THE POET. GIFTED FOR GIVING. "Freely ye have received, freely give." MATT. X. 8. BE true, O poet, to your gift divine! Till it grows vital with the life that burns Pour your soul's passion through the tide of song, Nor ask the plaudits of the changeful throng. Sing as the bird sings, when the morning beam With gentlest touch awakes it from its dream, And life and light, their motion and their glow, Gush through the song, with flow and overflow; Sing as the stream sings, winding through the maze Of woods and meadows with no thought of praise, Its murmurous music, or in storm or calm, Blending its low, sweet notes with Nature's psalm; Sing as the wind sings, when the forest trees INSPIRATION. HENRY DAVID THOREAU, an original writer and a strong lover of nature, was born July 12, 1817, and graduated at Harvard College in 1845. After an interesting and eccentric life he died at Concord, Mass., May 6, 1862. An account of his life was published by his friend Ralph Waldo Emerson in the Atlantic Monthly for August, 1862. IF with light head erect I sing, Though all the Muses lend their force, The verse is weak and shallow as its source. But if with bended neck I grope, More anxious to keep back than forward it; Making my soul accomplice there I hearing get, who had but ears, I moments live, who lived but years, And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore. Now chiefly is my natal hour, Of manhood's strength it is the flower; It comes in summer's broadest noon, I will not doubt the love untold HENRY DAVID THOREAU. PLIA THE POET OF TO-DAY. MRS. SARAH JANE CLARKE Lippincott was born Sept. 28, 1823, at Pompey, N. Y., and in 1853 married Leander K. Lippincott, of Philadelphia. She is known as a graceful writer MORE than the soul of ancient song is given To thee Humanity, her woes revealing, Would all her griefs and ancient wrongs rehearse; Would make thy song the voice of her appealing, And sob her mighty sorrows through thy verse. While in her season of great darkness sharing, And watch for morning o'er the hills afar. Wherever Truth her holy warfare wages, heard: Sound like a prophet-warning down the ages But bring not thou the battle's stormy chorus, Not so the poet. On his keener sense Lightly his spirit touch! The lyre is delicate; the chords are fine; The strings, that gentler skill to music wakes, And images, that in the musing mind, Were ready to leap forth, and breathe, and burn Gifts that have had their birth Beyond the everlasting hills on high, With Heaven's own manna falling at thy feet, In noble scorn of every meaner thing, Nor blaze of pillage, reddening up the night. Self-buoyant, like the bird of paradise Oh, let thy lays prolong that angel singing, Girdling with music the Redeemer's star, And breathe God's peace, to earth "glad, tidings" bringing From the near heavens, of old so dim and far! SARAH J. LIPPINCOTT (GRACE Greenwood). THE POET'S PLEA. DEAL gently with the poet. Think that he The world's unmerited contempt and scoff tide, That sleeps and wakes forever on the wing. And much shall be required where much is Not that the tone need always be sublime; time. But for the loose, the impious, or the base, Breathe not a thought thou e'er shalt wish un- Nought that may haunt and sadden life's re- Or cast a shadow o'er thy dying bed. THE POET'S FOOD. To raise poor grovelling Nature from the mire, This is thy calling. Tasks like these Cheer, which the fickle world nor gives nor takes; Unhoped-for streams that in the desert rise, And sunshine bursting through the cloudiest skies! From light to light thy steps shall tend, Thy prospects ever brightening to the end; Thy soul acquiring as it goes The tone and feelings that befit the close. Such path, O gifted one, be thine to tread ! And when the Judge of quick and dead To each his sentence shall assign, "Well done, thou faithful servant!" shall be thine! And thou shalt rise the tasks of heaven to share, Join the blest choir, and feel no stranger there. And power and honor to the Lamb" shall seem To thee no new and uncongenial theme. The strains to which thy earthly powers were given 5 He doth not list in magic caves the music of life's ocean; Borne freely on its winds and waves, he feels their every motion. The glory which around him shines is no fictitious ray; It is the sun which shines on all, the light of common day. But he has won an open eye to see things as they are, A glory in God's meanest works which passeth fiction far. His ear is open to discern stirrings of angel wings, And angel whispers