The children of man arise, and pass Out of the world like blades of grass ; And many a foot on me has trod, That's gone from sight and under the sod! I am a Pebble! but who art thou, Rattling along from the restless bough?"
The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute, And lay for a moment abashed and mute; She never before had been so near This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere ;And she felt for a while perplexed to know "How to answer a thing so low.
But to give reproof of a nobler sort Than the angry look, or the keen retort, At length she said, in a gentle tone, "Since it has happened that I am thrown From the lighter element, where I grew, Down to another so hard and new, And beside a personage so august, Abased I will cover my head with dust, And quickly retire from the sight of one Whom time nor season, nor storm nor sun, Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding wheel, Has ever subdued, or made to feel."
And soon in the earth she sunk away, From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay. But it was not long ere the soil was broke, By the peering head of an infant oak;
And as it arose, and its branches spread, The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said—
"A modest Acorn! never to tell
What was enclosed in her simple shell- That the pride of the forest was then shut up, Within the space of her little cup!
And meekly to sink in the darksome earth, To prove that nothing could hide her worth. And, oh! how many will tread on me, To come and adinire that beautiful tree, Whose head is towering towards the sky, Above such a worthless thing as I.
"Useless and vain, a cumberer here, I have been idling from year to year; But never from this shall a vaunting word From the humble Pebble again be heard, Till something without me, or within, Can show the purpose for which I've been !" The Pebble could not its vow forget, And it lies there wrapped in silence yet.
THE LOVE OF COUNTRY AND OF HOME.
THERE is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night; A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, Time-tutored age, and
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air; In every clime, the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole; For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace, The heritage of nature's noblest race, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While, in his softened looks, benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend. Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Strows with fresh flowers the narrow way of life; In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fire-side pleasures gambol at her feet. Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found? Art thou a man?-a patriot?-look around; Oh! thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land THY COUNTRY, and that spot THY HOME.
THE DYING GIRL'S LAMENT.
WHY does my mother steal away To hide her struggling tears? Her trembling touch betrays unchecked. The secret of her fears;
My father gazes on my face
With yearning, earnest eye;
And yet, there's none among them all, To tell me I must die!
My little sisters press around My sleepless couch, and bring, With eager hands, their garden gift, The first sweet buds of spring! I wish they'd lay me where those flowers Might lure them to my bed,
When other springs and summers bloom, And I am with the dead.
The sunshine quivers on my cheek, Glitt'ring, and gay, and fair, As if it knew my hand too weak To shade me from its glare! How soon 'twill fall unheeded on This death-dewed glassy eye! Why do they fear to tell me so? I know that I must die!
The summer winds breathe softly through
My lone, still, dreary room,
A lonelier and a stiller one
Awaits me in the tomb!
But no soft breeze will whisper there,
No mother hold my
It is a fearful thing to be
A dweller with the dead!
Eve after eve the sun prolongs His hour of parting light,
And seems to make my farewell hours Too fair, too heavenly bright!
I know the loveliness of earth, I love the evening sky,
And yet I should not murmur, They told me I must die.
My playmates turn aside their heads When parting with me now, The nurse that tended me a babe, Now soothes my aching brow. Ah! why are those sweet cradled-hours Of joy and fondling fled ?
Not e'en my parents' kisses now Could keep me from the dead!
Our pastor kneels beside me oft, And talks to me of heaven; But with a holier vision still, My soul in dreams hath striven; I've seen a beckoning hand that called
My faltering steps on high;
I've heard a voice that, trumpet-tongued,
Bade me prepare to die!
THE MARINER'S DREAM.
IN slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay, His hammoc✶ swung loose at the sport of the wind;
But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.
He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers, And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn; While memory each scene gayly covered with flow-
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.
* Hammoc, a kind of hanging bed, suspended by hooks, on board ships.
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