It rain'd all day, and it rain'd all night;
It rain'd when morning broke,
It rain'd when the maiden went to sleep,
And it rain'd when she awoke.
Peevish and fretful the maiden grew,
When the hour of noon was gone;
But the merry clouds knew nothing of that,
And the rain kept pouring on.
The weather has got no business with us,
And we have none with the weather;
And temper and weather are different things,
But they always go together.
Oh! anger and beauty, my lady dear,
Will never agree to share
That little white brow that lifts its arch
Through the parting of thy hair.
The mists are strewn all over the hills,
And the valleys are ringing with floods;
And the heavy drops on the flat broad leaves
Are making strange sounds in the woods.
Angels are round thee and Heaven's above,
And thy soul is alive within;
Shall a rainy day and a cloudy sky
Make a Christian heart to sin?
O wait for the sunset's dusky gold
On the side of yon mountain glen,
And seek the lone seat where the foxgloves grow, And smile at thy folly then.
A LESSON ON CONTENTMENT;
OR, THE LITTLE TREE THAT WANTED TO HAVE OTHER LEAVES.
A LITTLE tree stood up in the wood,
In bright and dirty weather;
And nothing but needles it had for leaves
From top to bottom together.
The needles stuck about,
And the little tree spoke out:
"My companions all have leaves Beautiful to see,
"While I've nothing but these needles ;
No one touches me.
Might I have my fortune told,
All my leaves should be pure gold."
The little tree's asleep by dark,
Awake by earliest light;
And now its golden leaves you mark-
There was a sight!
The little tree says, "Now I'm set high;
No tree in the wood has gold leaves but I."
But now again the night came back;
Through the forest there walked a Jew,
With great thick beard and great thick sack,
And soon the golden leaves did view.
He pockets them all, and away does fare,
Leaving the little tree quite bare.
The little tree speaks up distressed:
"Those golden leaves how I lament!
I'm quite ashamed before the rest,
Such lovely dress to them is lent.
Might I bring one more wish to pass,
I would have my leaves of the clearest glass."
The little tree sleeps again at dark,
And wakes with the early light.
And now its glass leaves you may mark
There was a sight!
The little tree says,
"Now I'm right glad;
No tree in the wood is so brightly clad."
There came up now a mighty blast,
And a furious gale it blew;
It swept among the trees full fast,
And on the glass leaves it flew.
There lay the leaves of glass
All shivered on the grass.
The little tree complains:
'My glass lies on the ground; Each other tree remains
With its green dress all round.
Might I but have my wish once more,
I'd have of those green leaves good store."
Again asleep is the little tree,
And early wakes to the light;
He is covered with green leaves fair to see.
He laughs outright,
And says, "I am now all nicely drest,
Nor need be ashamed before the rest.”
And now, with udders full,
Forth a wild she-goat sprung,
Seeking for herbs to pull
To feed her young.
She sees the leaves, nor makes much talk,
But strips all clear to the very stalk.
The little tree again is bare,
And thus to himself he said, "No longer for such leaves I care,
Be they green, or yellow, or red: If I had but my needles again,
I would never more scold or complain."
The little tree slept sad that night,
And sadly opened his eye;
He sees himself in the sun's first light,
And laughs as he would die:
And all the trees in a roar burst out;
But the tree cared little for all their flout.
What made the little tree laugh like mad?
And what set the rest in a roar?
In a single night soon back he had
Every needle he had before;
And every body may see them such;
Go out and look, but do not touch.
How soft! how calm! what stillness breathes around,
Bidding each care, each earthly passion cease;
In gentle accents whispering from the ground
A grateful earnest of eternal peace.
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
SWEET Philomel! no more thy voice I hear
Warbling at eve to meet my pensive ear
As by thy wonted haunts again I rove;
Why art thou silent? Why so long delay
To charm with gentle song my cares away,
And fill with melody the leafy grove?
The shrill bat flutters by ;
from yon
dark tower
The shrieking owlet hails the shadowy hour;
Hoarse hums the beetle as he drones along
The task of love is done! Thy full-fledged brood
No longer need thy care to cull their food,
And nothing now remains to prompt thy song;
But drear and sullen seems the silent grove,
No more responsive to thy lay of love.
THE EVENING CLOUD.
A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
As now I watch'd its glory moving on,
Serene its spirit seem'd, and floated slow.
And such me-thought the pure departed soul,
To whose bright robe the gleam of bliss is given,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of heaven.
AN EMIGRANT'S THOUGHTS OF HOME.
WHEN pensive thoughts of life's young day,
Still sweetly in our memories dwell,
Though year on year have roll'd away
Since last we breathed our fond farewell;
Oh, then, at evening's silent hour,
May long-lost voices haunt our bow'r,
And fancy's echo sounding near,
Convey them to our listening ear!
Like the wild chime of village bells
Heard far away in mountain dells.
FAR, far, amid those distant seas
Where ev'ning leaves her latest smile,
Where solemn ocean's earliest breeze
Breathes peaceful o'er our holy isle;
Far from that vain distracted world,
Where care has rear'd her anxious throne,
With passion's ensign sweetly furl'd,
We live and breathe for Heaven alone.
Here fann'd by heav'nly temper'd winds,
Our island lifts her tranquil breast,
Oh! come to her, ye wounded minds,
Oh! come and share our holy rest!
When sinks the sun beyond the west,
Our vesper hymn salutes him there
And when he wakes the world from rest,
We meet his morning light with prayer.
To all the same returning light,
The same returning fervour brings;
And thoughtful in the dawning bright,
The spirit spreads her heav'nward wings.
How long shalt thou be thus divine,
Fair isle of piety and song;
How long those blissful days be thine,
Oh, land of peace and rest-how long?
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