14
POEMS BY MISS ELIZA JANE STEPHENS.
BE ACTIVE.
Oh, never sit with folded bauds And think "There's nothing I can do," As naught that's made wan made in vain, There surely is a work for you.
So much of health, and strength, and youth, So many graces of the mind,To waste away in indolence, 'Tis plain enough was ne'er designed.
'Twas not for this that Plenty smiled Upon the home that gave you birth; 'Twas not for this that friends were yours, As true as any friends of earth.
But since you own these precious gifts, Prove you possess a grateful heart, Oil, pray be doing all the while. Lest you should fail to act your part.
There's work for you on either side, A work that's noble and sublime; If done, 'twill be your monument When you have passed the bounds of time.
You might perhaps lead some away From paths of darkness and of sin—Might waken thoughts of purity, Where now all seems so foul within.
There's many weak desponding ones Who bow to every trilling care, Oh, do I heir drooping spirits cheer, For gloom is half the load they bear.
There's many lonely mourners too, Who slowly pine away with grief But gentle words of sympathy To such afford a sweet relief.
The sick and poor are everywhere, Their anguish they alone can know,How much distress you might relieve, With what of aid you can bestow.
Then live in earnest, while you live, Improve each swiftly gliding hour, Be doing good where'er you can. Do it with all your heart and power.
THE INQUIRY.
Awake my soul, a flood of light Is poured upon the world around, A Hood of glory, that my sight, My mortal senses cannot bound.
Awake and read this cumbrous chain That I have wound about my brow.How long 'twas sought, and yet 'tis found, A burden and a torture now.
I see the forests many dye'd, A beauty in each falling leaf. Yet cannot read the mysteries Of anything so frail and brief.
And mu.sic floats upon the air From birds of many colored wing, Whence comes the plumage that they wear Who taught to each the songs they sing?
I sit beside the deep blue sea. And list' the waters as they go, A thousand streams are mingled there. But tell me whither can they flow?
Whence comes the fragrance of the rose, Who formed the dainty lily's bell, Who raised the lofty mountain height Or made the silent leafy dell?
Who breathed into this clod of clay A living, feeling, anxious soul? Whence and what are we, who can tell And what is this stupendous whole?
THE OLD CHESTNUT TREE.
I would we might hear thy story, Thou beautiful Chestnut tree! Methinks 'twould be worth the hearing, As every lesson should be.
For certain it is thou wert planted By none but the hand divine; As carefully watered and guarded, Where softly the sunbeams shine.
Perhaps thou wert one of a forest That grew in wonderful pride, For the Oak was tall and stately That flourished at thy side,
And yet, when the winds of autumn Swept over the lonely bill,They snapt it, and tossed the branches About with furious will.
But thou hast past, in thy grandeur, Through tempest so bravely born,That though thou art wrinkled and rugged There's none of thy beauty shorn.
And we can but think of the changes, So wonderful all around, Since thou wert a tiny leaflet, Just bursting from out the ground.
How fierce and bitter the conflicts, That seemed as never to cease! How precious the blood that purchased Our country's enduring peace!
For all of these homes about thee, And many gone to decay,Have risen to their existence Since first was begun thy day.
Perhaps the red man of the forest Here planned his sway to increase,And when the rude battle was over 'Twas here smoked the pipe of peace.
And maybe he taught his children Here first how to use the bow, And watched with delight as he saw them The beautiful deer laying low.
Perhaps the wild beasts in their prowling A covert sought in thy shade; Fierce birds too have swept from thy branches, And furious onslaught made.
The honey bee here found a dwelling, And stored abundance of sweet; And squirrels too here had a resting— A quiet and safe retreat.
And songsters their notes have warbled From out thy leafiest screen,And children around thee have sported As gaily as ever was seen.
For gathering nuts was a pastime Of which none ever could tire,And every autumn brought them Fulfilment of their desire.
Now all this picture is ended By hurry and work anew; But thou art a gift of Nature, That many delight to view.