come to him from mute and common things. And Nature, ever meeting him with the same radiant face, And filling still her daily round with the old quiet grace, Is fresh and glorious as at first, and mightier far to bless, His youth's strong passion growing ripe in deep home-tenderness. And truths to which his childhood clung, like songs repeated often By the sweet voice of one we love, do but the surer soften. One thing he scorns with bitter scorn, the lived or spoken lie, Shall be renewed and perfected in heaven; ROME, March, 1847. HENRY FRANCIS LYTE (abridged). THE POET'S FOOD. THE poet does not dwell apart, enshrined in golden beams; He is not mailed from time's rude blows in a panoply of dreams. No Pegasus bears him aloft in pathways mid the clouds; But he must tread the common earth mingling in common crowds. He dwells not in fair solitudes a still and lone recluse ; But he must handle common tools to his di viner use. the inward eye, Is slow to brand his fellow-man as false, or base, or mean, Or aught which hath fed human hearts as common or unclean. Nature prepares no royal food for this her royal guest; No special banquet is for him at life's full table dressed. But all life's honest impulses, home joys, and cares, and tears, The shower of cordial laughter which the clouded bosom cheers, All earnest voices of his kind, calm thoughts of solitude, All of the world that is not husks, this is the poet's food. God's living poem speaks to him God-like in every line; Not all man's hackneyed renderings can make it less divine. MRS. ELIZABEth (Rundle) Charles. A POET'S PRAYER. - ALMIGHTY Father! let thy lowly child, Love for his sake the scenes where he hath been, And when he ends his pilgrimage of days, Who scorn the wind-flower's blush, the redbreast's lovely song. EBENEZER ELLIOTT. To be the thing that now I feebly dream Flashing within my faintest, deepest gleam. Ah, caverns of my soul! how thick your shade, Where flows that life by which I faintly see, O Time! O Death! I clasp you in my arms, morrow; Sweep on, O soft and azure-lidded sky, Earth's waters to your gentle gaze reply. I am not earth-born, though I here delay; WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING. ASPIRATION AND RESIGNATION. In life, in death, on earth, in heaven No other name for me! The same sweet style and title given Through all eternity. THOMAS HORNBLOWER GILL. THE HIGHER GOOD. THEODORE PARKER, an influential liberal theologian, was born at Lexington, Mass., Aug. 24, 1810, and died at Florence, Italy, May 10, 1860. He was a Unitarian minister, but a change came over his religious views and he res gned his charge. In 1864 he became pastor of an independent society, and preached in the Music Hall, Boston, to a large congregation as long as his health permitted. He was an enthusiastic and eloquent friend of freedom and of every movement for moral reform. FATHER, I will not ask for wealth or fame, Though once they would have joyed my car nal sense: I shudder not to bear a hated name, Wanting all wealth, myself my sole defence. But give me, Lord, eyes to behold the truth; A seeing sense that knows the eternal right; A heart with pity filled, and gentlest ruth; A manly faith that makes all darkness light: Give me the power to labor for mankind; Make me the mouth of such as cannot speak; Eyes let me be to groping men, and blind; A conscience to the base; and to the weak Let me be hands and feet; and to the foolish, mind; And lead still further on such as thy kingdom seek. 1849. THEODORE PARKER. GRAND DIEU, POUR TON. PLAISIR. WRITTEN DURING TEN YEARS' IMPRISONMENT IN THE BASTILE. GRAND Dieu, pour ton plaisir Je suis dans une cage; Je chante tout le jour, Tu l'entends, mon Seigneur, Cet amoureux langage, Ignoré du faux sage, Goûté du chaste cœur, Tu l'entends, mon Seigneur. Je vis en liberté, Quoique dans l'esclavage: Divine volonté, Que j'adore et que j'aime ! Tous biens sont en toi-même, De ton petit oiseau MAD ME GUYON. A LITTLE BIRD I AM. A FREE TRANSLATION OF THE PRECEDING POEM. A LITTLE bird I am, Shut from the fields of air, And in my cage I sit and sing To him who placed me there; Well pleased a prisoner to be, Because, my God, it pleases thee! Naught have I else to do, I sing the whole day long; And he whom most I love to please Doth listen to my song; 7 He caught and bound my wandering wing, But still he bends to hear me sing. Thou hast an ear to hear, A heart to love and bless; And, though my notes were e'er so rude, My cage confines me round: Abroad I cannot fly; |