms of death and night!
 
 
Heavenly innocence is now
Marked upon thy peaceful brow:
God’s own Spirit filleth thee,
Sainted babe; for thou art he,
Who before the Lamb shall go,
Crying, that the world may know
He hath life to give the dead,
In the blood he comes to shed!
 
 
Though, from nature wild and rude,
Come thy raiment, rest, and food,
Nightly o’er thy desert sleep,
Angels shall their vigils keep;
Through the wilderness by day,
They will guard and lead the way;
Till to Israel thou appear,
Showing heaven’s mild kingdom near.
 
 
High and glorious, then, the part
For thine eye, and hand, and heart!
When thy feet, on Jordan’s side,
Feel the waters, as they glide,
Thou the Son of God shalt see,
Come to be baptized of thee —
Hear him named, and see the Dove
Resting on him from above!
 

HYMN TO SOLITUDE

 
O solitude, holy and calm!
From tumult and crowds breaking free,
I fly, sick and sad, for the balm
I find given only by thee.
 
 
Too oft from thy peace I depart,
Kind guardian, friend of my soul, —
And then bring an earth-wounded heart
For thee to bind up and make whole.
 
 
My spirit, now worn and oppressed,
Her wings in thy bosom hath furled,
To sink, as a bird in its nest,
Away from a cold, faithless world!
 
 
Alarmed at the shade and the chill,
That o’er me its visions have cast,
I here would lie lowly and still,
Till sorrow’s dark night hours are past.
 
 
And then, from the dust may I rise,
To mount, as the lark from her sod;
And sing, as the morn of my skies
Appears in the smile of my God.
 
 
O solitude, sacred and sweet;
Whilst thus in thy bosom I lie,
Earth’s baubles are under my feet —
My heart and its treasure, on high.
 

THE BIBLE IN THE FIELDS

 
I love to take this holy book,
In summer’s balmy hours,
To study it beside the brook,
Or by the trees and flowers.
 
 
For here I read about the God,
Who made this world so fair,
The skies – the stream – the grassy sod
And bloom, that scents the air.
 
 
The birds flit round, and sweetly sing
Of him, who feeds them all, —
Who lifts the towering eagle’s wing,
And marks the sparrow’s fall.
 
 
The violet, from its soft green bed,
To speak his goodness too,
Presents its tender, purple head
Baptized with silvery dew.
 
 
And here the busy bee I view,
As she comes swiftly by,
And seems to ask, if she should do
More work, or good than I.
 
 
Her waxen house betimes to build
I see her wisely bent;
And then, with bread and honey filled
To have it, still intent.
 
 
The bees I find their sweets supplied
In wild Judea’s land,
To feed the Baptist, when he cried,
“Heaven’s kingdom is at hand.”
 
 
And when our Saviour, from the grave,
Had asked his friends for meat,
He ate the honey-comb they gave;
And showed his hands and feet.
 
 
This volume of his will revealed
I here can read within,
“Behold the lilies of the field —
They neither toil nor spin!”
 
 
And yet the king “was not arrayed
In glory, like to them;”
Their Maker’s power is so displayed
In flower and leaf and stem.
 
 
And he sat on the mountain’s side,
Who spake these blessed words,
Before him flowery fields spread wide —
Around were trees and birds.
 
 
The fleecy flocks, that sport so free
On hill and valley deep,
I love to watch: and here I see
’T is written, “Feed my sheep.”
 
 
For thus I seem to keep in view,
And feel how near I am
To that dear friend of children, who
Has named himself the Lamb.