Beneath a green and mossy bank
There flows a clear and fairy stream;
There the pert squirrel oft has drank,
And thought, perhaps, 'twas made for him.
Their pitchers there the laborers fill,
As drop by drop the crystals flow,
Singing their silvery welcome still
To all who to the fountain go.
Then to the river on it glides,
Its tributary drop to bear,
Its modest head a moment hides,
Then rises up and sparkles there.
The touching lesson on my heart
Falls like the gentle dews of heaven,
Bids me with humble love impart
The little treasure God has given.
For from a source as small as this
Full many a cup of joy may flow,
And on the stream of human bliss
Its little ray of gladness throw.
THE LITTLE BOY'S MAY-DAY SONG.
"The flowers are blooming everywhere,
On every hill and dell,
And O, how beautiful they are!
How sweetly, too, they smell!
"The little brooks, they dance along,
And look so glad and gay;
I love to hear their pleasant song,
I feel as glad as they.
"The young lambs bleat and frisk about,
The bees hum round their hive,
The butterflies are coming out,—
'Tis good to be alive.
"The trees that looked so stiff and gray
With green wreaths now are hung;
O mother! let me laugh and play,
I cannot hold my tongue.
"See yonder bird spread out his wings,
And mount the clear blue skies;
And hark! how merrily he sings,
As far away he flies."
"Go forth, my child, and laugh and play,
And let your cheerful voice,
With birds, and brooks, and merry May,
Cry loud, Rejoice! rejoice!
"I would not check your bounding mirth,
My little happy boy,
For He who made this blooming earth
Smiles on an infant's joy."
GUESS WHAT I HAVE HEARD.
Dear mother, guess what I have heard!
O, it will soon be spring!
I'm sure it was a little bird,—
Mother, I heard him sing.
Look at this little piece of green
That peeps out from the snow,
As if it wanted to be seen,—
'Twill soon be spring, I know.
And O, come here, come here and look!
How fast it runs along!—
Here is a cunning little brook;
O, hear its pretty song!
I know 'tis glad the winter's gone
That kept it all so still,
For now it merrily runs on,
And goes just where it will.
I feel just like the brook, I know;
It says, it seems to me,—
"Good by, cold weather, ice, and snow;
Now girls and brooks are free."
I love to think of what you said,
Mother, to me last night,
Of this great world that God has made,
So beautiful and bright.
And now it is the happy spring
No naughty thing I'll do;
I would not be the only thing
That is not happy, too.
SPRING.
Hark! the little birds are singing,—
Winter's gone and summer's near;
See, the tender grass is springing,
And the flowers will soon be here.
Who made the winter and the spring?
Who painted all the flowers?
Who taught the little birds to sing,
And made these hearts of ours?
O, 'tis God! how good he is!
He does every blessing give;
All this happy world is his,—
Let us love him while we live.
THE LITTLE BOY'S GOOD-NIGHT.
The sun is hidden from our sight,
The birds are sleeping sound;
'Tis time to say to all, "Good night!"
And give a kiss all round.
Good night! my father, mother, dear,
Now kiss your little son;
Good night! my friends, both far and near,
Good night to every one.
Good night! ye merry, merry birds,
Sleep well till morning light;
Perhaps if you could sing in words,
You would have said, "Good night!"
To all my pretty flowers, good night!
You blossom while I sleep;
And all the stars, that shine so bright,
With you their watches keep.
The moon is lighting up the skies,
The stars are sparkling there;
'Tis time to shut our weary eyes,
And say our evening prayer.
THE SHEPHERD'S SABBATH-SONG.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.
This is the Sabbath day!
In the wide field I am alone.
Hark! now one morning bell's sweet tone,—
Now it has died away.
Kneeling I worship Thee;
Sweet dread doth o'er my spirit steal,
From whispering sounds of those who kneel,
Unseen, to pray with me.
Around and far away,
So clear and solemn is the sky,
It seems all opening to my eye;
This is the Sabbath day!
TO SPRING.
