Mother's Dream and Other Poems

MY HEAD

“The day is come I never thought to see!Strange revolutions of my farm and me.”Dryden’s Virgil.My head! my head! the day is comeI never, never thought to see;When all, with fingers and a thumb,May to thy chambers have a key!That is, if thou wouldst but submitTo come beneath the learned touch,And let the judge in judgment sitUpon thy bumps, that prove so much.I used to think our heads might letTheir own contents, at will, be shown;I never thought mankind could getAn outward way to make them known.But now the sapient hand has cutThe matter short, and all may tellThy value, as they ’d prize a nut,And know the kernel by the shell.If half the light, that has been thrownOn heads, were only poured within,Thou wouldst not thus be left to ownThe darkness that is now thy sin.But, while the world is in a blazeOf purely phrenologic light,Thou, wildered thing, art in a maze,And destitute of faith and sight.They use a thousand meaning wordsThou couldst not utter or define,Of which, to tell the truth, three thirdsWere gravel, in a mouth like thine.They hold me out an empty skull,To show the powers of living brains:’T is just like feeling of the hull,To tell what goods the ship contains.And, whether nature or mishapHave raised the bump, ’t is all the same;The sage’s crown, or dunce’s capMust be awarded as its claim.This hobby, that so many sit,And manage with such ease and grace,I dare not try with rein or bit,It seems so of the donkey race.And yet, my head, no doubt, ’t is allA fault of thine, a want of sight,That so much said by Combe and GallAnd Spurzheim cannot turn thee right.I know not what thy case may be, —If thou art hollow, or opaque;I only know thou canst not see,And faith declines one step to take.This burst of light has turned thee numb,Depriving thee of every sense;So now, if tried, thou must be dumb,Nor say one word in self-defence!

THE WHEAT FIELD

Field of wheat, so full and fair,Shining, with thy sunny hairLightly waving either way,Graceful as the breezes play —Looking like a summer sea;How I love to gaze at thee!Pleasant art thou to the sight;And to thought a rich delight.Then, thy voice is music sweet,Softly sighing field of wheat.Pointing upward to the sky,Rising straight, and aiming high,Every stalk is seen to shootAs an arrow, from the root.Like a well-trained company,All in uniform agree,From the footing to the ear;All in order strict appear.Marshalled by a skilful hand,All together bow, or standStill, within the proper bound:None o’ersteps the given ground,With its tribute held to pay,At his nod whom they obey,Each the gems, that stud its crown,Will ere long, for man, lay down.Thou with promise art repleteOf the precious sheaves of wheat.How thy strength in weakness lies!Not a robber bird, that flies,Finds support whereby to putOn a stalk her lawless foot.Not a predatory beakPlunges down, thy stores to seek,Where the guard of silver spearsKeeps the fruit, and decks the ears.No vain insect, that could doHarm to thee, dares venture throughSuch an armory, or eatOff the sheath to take the wheat.What a study do we findOpened here for eye and mind!In it who can offer less,Than to wonder, and confess,That on this high-favored ground,Faith is blest, and hope is crowned.Charity her arms may spreadWide from it, with gifts of bread.Wisdom, power, and goodness meetIn the bounteous field of wheat.

THE LITTLE TRAVELLER

I am the tiniest child of earth,But still, I would like to be known to fame,Though next to nothing I had my birth,And lowest of all is my lowly name.Yet, if so humble my native place,I this can say, in family pride,That I ’m of the world’s most numerous race,And made by the Maker of all beside.Although I ’m so poor, I have nought to lose;Still I ’m so little I can’t be lost:I journey about wherever I choose,And those, who carry me, bear the cost.The most forgiving of earthly things,I often cling to my deadly foe;And, spite of the cruelest flirts and flings,Arise by the force that has cast me low.When beauty has trodden me under foot,I ’ve quietly risen her face to seek,Embraced her forehead, or calmly putMyself to rest in her dimpled cheek.I ’ve ridden to war on the soldier’s plume;But startled, and sprung at the wild affray,The sights of horror, of fire and fume,And fled on the wing of the winds away.I ’ve visited courts, and been ushered inBy the proudest guest of the stately scene;I ’ve touched his majesty’s bosom-pin,And the nuptial ring of his lofty queen.At the royal board, in the grand parade,I ’ve oft been one familiar and free:The fairest lady has smiled, and laidHer delicate, gloveless hand on me.Philosopher, poet, the learned, the sage,Never declines a call from me;And all, of every rank and age,Admit me into their coterie.I visit the lions of every where,If human, or brute, and can testifyTo what they do, to what they wear,To wonders none ever beheld but I!And now, reviewing the things I ’ve done,Forgetting my name, my rank and birth,I begin to think I am number oneOf the great and manifold things of earth.I ’ve still much more, that I yet might tell,Which modesty bids me here withhold;For fear with my travels I seem to swell,grow, for an ATOM OF DUST, too bold!

