Differing in this, that I
Sleeping shall be colder,
And in waking presently,
Brighter to beholder.
Differing in this beside;
Sleeper, have you heard me?
Do you move and open wide
Eyes of wonder toward me?
That while I you thus recall
From your sleep, I solely,
Me, from mine, an angel shall
With reveille holy.
O, unexpected stroke, worse than death!
Must I thus leave thee, Paradise! thus leave
Thee, native soil! these happy walks and shades,
Fit haunt of gods! where I had hoped to spend,
Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day
That must be mortal to us both. O flowers,
That never will in other climate grow,
My early visitation, and my last
At even, which I bred up, with tender hand,
From the first opening bud, and gave ye names !
Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank
Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount!.
Thee, lastly, nuptial bower! by me adorned
With what to sight or smell was sweet! from thee
How shall I part, and whither wander down
Into a lower world; to this obscure
How shall we breathe in other air Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits!
Whom thus the angel interrupted mild:
Lament not, Eve, but patiently resign
What justly thou hast lost; nor set thy heart,
Thus over-fond on that which is not thine:
Thy going is not lonely; with thee goes
Thy husband; him to follow thou art bound;
Where he abides, think there thy native soil.
NEW YEAR'S EVE.
Little Gretchen, little Gretchen,
Wanders up and down the street,
The snow is on her yellow hair,
The frost is on her feet.
The rows of long dark houses
Without look cold and damp,
By the struggling of the moonbeam,
By the flicker of the lamp.
The clouds ride fast as horses,
The wind is from the north,
But no one cares for Gretchen,
And no one looketh forth.
Within those dark damp houses
Are merry faces bright,
And happy hearts are watching out
The Old Year's latest night.
The board is spread with plenty,
Where the smiling kindred meet,
But the frost is on the pavement,
And the beggars in the street.
With the little box of matches,
She could not sell all day,
And the thin, thin tattered mantle
The wind blows every way.
She clingeth to the railing,
She shivers in the gloom;
There are parents sitting snugly
By fire-light in the room;
And groups of busy children,
Withdrawing just the tips
Of busy fingers, pressed in vain
Against their burning lips—
With grave and earnest faces,
And whispering to each other
Of presents for the New Year, made
For father or for mother.
But no one talks to Gretchen,
And no one hears her speak;
No breath of little whisperers
Comes warmly to her cheek.
No little arms are 'round her;
Ah me! that there should be,
With so much happiness on earth,
So much of misery.
Sure they of many blessings
Should scatter blessings 'round, As laden boughs in autumn fling Their ripe fruit on the ground.
And the best love man can offer
To the God of love, be sure,
Is kindness to his little ones,
And bounty to his poor.
Little Gretchen, little Gretchen,
Goes coldly on her way;
There's no one looketh at her,
There's no one bids her stay.
Her home is cold and desolate,
No smile, no food, no fire;
But children clamorous for bread,
And an impatient sire.
So she sits down in an angle,
Where two great houses meet,
And she curleth up beneath her,
For warmth, her little feet.
She could smell the fragrant savor, She could hear what they did say ; Then all was darkness once again, The match had burned away.
She struck another hastily,
And now she seemed to see
Within the same warm chamber,
A glorious Christmas tree.
The branches were all laden
With such things as children prize, Bright gifts for boy and maiden, She saw them with her eyes.
And she almost seemed to touch them;
And to join the welcome shout.
When darkness fell around her,
For the little match was out.
Another, yet another she
Has tried; they will not light, Till all her little stock she took, And struck with all her might,
And the whole miserable place
Was lighted with their glare,
And lo! there hung a little child
Before her in the air,
Who was poor, and cold, and hungry,
And desolate and lone,
And she thought the song had told
He was ever with his own,
And all the poor and hungry,
And forsaken ones, are his;
How good of him to look on me,
In such a place as this.
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