Hail! reviving, joyous Spring,
Smiling through thy veil of showers;
Birds and brooks thy welcome sing,—
Haste, and waken all thy flowers.
Hark! a sweet pervading sound!
From the breathing, moving earth
Life is starting all around,
Sending joy and fragrance forth.
O'er the oak's gigantic form
Blossoms hang their drapery;
Branches that defied the storm
Now are full of melody.
There is not a silent thing
In this joyous company;
Woods, and hills, and valleys ring
With a shout of jubilee.
Wake, my spirit! art thou still?
Senseless things have found a voice;
Shall this throbbing heart be still,
When all nature cries, "Rejoice"?
Wake, come forth, my bounding soul!
Join the universal glee,
Yield to nature's kind control,
Catch her heavenly harmony.
Join the grateful, happy throng,
Cast each selfish care away;
Birds and brooks shall tune your song;
This is nature's holiday.
HER VOYAGE IS AT AN END.
Hushed was the ocean's stormy roar,
Still as an infant's joy;
There sat upon the rocky shore
A father and his boy.
Far off they saw a gallant ship,
It came from foreign lands;
The boy began to dance and skip,
And clap his little hands.
Her wished-for port is near at hand,
The ship is hastening on;
They hear the birds sing on the land;
Her voyage is nearly done.
The boy's glad notes, his shouts of glee,
The rocks with music fill;
But now he cries,—"See, father, see!
The ship is standing still."
Her masts are trembling from the shock.
Her white sails all descend;
The ship has struck upon a rock,—
Her voyage is at an end.
The sailors hurry to and fro,
All crowded is the deck;
She struggles hard,—she's free;—O, no!
She is indeed a wreck.
The boy's young heart is full of grief:
"Father! what will she do?
Let's take the boat to her relief,
O, quickly let us go!"
They went,—and many a stronger hand
Its ready succour gave;
They brought the crew all safe to land,
And the cargo tried to save.
The night comes on, the night is dark,
More dark the billows seem;
They break against the ship, and hark!
The seamew's mournful scream.
The boy upon his pillow lies,
In sweet repose he sinks;
And, as he shuts his weary eyes,
On the poor ship he thinks.
The sun shines o'er the watery main
As it did the day before;
The father and his son again
Are seated on the shore.
With the western wind full many a boat
Their white sails gayly fill,
They lightly o'er the blue waves float,—
But the gallant ship is still.
The sailors now the mournful wreck
Of masts and rigging strip;
The waves are playing o'er the deck
Of the sad and ruined ship.
A crow upon the top branch stood
Of a lone and blasted tree;
He seemed to look upon the flood
With a gloomy sympathy.
The boy now looks up at the bird,
At the sinking vessel now;
He does not speak a single word.
But a shade is on his brow.
Now slowly comes a towering wave,
And sweeps with triumph on;
It bears her to her watery grave,—
The gallant ship is gone.
Hushed is the ocean's stormy roar,
Still as an infant's joy;
The father sits upon the shore
In silence with his boy.
Cohasset Shore, July, 1831.
CHARLEY AND HIS FATHER.
A BALLAD.
The birds are flown away,
The flowers are dead and gone,
The clouds look cold and gray
Around the setting sun.
The trees with solemn sighs
Their naked branches swing;
The winter winds arise,
And mournfully they sing.
Upon his father's knee
Was Charley's happy place,
And very thoughtfully
He looked up in his face;
And these his simple words:—
"Father, how cold it blows!
What 'comes of all the birds
Amidst the storms and snows?"
"They fly far, far away
From storms, and snows, and rain;
But, Charley dear, next May
They'll all come back again."
"And will my flowers come, too?"
The little fellow said,
"And all be bright and new,
That now looks cold and dead?"
"O, yes, dear; in the spring
The flowers will all revive,
The birds return and sing,
And all be made alive."
"Who shows the birds the way,
Father, that they must go?
And brings them back in May,
When there is no more snow?
"And when no flower is seen
Upon the hill and plain,
Who'll make it all so green,
And bring the flowers again?"
"My son, there is a Power
That none of us can see
Takes care of every flower,
Gives life to every tree.