THE ENTANGLED FLY

Ah, thou unfortunate!Poor, silly fly,Caught in the spider’s web,Hung there to die!What could have tempted thee?What led thee there,For thy foe, thus to throwAround thee the snare?Struggling and crying soNe’er can unweaveFrom thee the silken threads,Laid to deceive.Sorrow for wanderingComes now in vain;And, with one thus undone,Grief adds to pain.Yet, I will rescue thee,Unwary thing!Thou may’st again be off,High on the wing,If thou wilt promise me,Hence to be foundNever more, as before,On evil ground.Trust not the flattererSkilled to ensnare:He is a wily one;Think, and beware.Down to his dusky waysNo more descend!Little fly, thou and IBoth want a friend.Man hath an enemy,Whose snare is laidSoftly and silently,Deep in the shade.Light, by the tempter shunned,Only can showWhere, secure, free, and pure,Our feet may go.

THE PEACH BLOSSOMS

Come here! come here! cousin Mary, and seeWhat fair, ripe peaches there are on the tree —On the very same bough that was given to meBy father, one day last spring.When it looked so beautiful, all in the blow,And I wanted to pluck it, he told me, you know,I might, but that waiting a few months would showThe fruit, that patience might bring.And as I perceived, by the sound of his voice,And the look of his eye, it was clearly his choiceThat it should not be touched, I have now to rejoiceThat I told him we ’d let it remain;For, had it been gathered when full in the flower,Its blossoms had withered, perhaps, in an hour,And nothing on earth could have given the powerThat would make them flourish again.But now, of a fruit so delicious and sweetI ’ve enough for myself and my playmates a treat;And they tell me, besides, that the kernels secreteWhat, if planted, will make other trees:For the shell will come open to let down the root;A sprout will spring up, whence the branches will shoot;There ’ll be buds, leaves, and blossoms; and then comes the fruit —Such beautiful peaches as these!And Nature, they say, like a mighty machine,Has a wheel in a wheel, which, if aught comes between,It ruins her work, as it might have been seen,Had it not given patience this trial.From this, I ’ll be careful to keep it in mind,When the blossoms I love, that there lingers behindA better reward, that the trusting shall findFor a trifling self-denial.

THE BROKEN PIPE

Come here, little Willie:Why, what is the trouble?“I ’ve broke my new pipe, ma’ —I can’t make a bubble!”Well, do n’t weep for that, child,But brighten your face,And tell how the grievousDisaster took place.“Why, Puss came along;And, said I, ‘Now she ’ll thinkThat white, frothy waterIs milk she may drink.’“So I set it before her,And plunged her mouth in,When up came both paws,And clung fast to my chin.“Then I gave her a blowWith my pipe; and it flewAt once into pieces!O what shall I do?“I can’t make a bubble!I wish naughty KitHad been a mile off:See! there ’s blood on me yet!”I ’m sorry, my boy; yetYour loss is but just;You first deceived Pussy,And trifled with trust.In this, when you failed,You compelled her; and thenceThe wound on your face,From poor Kit’s self-defence.Then, when you grew cruelAnd beat her, you knowYour pipe and yourselfFared the worst for the blow.Let this lesson teach you,Hence never to stoopTo make man, or brute,That may trust you, a dupe.And when you have power,It should not be abused,Oppressing the weaker,Nor strength be misused.For, often, unkindnessReturns whence it came;And ever deceit mustBe followed by shame.Remember this, William,And here end your sorrow;I ’ll buy you a pipe,To blow bubbles, to-morrow.

