A VIOLET springing in the shade,
A tone of music waking
From the leaf'd bough, or grassy blade, In the soft breezes shaking: A ray of starlight trembling o'er
The dusk face of a sleeping sea- What, of such wild delights, can more, Sweetest of sweets, resemble thee? Art not thyself a violet?
Is not the breezy music thine? Or e'er in ether glimmer'd yet
A star more pure or more divine?
Thou steal'st upon my heart, as steals A shadow on the plain,
And my heart darkens, yet it feels A saddening joy, not pain; Sadness, to think a world of woe For such a spirit is spread around, And joy, in such a world, to know A spirit so heavenly is found,-
A cherub for a moment given,
To teach weak man what being's worth; Ever to keep his thoughts on heaven, Yet smooth the chain that binds to earth.
Be happy, for thou makest us so- It is enough to see
The radiance of thy face, to know
The sight of innocence and love,
Garb'd in the light of childish years,
This is the better spell to prove
An antidote to tears.
Wend through the world, nor fear its cares,- Thy path with flowers shall shine,
For men will steal the sweets from theirs, To strew them over thine.
To name an infant meet our village-sires, Assembled all, as such event requires ; Frequent and full, the rural sages sate, And speakers many urged the long debate,- Some harden'd knaves, who roved the country round, Had left a babe within the parish-bound.
First, of the fact they question'd-" Was it true?" The child was brought-"What then remain'd to do?"
"Was 't dead or living?" This was fairly proved,- "T was pinch'd, it roar'd, and every doubt removed. Then by what name th' unwelcome guest to call Was long a question, and it posed them all; For he who lent it to a babe unknown, Censorious men might take it for his own: They look'd about, they gravely spoke to all, And not one Richard answer'd to the call. Next they inquired the day, when, passing by, Th' unlucky peasant heard the stranger's cry. This known, how food and raiment they might give, Was next debated-for the rogue would live: At last, with all their words and work content, Back to their homes the prudent vestry went, And Richard Monday to the workhouse sent. There was he pinch'd and pitied, thump'd and fed, And duly took his beatings and his bread; Patient in all control, in all abuse,
He found contempts and kickings have their use; Sad, silent, supple; bending to the blow, A slave of slaves, the lowest of the low: His pliant soul gave way to all things base, He knew no shame, he dreaded no disgrace. It seem'd, so well his passions he suppress'd, No feeling stirr'd his ever-torpid breast: Him might the meanest pauper bruise and cheat, He was a footstool for the beggar's feet; His were the legs that ran at all commands; They used on all occasions Richard's hands;
His very soul was not his own; he stole As others order'd, and without a dole; In all disputes, on either part he lied, And freely pledged his oath on either side; In all rebellions Richard join'd the rest, In all detections Richard first confess'd: Yet, though disgraced, he watch'd his time so well, He rose in favour, when in fame he fell ; Base was his usage, vile his whole employ, And all despised and fed the pliant boy. At length, "'t is time he should abroad be sent," Was whisper'd near him,-and abroad he went; One morn they call'd him, Richard answer'd not; They deem'd him hanging, and in time forgot,- Yet miss'd him long, as each throughout the clan, Found he "had better spared a better man."
Now Richard's talents for the world were fit, He'd no small cunning, and had some small wit; Had that calm look which seem'd to all assent, And that complacent speech which nothing meant. He'd but one care, and that he strove to hide, How best for Richard Monday to provide. Steel, through opposing plates, the magnet draws, And steely atoms culls from dust and straws; And thus our hero, to his interest true, Gold through all bars and from each trifle drew; But still more surely round the world to go, This fortune's child had neither friend nor foe.
Long lost to us, at last our man we trace,- Sir Richard Monday died at Monday-place.
NAY, William, nav, not so; the changeful year In all its due successions to my sight Presents but varied beauties, transient all, All in their season good. These fading leaves
That with their rich variety of hues Make yonder forest in the slanting sun So beautiful, in you awake the thought
Of winter, cold, drear winter, when these trees, Each like a fleshless skeleton, shall stretch
Its bare brown boughs; when not a flower shall spread
Its colours to the day, and not a bird Carol its joyance, but all nature wear One sullen aspect, bleak and desolate, To eye, ear, feeling, comfortless alike.
To me their many-colour'd beauties speak Of times of merriment and festival, The year's best holiday: I call to mind The schoolboy days, when in the falling leaves I saw with eager hope the pleasant sign Of coming Christmas, when at morn I took My wooden calendar, and counting up Once more its often-told account, smooth'd off Each day with more delight the daily notch. you the beauties of the autumnal year
Make mournful emblems, and you think of man Doom'd to the grave's long winter, spirit-broke, Bending beneath the burden of his years, Sense-dull'd and fretful," full of aches and pains," Yet clinging still to life. To me they show The calm decay of nature, when the mind Retains its strength, and in the languid eye Religion's holy hopes kindle a joy
That makes old age look lovely. All to you Is dark and cheerless; you in this fair world See some destroying principle abroad, Air, earth, and water, full of living things, Each on the other preying; and the ways Of man, a strange perplexing labyrinth, Where crimes and iniseries, each producing each, Render life loathsome, and destroy the hope
That should in death bring comfort. Oh, my friend, That thy faith were as mine! that thou couldst see
Death still producing life, and evil still Working its own destruction; couldst behold The strifes and tumults of this troubled world With the strong eye that sees the promised day Dawn through this night of tempest! all things then Would minister to joy; then should thine heart Be heal'd and harmonized, and thou shouldst feel God, always, every-where, and all in all.
To prayer! to prayer!-for the morning breaks, And earth in her Maker's smile awakes. His light is on all, below and above- The light of gladness, and life, and love. Oh! then, on the breath of this early air, Send upward the incense of grateful prayer.
prayer!-for the glorious sun is gone, And the gathering darkness of night comes on. Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows, To shade the couch where his children repose. Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright, And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of night.
To prayer!-for the day that God has blest Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest. It speaks of creation's early bloom,
It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb. Then summon the spirit's exalted powers, And devote to Heaven the hallow'd hours.
There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes, For her new-born infant beside her lies. Oh! hour of bliss! when the heart o'erflows With rapture a mother only knows :
Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer; Let it swell up to Heaven for her precious care.
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