"He through the pathless air
Shows little birds their way;
And we, too, are his care,—
He guards us day by day."
"Father, when people die,
Will they come back in May?"
Tears were in Charley's eye,—
"Will they, dear father, say?"
"No! they will never come;
We go to them, my boy,
There, in our heavenly home,
To meet in endless joy."
Upon his father's knee
Still Charley kept his place,
And very thoughtfully
He looked up in his face.
REMEMBER THE SLAVE.
Mother! whene'er around your child
You clasp your arms in love,
And when, with grateful joy, you raise
Your eyes to God above,
Think of the negro mother, when
Her child is torn away,
Sold for a little slave,—O, then
For that poor mother pray!
Father! whene'er your happy boys
You look upon with pride,
And pray to see them when you're old,
All blooming by your side,
Think of that father's withered heart,
The father of a slave,
Who asks a pitying God to give
His little son a grave.
Brothers and sisters! who with joy
Meet round the social hearth,
And talk of home and happy days,
And laugh in careless mirth,
Remember, too, the poor young slave,
Who never felt your joy,
Who, early old, has never known
The bliss to be a boy.
Ye Christians! ministers of Him
Who came to make men free,
When, at the Almighty Maker's throne,
You bend the suppliant knee,
From the deep fountains of your soul
Then let your prayers ascend
For the poor slave, who hardly knows
That God is still his friend.
Let all who know that God is just,
That Jesus came to save,
Unite in the most holy cause
Of the forsaken slave.
HOME-SICKNESS.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.
Were I a wild, wild falcon,
I'd soar away on high,
And seek my father's dwelling,
Beyond the far blue sky.
Against that well-known door then
I'd flap my wings with joy;
My mother from the window
Sees and admits her boy.
"Dear son!" she'd say; "O, welcome!
How often has my heart
Longed sadly to embrace thee;
Now here behold thou art!"
Thus memory still is dreaming
Of what can never be.
My long-lost home,—the loved ones,—
These eyes may never see.
HAPPINESS.
What is it makes the morning bright?
What gilds the evening hours?
What makes our hearts seem gay and light,
As if we trod on flowers?
'Tis innocence that makes us gay,
Bids flowers grow everywhere;
Makes it bright sunshine every day.
And every evening fair.
What makes us, when we look above,
See smiling angels there,
And think they look on us in love,
As if we were their care?
'Tis that the soul, all free from sin,
Glows like an inward sun;
And heaven above and heaven within
Do meet and join in one.
CHILDREN IN SLAVERY.
When children play the livelong day,
Like birds and butterflies,
As free and gay sport life away,
And know not care nor sighs;
Then earth and air seem fresh and fair,
All peace below, above;
Life's flowers are there, and everywhere
Is innocence and love.
When children pray with fear all day,
A blight must be at hand;
Then joys decay, and birds of prey
Are hovering o'er the land.
When young hearts weep as they go to sleep,
Then all the world seems sad;
The flesh must creep, and woes are deep,
When children are not glad.
TO GOOD RESOLUTIONS.
How like the morning flower ye are!
Which lifts its diamond head,
Exulting in the mead;
But the rude wind shall steal its gem,
Shall break its tender stem,
And leave it dead.
Frail pledges of the contrite heart,
Wherefore so soon decay?
O, yet prolong your stay!
Until my soul shall boldly rise,
And claim its native skies,
Haste not away.
THANKS FOR A PLEASANT DAY.
Come, let us all, with heart and voice,
To God our Father sing and pray;
In his unceasing love rejoice,
And thank him for this pleasant day.
The clear blue sky looks full of love;
Let all our selfish passions cease!
O, let us lift our thoughts above,
Where all is brightness, goodness, peace.
If we have done a brother wrong,
O, let us seek to be forgiven;
Nor let one discord spoil the song
Our hearts would raise this day to heaven.
This blessed day, when the pure air
Is full of sweetness, full of joy,—
When all around is calm and fair,—
Shall we the harmony destroy?