VIVY VAIN

Miss Vain was all given to dress —Too fond of gay clothing; and so,She ’d gad about townJust to show a new gown,As a train-band their color to show.Her head being empty and light,Whene’er she obtained a new hat,With pride in her air,She ’d go round, here and there,For all whom she knew to see that.Her folly was chiefly in this:More highly she valued fine looks,Than virtue, or truth,Or devoting her youthTo usefulness, friendship, or books.Her passion for show was unchecked;And therefore, it happened one day,Arrayed in bright hues,And with new hat and shoes,Miss Vain walked abroad for display.She took the most populous streets,To cause but aversion in those,Who saw how she ’d prinked,And to bystanders winked,While the boys cried, “Halloo! there she goes!”It chanced, that, in passing one way,She came near a pool, and a greenWith fence close and high;And, as Vivy drew nigh,A donkey stood near it unseen.He put his mouth over its top,The moment she came by his place;And gave a loud brayIn her ear, when, awayShe sprang, shrieked, and fell on her face.She thought she was swallowed alive,Awhile upon earth lying flat;And the terrible soundSeemed to furrow the ground,She embraced in her fine gown and hat.She gathered herself up, and ran,Yet heeded not whither or whence,To flee from the roar,That continued to pourBehind her, from over the fence.In passing a slope near the pool,She slipped and rolled down to its brim;The geese gave a shout,And at length hissed her outOf the bounds, where they ’d gathered to swim.In turning a corner, she metAbruptly, the horns of a cowThat mooed, while the cur,At her heels, turned from her,And aimed at Miss Vain his “bow-wow.”Then Vivy’s bright ribbons and skirt,As she flew, flirted high on the wind;The children at play,Paused to see one so gay,And all in a flutter behind.A group of glad schoolboys came by:Said they, “So it seems, that to-day,Miss Vain carries marksAt which the dog barks,And that make sober Long-Ears to bray.”And when, all bedraggled and pale,Poor Vivy approached her own door,She went, swift and straightAs a dart, through the gate,Abhorring the gay gear she wore.She sat down, and thought of the sceneWith humiliation and tears:The words, and the noiseOf the brutes and the boysWere echoing still in her ears.She reasoned, and came at the cause,Resolving that cause to remove;And thence, her desireWas for modest attire,And her heart and her mind to improve.And soon, all who knew her beforeRemarked on the change and the gainIn mind, and in mien,And in dress, that were seenIn the once flashy Miss Vivy Vain.

THE MOCKING BIRD

A Mocking Bird was he,In a bushy, blooming tree,Imbosomed by the foliage and flower.And there he sat and sang,Till all around him rang,With sounds, from out the merry mimic’s bower.The little satiristPiped, chattered, shrieked, and hissed;He then would moan, and whistle, quack, and caw;Then, carol, drawl, and croak,As if he ’d pass a jokeOn every other winged one he saw.Together he would catchA gay and plaintive snatch,And mingle notes of half the feathered throng.For well the mocker knew,Of every thing that flew,To imitate the manner and the song.The other birds drew near,And paused awhile to hearHow well he gave their voices and their airs.And some became amused;While some, disturbed, refusedTo own the sounds that others said were theirs.The sensitive were shocked,To find their honors mockedBy one so pert and voluble as he;They knew not if ’t was doneIn earnest or in fun;And fluttered off in silence from the tree.The silliest grew vain,To think a song or strainOf theirs, however weak, or loud, or hoarse,Was worthy to be heardRepeated by the bird;For of his wit they could not feel the force.The charitable said,“Poor fellow! if his headIs turned, or cracked, or has no talent left;But feels the want of powers,And plumes itself from ours,Why, we shall not be losers by the theft.”The haughty said, “He thus,It seems, would mimic us,And steal our songs, to pass them for his own!But if he only quotesIn honor of our notes,We then were quite as honored, let alone.”The wisest said, “If foe,Or friend, we still may knowBy him, wherein our greatest failing lies.So, let us not be moved,Since first to be improvedBy every thing, becomes the truly wise.”

THE BIRD’S HOME

O where is thy home, sweet bird,With the song, and the bright, glossy plume?“I ’ll tell thee where I rest,If thou wilt not rob my nest; —I built among the sweet apple bloom.”But what ’s in thy nest, bright bird?What ’s there, in the snug, downy cell?“If thou wilt not rob the tree;Nor go too near, to seeMy quiet little home, I will tell.”O! I will not thy trust betray,But closely thy secret I will keep.“I ’ve three little tender things,That have never used their wings!I left them there, at home, fast asleep.”Then, why art thou here, my bird,Away from thy young, helpless brood?“To pay thee with a song,Just to let me pass along,Nor harm me, as I look for their food!”

THE BIRD UNCAGED

She opened the cage, and away there flewA bright little bird, as a short adieuIt hastily whistled, and passed the door,And felt that its sorrowful hours were o’er.An anthem of freedom it seemed to sing;To utter its joy for an outspread wing, —That now it could sport in the boundless air,And might go any and every where.And Anna rejoiced in her bird’s delight;But her eye was wet, as she marked its flight;Till, this was the song that she seemed to hear;And, merrily warbled, it dried the tear:“I had a mistress, and she was kind,In all, but keeping her bird confined;She ministered food and drink to me,But, O I was pining for liberty!“My fluttering bosom she loved to smooth;While the heart within it, she could not soothe:I sickened and longed for the wildwood breeze,My feathery kindred, and fresh green trees.“A prisoner there, with a useless wing,I looked with sorrow on every thing;I lost my voice, and forgot my song,And mourned in silence, the whole day long.“But I will go back, with a mellower pipe,And sing, when the cherries are round and ripe;On the topmost bough, as I lock my feet,To help myself, in my leafy seat.“My merriest notes shall there be heard,To draw her eye to her franchised bird;The burden, then, of my song shall be,‘Earth for the wingless! but air for me!’”

