And when, with me, all thoughts refuse To pass again the quivering lip, – And spirit in those upper dews Its mounting wing prepares to dip,Give me to hear that word below, The last ere nature's flutterings ceaseFrom tears and toil and empty show To truth and smiles, Depart in peace. WISDOM FROM ALL. My bed itself is like the grave, My sheets the winding sheet; My clothes the mould which I must have To cover me most meet. -The Good Night. 'Tis well for giddy man to pause Along his pilgrim way; And note what these that round him lie In council to him say. For he may find a precept couched In every homely thing, And household gear, and nature's gifts, May sure instruction bring. I wot the roof that shelters him, The table for his meat, The summer's shade, the winter's hearth, May rich discourse repeat. I guess if he attentive ear Lend to the peeping flower, The germ may to his patience read I guess if to the full ripe corn He for direction look, The tasseled corn may show him good Not found in Dulness' book. The small bird in its cunning nest, The honey bee in flight, May teach him; yea, the groping mole May give his darkness light. The cradle where his cries were hushed, The rattle, bells, and ball, Mute playthings of his infant hours Have to his age a call. The brook by which his boyhood played, The hill that seemed so high, Are homilies, when scans he them, With manhood's sobered eye. And so, if pride no hindrance give, The wise in heart may always pluck THE EARLY DEAD. Think of youth Smitten amidst its playthings. - Ion. THINK, mother! of the babe that clung With every kiss, a whispered prayer Think, mother of thy prattling girl, Whose sunny eyes have gladdened thee, Whose bird-like voice, 'mid care's wild whirl, Hath charmed thee with its melody; Whose airy step within thy hall Was signal still of pleasure there; Bright creature! who embodied all Or dream the pure blest spirits are:- Think, mother! of thy noble boy, Thou soughtest, and within his hair Delightedly wast wont to place, And mark the father in his face, And see thy image mimicked thereWhere is that boy? Oh, where? That infant is a seraph now! That daughter kneels before the throne! That beauteous boy, with harp and crown, Exulting, spreads his silver wings. Thou almost hear'st those perfect strings Where children cast their honors down; Where elders and apostles meet At Jesus' feet. Think, mother! while sweet tears are shed, How blessed are the Early Dead! WHAT IS MAN? Like to the falling of a star, I COURT retirement's hour, I court relief from care; I covet better things Than this same creeping, carking care; My spirit asketh wings! It spurneth prison walls, And soars, in spite of chain, Where mind with mind expatiates, And is at home again. I weary of the strife Men wage by night and day, An honorable straw to win, — A heap of yellow clay, |