And man is never half so blest
As when the busy day is spent,
So as to make his evening rest
A holiday of glad content.
God grant thee but a due reward,
A guerdon portion fair and just;
And then ne'er think thy station hard,
But work, my boy, work, hope, and trust!
INFANT of the weeping hills,
Nursling of the springs and rills,
Growing River, flowing ever,
Wimpling, dimpling, staying never,-
Lisping, gurgling, ever going,
Lipping, slipping, ever flowing,
Toying round the polish'd stone,
Kiss the sedge and journey on.
Here's a creek where bubbles come,
Whirling make your ball of foam.
There's a nook so deep and cool,
Sleep into a glassy pool.
Breaking, gushing,
Downward rushing,
Narrowing green against the bank, Where the alders grow in rank,— Thence recoiling,
Fret, in rough shingly shallows wide,
Your difficult way to yonder side.
Thence away, aye away,
Bickering down the sunny day,
In the sea, in yonder west,
Lose yourself, and be at rest.
Thus from darkness weeping out, Flows our infant Life away, Murmuring now the checks about, Singing now in onward play; Deepening, whirling,
Downward suck'd in eddying cover,
Boiling with tumultuous loves;
Widening o'er the worldly sands;
Kissing full the cultured lands;
Dim with trouble, glory lit,
Heaven still bending over it;
Changing still, yet ever going,
Onward, downward ever flowing.
Oh to be a boy once more, Curly-headed, sitting singing 'Midst a thousand flowrets springing, In the sunny days of yore,
In the sunny world remote,
With feelings opening in their dew,
And fairy wonders ever new,
And all the budding growths of thought!
Oh, to be a boy, yet be
From all my early follies free!
But were I skill'd in prudent lore,
The boy were then a boy no more.
Short our threescore years and ten,
Yet who would live them o'er again?
All life's good, ere they be flown,
We have felt, and we have known.
More than mortal were our fear,
If doom'd to dwell for ever here.
Yet, oh, from age to age, that we
Might rise a day old earth to see!
Mountains, high with nodding firs,
O'er you the clouded crystal stirs,
Fresh as of old, how fresh and sweet!
And here the flowerets at my feet.
Daisy, daisy, wet with dew,
And all ye little bells of blue,
I know you all; thee, clover bloom,
Thee the fern, and thee the broom:
And still the leaves and breezes mingle
With twinklings in the forest dingle.
Oh, through all wildering worlds I'd know
My own dear place of long ago.
Pleased would the yearning spirit then
The doings learn of living men,
The rise and fall of realms and kings,
And, oh, a thousand homely things.
Deeper our care considerate
To know of earth's diviner state :
How speeds the Church, with horns of light,
To push and pierce the Heathen night?
What promise of the coming day
When Sin and Pain shall pass away,
And, under Love's perpetual prime,
Joy light the waving wings of Time.
THOMAS AIRD, 1802
As waves the grass upon the fields to-day, That soon the wasting scythe shall sweep away ; As smiles the floweret in the morning dew, That eve's chill blast in blighted death may strew, Thus in brief glory spring the sons of clay, Thus bloom a while, then wither and decay.
I saw an infant in its robe of white, The admiring mother's ever dear delight;
It clapp'd its hands when tones of mirth went by, And nature's gladness glisten'd in its eye.
Again I came an empty crib was there,
A narrow coffin, and a funeral prayer.
I saw a boy in healthful vigour bold,
Nor summer's heat he fear'd, nor winter's cold;
With dexterous foot he dared the frozen pool,
His laugh rang loudest 'mid his mates at school.
Again I came his name alone was found
On one low stone that crowns yon swelling mound.
I saw a gentle maid with beauty bless'd,
In youth resplendent, and by love caress'd;
Her clustering hair in sunny ringlets glow'd,
Her red lips moved, and thrilling music flow'd.
Again I came her parents' halls were lone,
And o'er her turf-bed rose the weeper's moan.
Oh, boasted joys of earth! how swift ye fly,
Rent from the heart or hidden from the eye;
So through the web the weaver's shuttle glides,
So speeds the vessel o'er the billowy tides,
So cleaves the bird the liquid fields of light,
And leaves no furrow of its trackless flight.
Dust tends to dust, with ashes ashes blend;
Yet when the grave engulfs the buried friend,
A few brief sighs may mark its yawning brink,
A few salt tears the broken clods may drink,
A few sad hearts with bursting anguish bleed,
And pay that tribute which they soon must need.
They soon must need! But life's returning cares Sweep off the precious fruit that sorrow bears; The mourner drops his sable, and aspires To light anew ambition's smother'd fires,
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