DAME BIDDY

Dame Biddy abode in a coop,Because it so chanced, that dame BiddyHad round her a family groupOf chicks, young, and helpless and giddy.And when she had freedom to roam,She fancied the life of a ranger;And led off her brood, far from home,To fall into mischief or danger.She ’d trail through the grass to be mown,And call all her children to follow;And scratch up the seeds that were sown,Then, lie in their places and wallow.She ’d go where the corn in the hill,Its first little blade had been shooting,And try, by the strength of her bill,To learn if the kernel was rooting.And when she went out on a walkOf pleasure, through thicket and brambles,The covetous eye of a hawkDelighted in marking her rambles.“I spy,” to himself he would say,“A prize of which I ’ll be the winner!”So down would he pounce on his prey,And bear off a chicken for dinner.The poor frighted matron, that heardThe cry of her youngling in dying,Would scream at the merciless bird,That high with his booty was flying.But shrieks could not ease her distress,Nor grief her lost darling recover.She now had a chicken the less,For acting the part of a rover.And there lay the feathers, all torn,And flying one way and another,That still her dear child might have worn,Had she been more wise as a mother.Her owner then thought he must teachDame Biddy a little subjection;And cooped her up, out of the reachOf hawking, with time for reflection.And, throwing a net o’er a pileOf brush-wood that near her was lying,He hoped to its meshes to wileThe fowler, that o’er her was flying.For Hawk, not forgetting his fare,And having a taste to renew it,Sailed round near the coop, high in air,With cruel intention, to view it.The owner then said, “Master Hawk,If you love my chickens so dearly,Come down to my yard for a walk,That you may address them more nearly.”But, “No,” thought the sharp-taloned foeOf Biddy, “my circuit is higher!If I to his premises go,’T will be when I see he ’s not nigh her.”The Farmer strewed barley, and toledThe chickens the brush to run under,And left them, while Hawk growing bold,Thus tempted, came near for his plunder.As closer and closer he drew,With appetite stronger and stronger,He found he ’d but one thing to do,And plunged, to defer it no longer.But now had he come to a pause,At once in the net-work entangled,While through it his head and his clawsIn hopeless vacuity dangled.The chicks saw him hang overhead,Where they for their barley had huddled;And all in a flutter they fled,And soon through the coop holes had scuddled.The farmer came out to his snare.He saw the bold captive was in it;And said, “If this play be unfair,Remember, I did not begin it!”He then put a cork on his beak,The airy assassin disarming,Unspurred him, and rendered him weak,By blunting each talent for harming.And into the coop he was thrown:The chickens hid under their mother,For he, by his feathers was knownAs he, who had murdered their brother.Dame Biddy, beholding his plight,Determined to show him no quarter,In action gave vent to her spite;As motherly tenderness taught her.She shouted, and blustered; and thenAttacked the poor captive unfriended;And you, (who have witnessed a henIn anger,) may guess how it ended.She made him a touching address,If pecking and scratching could do it,Till, sinking in silent distress,He perished before she got through it.We would not, however, conveyA thought like approving the fury,That gave, in this summary way,Punition, without judge or jury.Whenever thus given, it tendsTo lessen the angry bestower;The fowl that inflicts it, descends —The featherless biped, still lower.

THE ENVIOUS LOBSTER

A Lobster from the water came,And saw another, just the sameIn form and size; but gayly cladIn scarlet clothing; while she hadNo other raiment to her backThan her old suit of greenish black.“So ho!” she cried, “’t is very fine!Your dress was yesterday like mine;And in the mud below the sea,You lived, a crawling thing, like me.But now, because you ’ve come ashore,You ’ve grown so proud, that what you wore —Your strong old suit of bottle-green,You think improper to be seen.To tell the truth, I don ’t see whyYou should be better dressed than I.And I should like a suit of redAs bright as yours, from feet to head.I think I’ m quite as good as you,And might be clothed in scarlet, too.”“Will you be boiled?” her owner said,“To be arrayed in glowing red?Come here, my discontented miss,And hear the scalding kettle hiss!Will you go in, and there be boiled,To have your dress, so old and soiled,Exchanged for one of scarlet hue?”“Yes,” cried the lobster, “that I ’ll do,And twice as much, if needs must be,To be as gayly clad as she.”Then, in she made a fatal dive,And never more was seen alive!Now, if you ever chance to knowOf one as fond of dress and showAs that vain lobster, and withalAs envious, you ’ll perhaps recallTo mind her folly, and the plightIn which she reappeared to sight.She had obtained a bright array,But for it, thrown herself away!Her life and death were best untold,But for the moral they unfold!

