In summer and winter that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air:
I love to see him track the street,
With his wary eye and active feet;
And I often watch him as he springs,
Circling the steeple with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has pass'd,
And the belfry edge is gain'd at last.
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There's a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel-
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.
Whatever is rung on that noisy bell-
Chime of the hour or funeral knell-
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon-
When the sexton cheerly rings for noon-
When the clock strikes clear at morning light-
When the child is waked with "nine at night"-
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer-
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,
He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smooth his breast,
Then drops again with filmed eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.
Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd like thee!
With wings to fly to wood and glen,
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men;
And daily, with unwilling feet,
I tread, like thee, the crowded street;
But, unlike me, when day is o'er,
Thou canst dismiss the world and soar,
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,
Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.
I LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,
And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray;
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, And makes his pulses fly,
To catch the thrill of a happy voice,
And the light of a pleasant eye.
I have walk'd the world for fourscore years; And they say that I am old,
That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are well-nigh told.
It is very true; it is very true;
I'm old, and "I 'bide my time :"
But my heart will leap at a scene like this, And I half renew my prime.
Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smother'd call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.
I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go;
For the world at best is a weary place,
And my pulse is getting low;
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
In treading its gloomy way;
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,
To see the young so gay.
It was a pleasant morning, in the time
When the leaves fall-and the bright sun shone out As when the morning stars first sang together
So quietly and calmly fell his light
Upon a world at rest. There was no leaf
In motion, and the loud winds slept, and all
Was still. The lab'ring herd was grazing
Upon the hill-side quietly-uncall'd
By the harsh voice of man; and distant sound,
Save from the murmuring waterfall, came not
As usual on the ear. One hour stole on,
And then another of the morning, calm
And still as Eden ere the birth of man.
And then broke in the Sabbath chime of bells-
And the old man, and his descendants, went
Together to the house of God. I join'd
The well-apparell'd crowd. The holy man
Rose solemnly, and breathed the prayer of faith-
And the gray saint, just on the wing for heaven-
And the fair maid-and the bright-hair'd young man-
And child of curling locks, just taught to close
The lash of its blue eye the while;-all knelt
In attitude of prayer-and then the hymn,
Sincere in its low melody, went up
To worship God.
The white-hair'd pastor rose
And look'd upon his flock-and with an eye
That told his interest, and voice that spoke
In tremulous accents, eloquence like Paul's,
He lent Isaiah's fire to the truths
Of revelation, and persuasion came
Like gushing waters from his lips, till hearts
Unused to bend were soften'd, and the eye
Unwont to weep sent forth the willing tear.
I went my way-but as I went, I thought
How holy was the Sabbath-day of God.
[Written to be sung at the consecration of Hanover-street Church, Boston.]
THE perfect world by Adam trod,
Was the first temple-built by God
His fiat laid the corner-stone,
And heaved its pillars, one by one.
He hung its starry roof on high-
The broad illimitable sky;
He spread its pavement, green and bright,
And curtain'd it with morning light.
The mountains in their places stood-
The sea-the sky-and "all was good;"
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