Poems of Nature, part 4, Snow Bound etc | Page 8

the isles of balm.
Better than self-indulgent years?The outflung heart of youth,?Than pleasant songs in idle ears?The tumult of the truth.
Rest for the weary hands is good,?And love for hearts that pine,?But let the manly habitude?Of upright souls be mine.
Let winds that blow from heaven refresh,?Dear Lord, the languid air;?And let the weakness of the flesh?Thy strength of spirit share.
And, if the eye must fail of light,?The ear forget to hear,?Make clearer still the spirit's sight,?More fine the inward ear!
Be near me in mine hours of need?To soothe, or cheer, or warn,?And down these slopes of sunset lead?As up the hills of morn!?1871.
RED RIDING-HOOD.
On the wide lawn the snow lay deep,?Ridged o'er with many a drifted heap;?The wind that through the pine-trees sung?The naked elm-boughs tossed and swung;?While, through the window, frosty-starred,?Against the sunset purple barred,?We saw the sombre crow flap by,?The hawk's gray fleck along the sky,?The crested blue-jay flitting swift,?The squirrel poising on the drift,?Erect, alert, his broad gray tail?Set to the north wind like a sail.
It came to pass, our little lass,?With flattened face against the glass,?And eyes in which the tender dew?Of pity shone, stood gazing through?The narrow space her rosy lips?Had melted from the frost's eclipse?"Oh, see," she cried, "the poor blue-jays!?What is it that the black crow says??The squirrel lifts his little legs?Because he has no hands, and begs;?He's asking for my nuts, I know?May I not feed them on the snow?"
Half lost within her boots, her head?Warm-sheltered in her hood of red,?Her plaid skirt close about her drawn,?She floundered down the wintry lawn;?Now struggling through the misty veil?Blown round her by the shrieking gale;?Now sinking in a drift so low?Her scarlet hood could scarcely show?Its dash of color on the snow.
She dropped for bird and beast forlorn?Her little store of nuts and corn,?And thus her timid guests bespoke?"Come, squirrel, from your hollow oak,--?Come, black old crow,--come, poor blue-jay,?Before your supper's blown away?Don't be afraid, we all are good;?And I'm mamma's Red Riding-Hood!"
O Thou whose care is over all,?Who heedest even the sparrow's fall,?Keep in the little maiden's breast?The pity which is now its guest!?Let not her cultured years make less?The childhood charm of tenderness,?But let her feel as well as know,?Nor harder with her polish grow!?Unmoved by sentimental grief?That wails along some printed leaf,?But, prompt with kindly word and deed?To own the claims of all who need,?Let the grown woman's self make good?The promise of Red Riding-Hood?1877.
RESPONSE.
On the occasion of my seventieth birthday in 1877, I was the recipient of many tokens of esteem. The publishers of the _Atlantic Monthly_ gave a dinner in my name, and the editor of _The Literary World_ gathered in his paper many affectionate messages from my associates in literature and the cause of human progress. The lines which follow were written in acknowledgment.
Beside that milestone where the level sun,?Nigh unto setting, sheds his last, low rays?On word and work irrevocably done,?Life's blending threads of good and ill outspun,?I hear, O friends! your words of cheer and praise,?Half doubtful if myself or otherwise.?Like him who, in the old Arabian joke,?A beggar slept and crowned Caliph woke.?Thanks not the less. With not unglad surprise?I see my life-work through your partial eyes;?Assured, in giving to my home-taught songs?A higher value than of right belongs,?You do but read between the written lines?The finer grace of unfulfilled designs.
AT EVENTIDE.
Poor and inadequate the shadow-play?Of gain and loss, of waking and of dream,?Against life's solemn background needs must seem?At this late hour. Yet, not unthankfully,?I call to mind the fountains by the way,?The breath of flowers, the bird-song on the spray,?Dear friends, sweet human loves, the joy of giving?And of receiving, the great boon of living?In grand historic years when Liberty?Had need of word and work, quick sympathies?For all who fail and suffer, song's relief,?Nature's uncloying loveliness; and chief,?The kind restraining hand of Providence,?The inward witness, the assuring sense?Of an Eternal Good which overlies?The sorrow of the world, Love which outlives?All sin and wrong, Compassion which forgives?To the uttermost, and Justice whose clear eyes?Through lapse and failure look to the intent,?And judge our frailty by the life we meant.?1878.
VOYAGE OF THE JETTIE.
The picturesquely situated Wayside Inn at West Ossipee, N. H., is now in ashes; and to its former guests these somewhat careless rhymes may be a not unwelcome reminder of pleasant summers and autumns on the banks of the Bearcamp and Chocorua. To the author himself they have a special interest from the fact that they were written, or improvised, under the eye and for the amusement of a beloved invalid friend whose last earthly sunsets faded from the mountain ranges of Ossipee and Sandwich.
A shallow stream, from fountains?Deep in the Sandwich mountains,?Ran lake ward Bearcamp River;?And, between its flood-torn shores,?Sped by sail or urged by oars?No keel had vexed it ever.
Alone the dead