Imatges de pÓgina

If one were gay, through both their hearts

The tide of rapture rushed;

If one were sad, the voice of joy

In both their hearts was hushed; Yea, all their hearts and sympathies From the same fountain gushed. They had no separate interests, Affecting one alone,

To them distrust and selfishness

Were utterly unknown,

Their hearts were two sweet instruments
Alike in every tone.

I saw them first one summer's day,
They were but six years old,
Wreathing each others hair with flowers,
Crimson and blue and gold,
And finding in their hues and sweets
A store of wealth untold.

And then in childish waywardness
They left their flowers to die,

And round and round the garden chased
A gorgeous butterfly.

Oh! what a happy shout they raised
When it soared into the sky.

And then they talked of future days,
And then they checked their pace,
And spake in low and earnest tones,
And with an earnest face,

Until another butterfly

Recalled them to the chase.

At length they set them down to rest
In a bower of cypress trees,
And placed a pretty story book
Before them on their knees,
And they read an old sad melody,
And their hearts were ill at ease.

And sadness settled like a cloud
Where smiles were wont to brood,
And within bright and laughing eyes
The tears of pity stood,

And they looked in each others face and said, 'Poor children in the wood.'

They were happy all the summer day,
And happier far at night,

When they knelt to say their evening prayers
With spirits pure and bright,

And the father and mother kissed their babes,
It was a blessed sight.

The morrow I was far away,
Musing with many fears,

How those sweet creatures would be changed
In ten or twenty years,

And I thought about their sweet good night, Till my heart was moved to tears.



Now the golden morn aloft

Waves her dew bespangled wing With vermeil cheek, and whisper soft, She woos the tardy spring; Till April starts, and calls around The sleeping fragrance of the ground, And lightly o'er the living scene Scatters her freshest, tenderest green.

New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Frisking, ply their nimble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance,
The birds his presence greet;
But chief the sky-lark warbles high
His trembling, thrilling ecstacy;
And lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.

Yesterday the sullen year

Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; Mute was the music of the air, The herd stood drooping by ; Their raptures now, that wildly flow, No yesterday nor morrow know; 'Tis man alone, that joy descries With forward and reverted eyes.

Smiles on past misfortune's brow,
Soft reflection's hand can trace,
And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw
A melancholy grace.

While hope prolongs our happier hour;
Or deepest shades, that dimly lour
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.

Still, where rosy pleasure leads,
See a kindred grief pursue;
Behind the steps that misery treads,
Approaching comfort view:
The lines of bliss more brightly glow,
Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe;
And blended, form with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.

See the wretch that long has toss'd
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigor lost,
And breathe, and walk again;
The meanest flow'ret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.


Miss Pardue.

[A recent traveller in Turkey describes an interesting ceremony witnessed by her, performed at a time of excessive drought. At dusk, the village children, walking two and two, and each carrying a bunch of flowers, drew near the cistern in their turn, and sang, to one of the thrilling melodies of the country, a hymn of supplication."]

ALLAH! Father! hear us;

Our souls are faint and weak:
A cloud is on our mother's brow,
A tear upon her cheek;

We fain would chase that cloud away,
And stay that sadd'ning tear;
For this it is to-night we pray-
Allah! Father! hear!

We seek the cooling fountain,

Alas! we seek in vain ;

The cloud that crowns the mountain

Melts not away in rain;

The stream is shrunk which thro' our plain
Once glided bright and clear;

Oh! ope the secret springs again—

Allah! Father! hear!

We bring thee flowers, sweet flowers,
All withered in their prime;
No moisture glistens on their leaves;
They sickened ere their time.

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