THE WONDERS OF THE LANE. By EBENEZER ELLIOTT, Corn-Law Rhymer. STRONG climber of the mountain's side, Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks But here the lizard seeks the sun, Its beauteous nest to make. For, oh! I love these banks of rock, This roof of sky and tree, These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock, And wakes the earliest bee! As spirits from eternal day Look down on earth, secure, Look here, and wonder, and survey A world in miniature; A world not scorn'd by Him who made But solemn in his depth of shade MY CHILD. The author of this touching poem is not known to us. It was cut from an old newspaper. I CANNOT make him dead! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair; The vision vanishes-he is not there! I walk my parlour floor, I heard a foot-fall on the chamber stair: To give the boy a call, And then bethink me that-he is not there! I thread the crowded street, A satchel'd lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and coloured hair; Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that he is not there! I know his face is hid, Closed are his eyes-cold is his forehead fair; O'er it in prayer I knelt, Yet my heart whisper'd that he is not there! I cannot make him dead! So long watch'd over by parental care, Seek it inquiringly, Before the thought comes that he is not there! When at the cool, gay break Of day from sleep I wake, When at first breathing of the morning air, To Him who gave my boy, Then comes the sad thought that he is not there! When at the day's calm close, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer; I am in spirit praying, For our boy's spirit-though he is not there! Not there!-where, then, is he? Was but the raiment that he used to wear; Is but his wardrobe lock'd-he is not there! He lives!-in all the past He lives!-nor to the last And on his angel brow I see it written "Thou shalt see me there! Yes, we all live to God! So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that-he is there. THE RAINBOW. By THOMAS CAMPBELL. THE evening was glorious, and light through the trees Play'd the sunshine and rain-drops, the birds and the breeze, The landscape, outstretching in loveliness, lay On the lap of the year, in the beauty of May. For the Queen of the Spring, as she pass'd down the vale, The skies, like a banner in sunset unroll'd, O'er the west threw their splendour of azure and gold, We gazed on the scenes, while around us they glow'd, Nor the moon, that rolls nightly through star-light and blue. Like a spirit it came in the van of a storm! And the eye and the heart hail'd its beautiful form, In the hues of its grandeur sublimely it stood, 'Twas the bow of Omnipotence; bent in His hand, Not dreadful, as when in the whirlwind He pleads, In the breath of His presence, when thousands expire, And vultures, and wolves, are the graves of the slain : Not such was the Rainbow, that beautiful one! Awhile, and it sweetly bent over the gloom, Like Love o'er a death-couch, or Hope o'er the tomb ; Then left the dark scene; whence it slowly retired, I gazed not alone on that source of my song; Like a visit the converse of friends—or a day, 'Tis a picture in memory distinctly defined, A Beheld on that cloud, and transcribed on my soul. TO THE DYING YEAR. By J. G. WHITTIER. AND thou, gray voyager to the breezeless sea Fresh from the hand of God! for thou hast done May dream of thy returning. Go! and bear Of worldly hearts; the miser's dream of gold; And the abiding curse. Ay, bear along Its last and faintest echo! Fare thee well! |