Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my pains beguile;
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd,
And streams shall murmur all around.
THE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heav'ns, a shining frame,
Their great original proclaim.
Th' unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to ev'ry land
The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the ev'ning shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly, to the list'ning earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence all
Move round this dark terrestrial ball;
What tho' no real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found;
In Reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
For ever singing as they shine,
"The hand that made us is Divine."
GOD'S WATCHFUL CARE.
BY CUNNINGHAM.
THE insect, that with puny wing
Just shoots along one summer ray,
The floweret which the breath of spring
Wakes into life for half a day,
The smallest mote, the tenderest hair,
All feel a heavenly Father's care.
E'en from the glories of his throne
He bends to view this earthly ball;
Sees all, as if that all were one,
Loves one as if that one were all; Rolls the swift planets in their spheres, And counts the sinner's lonely tears.
THE VIOLET.
BY CUNNINGHAM.
SHELTER'D from the blight ambition,
Fatal to the pride of rank;
See me in my low condition,
Laughing on the tufted bank.
On my robes (for emulation)
No variety's imprest;
Suited to an humble station,
Mine's an unembroider'd vest.
Modest though the maids declare me,
May, in her fantastic train,
When Pastora deigns to wear me,
Has no floweret half so vain.
THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
THE stately Homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land.
The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry Homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet, in the ruddy light!
There woman's voice flows forth in song
Or childhood's tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed Homes of England!
How softly on their bowers
Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes from Sabbath-hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bells' chime
Floats through their woods at morn;
All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.
The cottage Homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet-fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves,
And fearless there they lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath the eaves.
The free fair Homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be reared
To guard each hallowed wall !
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!
THE FIRST GRIEF.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
“O, CALL my brother back to me, I cannot play alone;
The Summer comes with flower and beeWhere is my brother gone ?
The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sunbeam's track;
I care not now to chase its flight—
O, call my brother back.
The flowers run wild,—the flowers we sowed,
Around our garden-tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load
O, call him back to me.”
"He would not hear my voice, fair child, He may not come to thee.
The face that once like Spring-time smiled, On earth no more thou'lt see.
A rose's short bright life of joy,
Such unto him was given;
Go, thou must play alone, my boy-
Thy brother is in Heaven!"
And has he left the birds and flowers,
And must I call in vain ?
And through the long, long summer hours
Will he not come again?
And by the brook, and in the glade,
Are all our wanderings o'er?
O, while my brother with me play'd.
Would I had loved him more!"
THE BETTER LAND.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
"I HEAR thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! O where is that radiant shore,
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle boughs?"
"Not there, not there, my child!"
"Is it where the feathery palm trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or midst the green island on glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"
"Not there, not there, my child!'
"Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand,
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"
"Not there, not there, my child!
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