O, may it be our earnest care
To free our souls from every sin;
Then will each day be bright and fair,
For God's pure sunshine dwells within.
TO A BUTTERFLY.
[Those who are acquainted with this little poem, translated
from Herder, will perceive that a slight liberty has been
taken with the last two lines.]
Airy, lovely, heavenly thing!
Butterfly with quivering wing!
Hovering in thy transient hour
Over every bush and flower,
Feasting upon flowers and dew,
Thyself a brilliant blossom, too!
Who, with skilful fingers fine,
Purpled o'er those wings of thine?
Was it some sylph whose tender care
Spangled thy robes so fine and fair,
And wove them of the morning air?
I feel thy little throbbing heart;
Thou fear'st e'en now death's bitter smart.
Fly, little spirit, fly away!
Be free and joyful thy short day!
Image thou dost seem to me
Of that which I may one day be,
When I shall drop this robe of earth,
And wake into a spirit's birth.
TO NATURE.
FROM THE GERMAN OF FREDERICK LEOPOLD, COUNT OF STALBERG.
Holy nature! fresh and free,
Let me ever follow thee;
By the hand, O, lead me still,
Like a child, at thy sweet will.
When with weariness oppressed,
I will on thy bosom rest,
Breathe in pleasure from above,
In thy mother-arms of love.
O, how well it is for me
Thee to love, with thee to be!
Holy nature! sweet and free,
Let me ever follow thee.
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG COMPANION.
Farewell for a time!
Thou hast gone to that clime
Where sickness and sorrow are o'er.
We loved thee when here,
We shed the sad tear
To think we shall see thee no more.
We weep not for thee,
We remember that He
Who made little children his care
In his own fatherland
Will reach you his hand,
And comfort and welcome you there.
Our tears they will flow;
But do we not know
That thou art released from all pain?
Then weep not; for He
Who walked on the sea
Has said we shall all live again.
THE SABBATH IS HERE.
FROM KRUMACHER.
The Sabbath is here, it is sent us from heaven;
Rest, rest, toilsome life,
Be silent all strife,
Let us stop on our way,
And give thanks and pray
To Him who all things has given.
The Sabbath is here, to the fields let us go;
How fresh and how fair!
In the still morning air,
The bright golden grain
Waves over the plain;
It is God who doth all this bestow.
The Sabbath is here; on this blessed morn
No tired ox moans,
No creaking wheel groans,
At rest is the plough;
No noise is heard now,
Save the sound of the rustling corn.
The Sabbath is here; our seed we have sown
In hope and in faith;
The Father he saith
Amen! Be it so!
Behold the corn grow!
Rejoicing his goodness we'll own.
The Sabbath is here; His love we will sing
Who sendeth the rain
Upon the young grain.
And soon all around
The sickle will sound.
And home the bright sheaves we will bring.
The Sabbath is here; in hope and in love
We sow in the dust,
While humbly we trust
Up yonder shall grow
The seed which we sow,
And bloom a bright garland above.
THE CHILD AT HER MOTHER'S GRAVE.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.
In that little room of thine,
Sweet sleep has come to thee;
Ah, mother! dearest mother mine!
O, call me to that room of thine!
O, shut it not from me!
I would so gladly be with thee,
And be thy child again;
'Tis cold and stormy here with me,
'Tis warm, and, O, so still with thee!
Ah! let me, let me in!
Thou took'st me gladly once with thee,
So gladly held my hand;
O, see, thou hast forsaken me!
Take me this time again with thee
Into the heavenly land.
CHILD'S SONG.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.
When at night I go to sleep,
Fourteen angels are at hand;—
Two on my right their watches keep;
Two on my left to bless me stand;
Two hover gently o'er my head;
Two guard the foot of my small bed;
Two wake me with the sun's first ray;
Two dress me nicely every day;
Two guide me on the heavenly road,
That leads to paradise and God.
TO A FOUNTAIN.
FROM THE GERMAN OF RAMLER.
Lo! this fount is flowing ever;
But the fountain prattles never.
Traveller! at this fountain stay;
Learn of it, with pure endeavour,
Good to do, and nothing say.
