And he, the pastor of a christian flock, Of all men hath the greatest need of love, To keep his thoughts, his hopes, his heart at home.If human speech have aught of holiness, Tis all comprised in three thrice-holy names Of Father, Husband, Minister of Christ :- That name is Mother. Dearest sister, I Am one of whom thou doubtless hast heard much- By lips that fain would praise, and ever bless me. Doubts not the will and potency of God To change, invigorate, and purify The self-condemning heart. Good night:-e'en now Perhaps thou art sleeping by my brother's side, And sore perplexity of roving dreams, The spectres manifold of murdered hours :- A MEDLEY. SHALL I sing of little rills, That trickle down the yellow hills, Rills, upon whose pebbly brink, Darting upwards to the sky The artless cunning of their eye; Then away, away, away— Up to the clouds that look so grey— Away, away, in the clear blue heaven, Far o'er the thin mist that beneath is driven : Now they sink, and now they soar, Now poised upon the plumy oar, If I err not-no-no-no Soar they high, or skim they low, His heart beside the mountain rill. What if we have lost the creed, Which thought the brook a God indeed? Or a flood of passionate tears, Or imagined, in the lymph, That dream'd of nought but lust and rage, Is sweeter in the lonely dell, Than the quaint fable of the wood-god's lay, Ah! never, never may the thought be mine, Which in the thunder, heard a voice of anger, In every moaning of the voiceful floods, The happy, happy faith, That in deep silence hymning saith That every little rill, And every small bird, trilling joyfully, Tells a sweet tale of hope, and love, and peace, Bidding to cease The heart's sharp pangs, aye throbbing woefully. Or shall I sing of happy hours, Number'd by opening and by closing flowers? Softly heard in leafy bowers, Blent with the whisper of the vine, The half-blush of the eglantine, And the pure sweetness of the jessamine : What is it those sighs confess? Idle are they, as I guess, And yet they tell, all is not well :- Then away to the meadows, where April's swift shadows Glide soft o'er the vernal bright patches of green, Like waves on the ocean, the wheat blades in motion, Look blither, and brighter, where sunbeams have been; So little, little joys on earth, Passing gleams of restless mirth Momentary fits of laughter Still bequeath a blessing after- At the instant of their birth: Such themes I sang-and such I fain would sing, Oft as the green buds show the summer near;— But what availeth me to welcome spring, When one dull winter is my total year. When the pure snow-drops couch beneath the snow, And storms long tarrying, come too soon at last, |