But she with a heart untrained to cool Yon shepherd-boy, Who pipes for joy, May pipe perchance an hour a day. Hers will it be to fling the door Of gladness open to all the poor, And plant a rose or two here and there; Her loving hand Shall strew the land With the simple pleasures that all may share. Hers, too, to teach how treasure is lost That his neighbour's bees Might gather their honey there no more. Oh! beautiful vision, thanks to thee, Of Industry toiling its way to the tomb ! For a spirit is there In that greenwood fair, The limb to sustain and the mind to illume. Comfort thee, mourner! commonest things The loveliest forms are not the rarest, The garden shines More than the mines; To hope is to have-yet thou despairest ? Who cannot count, the dreariest here, The pleasure of others lessens our pain, And memory multiplies all again. Nature is kind! Shall we be blind, When even her dreams are not woven in vain ! 1836. THE YOUNG GLEANER. HER task had been a weary one, Yet looks she not forlorn. Her feet are sore, her limbs are weak, Although her task is done, although Her arms have dropped their yellow store, Her heart, untired, would freely go Back to the field for more. The spirit of the girl is glad, You see it looking through her eyes; Sweet Gleaner, she could not be sad Beneath such lovely skies. Though wide the field, though hot the ground, To gather up her golden spoil, While Heaven seemed smiling all around, Was pleasure more than toil. The morning breeze, the midday calm, The shower, the blue that o'er her shone, She felt them on her heart as balm, And sung and gathered on. To glean what those who gleaned before And now, what waits her homeward way? Oh! blest, midst those whom man's hard will Condemns to slavery's ceaseless care, Are ye who, task-worn, labour still Gleaner, thy grief may be assuaged, Compared with hers thy tasks are mild, That trampled flower, that bird encaged, The pent-up Factory child. SONG FOR SHAKSPEARE'S BIRTHDAY. April 23, 1836. AIR-Nora Creina. EVER Since the dawn of time, Have poets told their sylvan stories; Gemming life with truths sublime, And crowning man with living glories. Sweet their strains, but far less dear Than his to whom all shapes were given; Now a breathing violet here, And now a streaming star in Heaven. Oh! the vast, the varied mind, The all-encircling line of Shakspeare, Nature yet must feel regret At losing him-the gentle Shakspeare. Oh the brightest flame of life, It burns in those who most adore him ; Envy, hatred, gloom, and strife, Like snow melt all away before him. |