But such laughter and scorn did her efforts produce,
All the birds in the air mocked the poor silly goose.
An owl who sat near, for 't was late in the day,
Did with wisdom and truth, and much gravity, say;
"By your freaks of ambition, and folly let loose,
You're not only no swan, but a very bad goose."
The wave is bluer than the sky;
And though the light shine bright on high,
More softly do the sea-gems glow
That sparkle in the depths below;
The rainbow's tints are only made,
When on the waters they are laid,
And sun and moon most sweetly shine
Upon the ocean's level brine?
There's beauty in the deep.
There's music in the deep:
It is not in the surf's rough roar,
Nor in the whispering shelly shore-
They are but earthly sounds, that tell
How little of the sea-nymph's shell,
That sends its loud, clear note abroad,
Or winds its softness through the flood,
Echoes through groves with coral gay,
And dies on spongy banks away.
There's beauty in the deep.
There's quiet in the deep:
Above, let tides and tempests rave,
And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave:
SUMMER MORNING.
Above, let care and fear contend
With sin and sorrow to the end:
Here, far beneath the tainted foam,
That frets above our peaceful home,
We dream in joy, and wake in love,
Nor know the rage that yells above.
There's quiet in the deep.
SUMMER MORNING.
SHORT is the doubtful empire of the night;
And soon, observant of approaching day,
The meek-eyed Morn appears, mother of dews,
At first faint gleaming in the dappled east ;
Till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow;
And, from before the lustre of her face,
White break the clouds away. With quickened step,
Brown Night retires: young Day pours in apace,
And opens all the lawny prospect wide.
The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top,
Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn.
Blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents shine,
And from the bladed field the fearful hare
Limps, awkward: while along the forest-glade
The wild deer trip, and often turning gaze
At early passenger. Music awakes
The native voice of undissembled joy;
And thick around the woodland hymns arise.
Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves
His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells ;
And from the crowded fold, in order drives
His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn,
THE trees were making each his boast
Of beauty, worth, and power;
Each vainly thought itself the most
Excelling shrub and flower.
The Cedar, of its firmness proud,
Its fragrance and duration,
Looked down upon the leafy crowd
Bold in its rank and station.
The Palm thus claimed from all, the meed
Of homage and of duty:
"In two great points I all exceed,
Utility and beauty."
The Fir, the Maple, and the Pine,
By strength of form protected,
Looked down with scorn upon the Vine,
Weak, helpless, and dejected.
"Alas! I own my feebleness;
No friend," she cried, "is near me ;
Oh! who will pity my distress?
Ah! naught have I to cheer me.
"No branch, no blossom, fruit or stem,
Like other trees possessing;
I sigh when I compare with them,—
Now, is it not distressing?
"But hold! I will not make complaint;
Submission has been taught me ;
And though neglected, weak, and faint,
Yet patience shall support me.
"On cheering hope my trust relies ;
I know, though long I've waited,
But for some purpose good and wise,
I ne'er had been created."
The Farmer saw the drooping vine,
And set it near his bower;
Supported there, it grew, to shine
In beauty, worth and power.
A clust'ring store, delicious wealth!
Its leaves were soon displaying,
With comfort, cheerfulness and health,
The farmer's care repaying.
For the rich treasure of the vine
Enlivens every station,
With its rich fruit and cheering wine;
Both good in moderation.
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