SHOW US THE FATHER.-JOHN xiv. 8.
HAVE ye not seen Him, when through parted snows
Wake the first kindlings of the vernal green?
When 'neath its modest veil the arbutus blows,
And the pure snowdrop bursts its folded screen? When the wild rose that knows no florist's care, Unfoldeth its rich leaves-have ye not seen him there?
Have ye not heard Him, when the tuneful rill
Casts off its icy chains, and leaps away
In thunders echoing loud from hill to hill?
In songs of birds, at break of summer's day?
Or in the ocean's everlasting roar,
Battling the old gray rocks, that sternly guard his shore?
Amid the stillness of the Sabbath-morn,
When vexing cares in tranquil slumber rest, When in the heart the holy thought is born,
And heaven's high impulse warms the waiting breast, Have ye not felt Him, while your kindling prayer
Swell'd out in tones of praise, announcing God was there?
Show us the Father! If ye fail to trace
His chariot where the stars majestic roll,
His pencil 'mid earth's loveliness and grace,
His presence in the sabbath of the soul-
How can ye see Him till the day of dread,
When to assembled worlds the book of doom is read?
THE AUTHORESS OF THE "MORAL OF FLOWERS."
"The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothings
A local habitation and a name."
" AND is it so?" the young aspirant cries,
"Ah! then, be mine the poet's glance of fire-
The frenzied bliss, the thrilling ecstasies—
The meed of him who wakes the living lyre.
E'er be it mine sweet Nature to admire
Unschool'd by laws of dull philosophy,
Which curb the spirit's flight, as doth the wire
The imprison'd bird, that else would soar on high,
And at heaven's portals drink light, life, and liberty.
"Let the moon look on me at midnight hour
With more than light-with love; still may I see
A friend to cheer and counsel in each flower;
Hear in each breeze a voice which speaks to me;
View in the babe that climbs the parent's knee
The embryo of a better race to come,
What time this earth, from sin and sorrow free,
A second paradise again shall bloom,
Nor prove, as now, to man—a prison and a tomb!"
Fond dreamer! pause! and ask, ere yet thy prayer
The Muse hath granted-ask the tuneful band,
If happier they her envied gifts who share
Than those who ply the loom, or till the land?
The subtle flame which by her breath is fann'd—
The high-wrought transports which to her they owe-
From grief's sharp pangs no respite can command :
Ah, no! if keen the bliss-keen is the wo,
And ever for one smile uncounted tears do flow!
Deem not the poet while entranced he drinks
The dewy fragrance of a rose new-born,
Feels only pleasure: with decay.he links
Its matchless charms, and gazes on its thorn
With morbid sadness! 'Tis his wont to scorn
Enjoyments common to th' unletter'd crowd:
Dearer to him than smile of summer morn
And cheerful song of birds, Eve's dusky shroud
When fall the yellow leaves, and autumn winds pipe loud.
Better to knit our sympathies with those
Who dwell around us, than in lonely pride
To stand aloof, and nurse fictitious woes,
Or rave of bliss to meaner souls denied.
Life has, alas! a never-failing tide
Of real grief, no living wight may shun—
And joys, like flowerets by the torrent's side,
Which follow in the rear of duties done
And hopes which ever gild those waters as they run.
There is a path-oh! better far I ween
Than that which leadeth to Parnassus' hill!-
A path, which not the vulture's eye hath seen,
And yet to all its gate stands open still.
Here flow, instead of Castaly's famed rill,
Waters of life and welcome free is given
To each who fain would taste-to drink his fill.
Strait seems that gate at first-the way uneven;
Yet enter and press on-pilgrim, its goal is Heaven!
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