KIT WITH THE ROSE

A rose tree stood in the parlor,When kit came frolicking by;So up went her feet on the window-seat,To a rose, that had caught her eye.She gave it a cuff, and it trembledBeneath her ominous paw;And while it shook, with a threatening lookShe coveted what she saw.Thought she, “What a beautiful toss-ball,If I could but give it a snap,Now all are out, nor thinking aboutTheir rose, or the least mishap!”She twisted the stem, and she twirled it;And, seizing the flower it boreWith the timely aid of her teeth, she madeA leap to the parlor floor.And over the carpet she tossed it,All fresh in its morning bloom,Till shattered and rent, its leaves were sentTo every side of the room.At length, with her sport grown weary,She laid herself down to sun,Inclining to doze, forgetting the roseAnd the mischief she had done.By and by her young mistress entered,And uttered a piteous cry,When she saw the fate of what had so lateDelighted her watchful eye.But where was the one, who had spoiled it,Concealing his guilty face?She had not a clue whereby to pursueThe rogue to his lurking-place.Thought kit, “I ’ll keep still till ’t is over,And none will suspect it was I.”For the puss awoke, when her mistress spoke,And she well understood the cry.But, mewing at length for her dinner,Kit’s mouth confessed the whole truth:It opened so wide, that her mistress spiedA rose-leaf pierced by her tooth.Then kit was expelled from the parlorAll covered with shame. And thoseInclined, like her, in secret to err,Should remember kit with the rose.

THE STORM IN THE FOREST

The storm in the forest is rending and sweeping;While tree after tree bows its stately green head;The flowerets beneath them are bending and weeping;And leaves, torn and trembling, all round them are spread.The bird that had roamed, till she thinks her benighted,Dismayed, hastens back to her home in the wood;And flags not a wing, till her bosom, affrighted,Has laid its warm down o’er her own little brood.And they, since that fond one so quickly has found them,To shelter their heads from the rain and the blast,Shall fearless repose, while the bolts burst around them;And lie calm and safe, till the darkness is past.Hast thou, too, not felt, when the tempest was drearest,And rending thy covert, or shaking thy rest,Thine own blessed angel that moment the nearest —Thy screen in his pinion – thy shield in his breast?When clouds frowned the darkest, and perils beset thee,Till each prop of earth seemed to bend, or to break,Did e’er thy good angel turn off, and forget thee?The mother her little ones, then, may forsake!Ah, no! thou shalt feel thy protector the surer —The sun, in returning, more cheering and warm;And all things around thee, seem fresher and purer,And touched with new glory, because of the storm!

THE UPROOTED ELM

Alas! alas! my good old tree,A fatal change is past on thee!And now thine aged form I see,All helpless, lying low:The rending tempest, in its flight’Mid darkness of the wintry night,Hath struck thee, passing in its might,And felled thee at a blow.And never more the blooming springShall to thy boughs rich verdure bring,Or her gay birds, to flit and singWhere their first plumage grew;For thou, so long, so fondly madeMy eye’s delight, my summer shade,Here, as a lifeless king, art laidIn state, for all to view.Thy noble trunk and reverend head,Defined on that cold, snow-white bed,And those old arms, so widely spread,Thy hopelessness declare:Thy roots, in earth concealed so long —That struck so deep, with hold so strong,Upturned with many a broken prong,Are quivering high in air.But yester-eve I saw thee stand,With lofty front, with aspect grand,Where thou hadst braved the ruthless handOf time, and spread, and towered;And stood the rain, the hail, the blast,Till more than hundred years had passed:To fall so suddenly at last,Forever overpowered!Yet, while I sadly ponder o’erWhat now thou art, and wast before,Were sighs to rise, and tears to pour,Like summer winds and rain;Not all the sighs and drops of griefCould bring to thee one bud or leaf;Thou liest so like a stricken chief,By one swift arrow slain.But may’st thou prove an emblem trueOf what the spoiler’s hand shall doWith one, who pensive here would viewA shadowy type in thee!Let not the conqueror piecemeal slay,With power by power in slow decay;But strike, and all in ashes lay!Farewell, my good old tree!