Th' élite of these, with awe profound, In painting, poetry, or law- Bore heavy burdens on their backs, Thought they might make a snail-road there, From Dahliastan to Rhubarbania; But old Wallclimber raised his head, For none could cross those horrid regions; Or face the limber ants that fare Across the spongy soil in legions. No! none could cross that path, they said, So full of danger and of dread: When suddenly their faith was shaken: -A group of ducks the border filled, -Those quacks that never cured, but killed— And every heart with horror thrilled, To find itself for once mistaken. Why should man, then-child of sorrow! Mourn his doom? Present gloom Will be light and bliss to-morrow. Why should man, then, bound his vision Where we dwell? Worlds are his, and worlds elysian. Even here all pain is fleeting; Joy and care Join in constant, earnest greeting: Reign above Bliss unbroken-joy unending. MATINS AND VESPERS. THE SNOWDROP. (Suggested by the discovery of one on New Year's day.) AH! first and fairest flower of spring, Hail to thy silver ray: Surely some gentle spirit dwells, Beneath the shadow of thy bells, And shields thee by its fairy spells, Sweet harbinger of gentler gales, Hail bright and lovely gem! When earth is desolate and drear, Thou com'st the wintry waste to cheer; The first and fairest to appear In Flora's diadem. Emblem of hope! thou tellest us Of sunny days to come; Though o'er us now the storm-cloud lowers, You bid us think of happy hours, Which wait us in the blissful bowers Of our bright future home. Yes! we may learn of thee, sweet flow'r, To bear life's chilling blast; For sacred hope will still illume Our path, though it be one of gloom, Which leads us through the silent tomb To God and heaven at last. ROSAMOND. THE HEATH AND THE HAREBELL. ON one of drear November's chilly days, I found these flowerets growing side by side, Winter had set his seal upon the earth, And o'er the land had spread his gloomy wing, To give no place to feelings of despair. Though dark awhile and drear our lot may be, And mercies in these trials we shall see, When shelter'd in our Saviour's bright abode. ROSAMOND. LIFE, A PILGRIMAGE. HAPPY, O! happy he, who not affecting Whereon man acts his weary pilgrimage.—" Old Author." TO AN AFFLICTED ONE. CHILD of affliction, raise thy drooping head, Though round thy sorrowing path, dark shadows spread,. And peace, and joy, await thine entrance there. Thine Heavenly Father, infinite in love, But can affliction, then, a right convey And deck thee with a robe of righteousness. The pain which here has blanch'd thy pallid cheek, To that abode in vain shall entrance seek: The tear that glistens in thy languid eye, While ransomed saints shall sweetly join with thee, - Z, |