SONG FOR AN INFANT SCHOOL.
Children go
To and fro,
In a merry, pretty row,
Footsteps light,
Faces bright;
'Tis a happy sight.
Swiftly turning round and round,
Do not look upon the ground.
Follow me,
Full of glee,
Singing merrily.
Birds are free,
So are we;
And we live as happily.
Work we do,
Study too,
For we learn "twice two";
Then we laugh, and dance, and sing,
Gay as birds or any thing.
Follow me,
Full of glee,
Singing merrily.
Work is done,
Play's begun;
Now we have our laugh and fun.
Happy days,
Pretty plays,
And no naughty ways.
Holding fast each other's hand,
We're a little happy band;
Follow me,
Full of glee,
Singing merrily.
THE SUMMER.
A FREE TRANSLATION OF A GERMAN POPULAR SONG.
Go forth, my heart, and seek the bliss
Of such a summer day as this,
Bestowed on all by Heaven;
The beauties of the garden see,
Behold! it is for thee and me
Its glories all are given.
The trees with whispering leaves are dressed,
The earth upon her dusky breast
Her robe of green is wearing;
The flowers are blooming far and wide,—
Not Solomon in all his pride
With them would bear comparing.
The dove from out her nest doth fly;
Far upward in the clear blue sky
The lark her way is winging;
Hark to the lovely nightingale!
With her sweet song each hill and dale,
And woods and rocks, are ringing.
The hen brings out her little brood,
The swallow finds her young ones food,
The stork her house is keeping.
The bounding stag, the timid roe,
Are full of joy, and to and fro,
Through the high grass, are leaping.
The brook is tinkling as it goes,
And with the myrtle and the rose
Its shady banks adorning;
While, from the flowery mead near by,
The sheep and shepherd's joyful cry
Salutes the early morning.
The never idle troops of bees
Fly here and there, and where they please
Their honey food are quaffing;
The sap is running up the vine,
Round the old elm its tendrils twine,
And in the sun are laughing.
And can I, may I, silent be?
When all God's glorious works I see
My soul desires to know him.
When all are singing I must sing,
And to the Highest I must bring
The tribute which I owe him.
Are all things here so bright and fair,
And has he with a loving care
My happy being given?
What, in the glorious world above,
Where all is beauty, all is love,—
What shall I be in heaven?
O, were I there! O, stood I now
In that great Presence! there to bow
In grateful love before him,
Then would I with the angels raise
One never-ending song of praise,
And worship and adore him!
TO A BEAUTIFUL GIRL.
Sweet flower! so young, so fresh, so fair,
Bright pleasure sparkling in thine eye,
Alas! e'en thee time will not spare,
And thou must die.
The heart with youthful hope so gay,
That scarcely ever breathed a sigh,
Must weep o'er pleasures fled away,
For all must die.
But though the rosy cheek may fade,
The virtuous wish, the purpose high,
The bloom with which the soul's arrayed,
Shall never die.
THE LITTLE SLAVE'S WISH.
I wish I was that little bird
Up in the bright blue sky,
That sings and flies just where he will,
And no one asks him why.
I wish I was that little brook
That runs so swift along,
Through pretty flowers, and shining stones,
Singing a merry song.
I wish I was a butterfly,
Without a fear or care,
Spreading my many-colored wings,
Like a flower in the air.
I wish I was that wild, wild deer,
That I saw the other day,
Who through the dark green forest flew,
Like an arrow far away.
I wish I was that little cloud
By the gentle south-wind driven,
Floating along so calm and bright
Up to the gates of heaven.
I'd rather be a savage beast,
And dwell in a gloomy cave,
And shake the forest when I roared,
Than what I am,—a slave.
My mother calls me her good boy,
My father calls me brave;
What wicked action have I done
That I should be a slave?
They tell me God is very good.
That his right arm can save;
O, is it, can it, be his will
That I should be a slave?
O, how much better 'tis to die,
And lie down in the grave,
Than 'tis to be what I am now,—
A little negro slave!