« AnteriorContinuar »
CONDITION OF MAN.
FORBEARANCE. All that is good and great in the universe is on the side of clemency and mercy. If we look into the history of mankind, we shall find that in every age, those who have been respected as worthy have been distinguished for this virtue.
Revenge dwells in little minds; a noble and magnanimous spirit is superior to it. Collected within itself, it stands unmoved by the impotent assaults of our enemies; and with generous pity, rather than with anger, looks down on their unworthy conduct.
Anger and revenge are uneasy passions; “hence,” says Seed,“ it appears that the command of loving your enemies, which has been thought a hard saying, and impossible to be fulfilled, is really no more when resolved into its first principles, than bidding us to be at peace with ourselves, which we cannot be, so long as we continue at enmity with others."
THE PRESENT CONDITION OF MAN VIN
TO A DEAR LITTLE BOY, AFTER AN IN
TERVAL OF ABSENCE.
With thy merry eyes and blue;
Oft its curtains peeping through ;
Thou wert wont to give me then ;
When 't was time for bed again.
When the dinner bustle 's o'er;
Or extract the apple's core;
Of barley sugar, comfits sweet ;
Vacant is thy wonted seat!
With thy query oft repeated;
Or beneath my table seated;
With a summer day's delight,
Sleep hath overpowered thee quite !
When brisk Punch is at the door;
Judy's wrongs can charm no more !
She may die, and he may flee;
What's the pageant now to me!
I miss thee from my side
When the light of day grows pale; When with eyelids opened wide,
Thou wouldst list the oft-told tale, And the murdered babes bewail ;
Yet so greedy of thy pain, That when all my lore would fail,
I must needs begin again. I miss thee from my side
In the haunts that late were thine; Where thy twinkling feet would glide,
And thy clasping fingers twine ;Here are checkered tumblers nine,
Silent relics of thy play ;Here the mimic tea-things shine,
Thou wouldst wash the livelong day!
Thy drum hangs on the wall;
The bird-organ sounds are o'er; Dogs and horses, great and small
Wanting some a leg or more ; Cow's and sheep, - a motley store
All are stabled near thy bed; And not one but can restore
Memories sweet of him that's fled!
I miss thee from my side,
hearth! Oft in secret I have sigh'd
For thy chirping voice of mirth : When the low-born cares of earth
Chill my heart, or dim my eye, Grief is stifled in its birth,
If my little prattler 's nigh!
I miss thee from my side,
With thy bright ingenuous smile ;
And the face no tears defile;
Hearts that prize thee fondly too ;
Cricket of my hearth, adieu !
THE FROZEN DOVE. Away from the path! silly dove,
Where the foot that may carelessly tread Will crush thee! What! dost thou not move ?
Alas! thou art stiffened and dead ! Allured by the brightness of day,
To sink mid the shadows of night, Too far from the cote thou didst stray,
And sadly hast ended thy flight ! For, thus, with the snow at thy breast,
With thy wing folded close to thy side, And couched in the semblance of rest,
Alone of the cold thou hast died !
Poor Bird! thou hast pictured the fate
Of inany in life's sunny day,
How fortune can smile to betray.
In a cold and a pitiless world, Bewilder'd and palsied, like thine,
Has the wing of the spirit been furl'd. The heart the most tender and light,
In its warmth to the earth has been thrown, With the chill of adversity's night,
To suffer and perish alone.
THE TURKEY AND THE ANT.
In other men, we faults can spy, And blame the mote that dims their eye, Each little speck and blemish find; To our own stronger errors blind. A turkey, tired of common food, Forsook the barn, and sought the wood; Behind her ran an infant train, Collecting here and there a grain. “ Draw near, my birds,” the mother cries, “ This hill delicious fare supplies. Behold the busy creeping race, See millions blacken all the place! Fear not, like me, with freedom eat; An ant is most delightful meat. How bless'd, how envied were our life, Could we but 'scape the poulterer's knife! But man, harsh man, on turkeys preys, And Christmas shortens all our days, Sometimes with oysters we combine, Sometimes assist the savory chine. From the low peasant to the lord. The turkey smokes on every board. Sure men for gluttony are curst, Of the seven deadly sins the worst.” An ant who climbed beyond his reach, Thus answered from the neighboring beech : “ Ere you remark another's sin, Bid thy own conscience look within. Control thy more voracious bill, Nor for a breakfast nations kill.”