Well for thee, if thy lip could tell
A tale like this, of a day spent well.
If thine open hand had relieved distress
If thy pity had sprung to wretchedness
If thou hast forgiven the sore offence,
And humbled thy heart with penitence -
If Nature's voices have spoken to thee
With her holy meanings eloquently –
If every creature hath won thy love,
From the creeping worm to the brooding dove –
If never a sad, low spoken word
Hath plead with thy human heart unheard
Then, when the night steals on, as now,
It will bring relief to thine aching brow,
And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest,
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breas
A violet by a mossy stone,
Half-hidden from the eye,
Fair as a star when only one
Is shining in the sky.-WORDSWORTH.
I HAVE found violets ! April hath come on,
And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain
Falls in the beaded drops of summer-time.
You may
hear birds at morning and at eve,
The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls,
Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in
His beautiful, bright neck; and, from the hills,
A murmur like the hoarseness of the sea,
Tells the release of waters, and the earth
Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves
Are lifted by the grass; and so I know
That Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heard
The dropping of the velvet foot of Spring.
Take of my violets! I found them where
The liquid south stole o'er them, on a bank
That lean'd to running water. There's to me
A daintiness about these early flowers,
That touches me like poetry. They blow
With such a simple loveliness among
The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out
Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts
Whose beatings are too gentle for the world,
I love to go in the capricious days
Of April and hunt violets, when the rain
Is in the blue cups trembling, and they nod
So gracefully to the kisses of the wind.
It
may
be deem'd too idle, but the young
Read nature like the manuscript of Heaven,
And call the flowers its poetry. Go out!
Ye spirits of habitual unrest,
And read it, when the “fever of the world
Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if life
Hath yet one spring unpoison d, it will be
Like a beguiling music to its flow,
And you will no more wonder that I love
To hunt for violets in the April-time.
Benjamin Bussey Thatcher.
Beautiful Evening! my bewildered brain
And aching bosom, with fond orisons, bless
The coming of thy shadows-faint with pain, (d)
And yearning for the hours of quietness
That follow the twilight. The fair morn
Unfurls o'er Eastern hills her dolphin dyes;
But O majestic Eve, to thee I turn
With heart enchanted, and undazzled eyes,
Give me to breathe thy fragrance. Where the dews
Clasp with their delicate arms the violet-bell.
Give me to wander where the stream doth choose
Its murmuring journey down the dim green dell
With chary dainties. There would I bow
Unto thy silver glories, as before
The Persian worshipped with a better vow,
And a diviner spirit, than of yore.
Then grant me thy communion. Swell my soul
With the sweet awe of silence. Look on me
With the bright stars of thy resplendent pole-
And let me learn their teachings. I shall be
A worshipper of Heaven. I shall dream
Of the high land I long for. I shall see
The stirring of the myriad palm-boughs and gleam
Of seraphs pinions. From the boundless throng
Of the unnumbered holy, I shall hear
Faintly, the choral anthem. So the song
Of Ocean's surges falls upon the ear
Of slumbering mariner-and so the bird
That loves the sombre night, o'er the far wave is heard.
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