"Among the rest a small unsightly root,
But of divine effect, he culled me out;
The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it,
But in another country, as he said,
Bore a bright golden flower, but not in this soil; . . .
He called it Harmony."—Milton.
A little dust the summer breeze Had sifted up within a cleft,
A slanted raindrop from the trees, A tiny seed by chance airs left,—
It was enough, the seedling grew,
And from the barren rock-heart drew
Her dimpled leaf and tender bud,
And dews that did the bare rock stud; And crowned at length her simple head
With utter sweetness, breathed afar,
And burning like a dusky star,— Sweetness upon so little fed, Ah me! ah me! And yet hearts go uncomforted.
For hearts, dear love, such seedlings are, That need so little, ah, so less
Than little on this earth, to bear The sun-sweet blossom, happiness;
And sing,—those dying hearts that come
To go,—their swan-song flying home.
A touch, a tender tone, no more,
A face that lingers by the door To turn and smile, a fond word said,
A kiss,—these things make heaven; and yet
We do neglect, refuse, forget, To give that little, ere 'tis fled, Ah me! ah me! And sad hearts go uncomforted.
I asked of thee but little, nay, Not for the golden fruit thy bough
Ripens for thee and thine who day
By day beneath thy shadow grow;
Only for what, from that full store,
Had made me rich, nor left thee poor,
A drift of blossom, needed not
For fruit, yet blessing some dim spot. A touch, a tender word soon said,
Fond tones that seem our dead again
Come back after long years of pain, Lonely, for these my sick heart bled— Ah me! ah me! Sad hearts that go uncomforted.
Awake, dear sleepers, from your wintry tombs; The sun has turned the point of Capricorn, And 'gins to pluck from winter's wings the plumes Of darkness, and to wind his silver horn For your return. Come to your homes, forlorn In absence of your odors and your faces; Like Rachel weeps for you the reaved morn, As often as she views your empty places,
Erewhile the daily scene of her and your embraces.
Come, pensile snowdrop, like the earliest star That twinkles on the brow of dusky night; Come, like the child that peeps from door ajar, With pallid cheek, upon a wasteful sight: And shouldst thou rise when all around is white, The more thou'lt demonstrate the power of God To shield the weak against the arms of might, To strengthen feeble shoulders for their load,
And sinking hearts 'mid ills they could not full forebode.
Come, crocus cup, the cup where early bees Sip the first nectar of the liberal year, Come and illume our green, as similes Light up the poet's song. And O ye dear March violets, come near, come breathing near! You too, fair primroses, in darksome woods Shine forth, like heaven's constellations clear; And come, ye daisies, throng in multitudes,
And whiten hills and meadows with your saintly hoods.
Come with thy lilies, May; thy roses, June; Come with your richer hues, autumnal hours; O tell your mellowing sun, your regal moon, Your dewy drops, your soft refreshing showers, To lift their blessing hands in Flora's bowers, Nor e'en to scorn the bindweed's flossy gold, Nor foxglove's banner hung with purple flowers, Nor solitary heath that cheers the wold,
Nor the last daisy shivering in November's cold!
Chambers' Journal.
NOT YET.
Not yet, not yet, the light;
Under ground, out of sight,
Like moles, we blindly toil
On,—though we know not where;
Some day the upper air,
The sun, and all things fair,
We reach through the dark soil.
