A TUFT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT. 133
Yet, martyr-like, we 'll lift the voice,
Bidding the wilderness rejoice,
And blossom as the rose.
Sad, faint, and weary, on the sand
Our traveller sat him down; his hand
Covered his burning head;
Above, beneath, behind, around,
No resting for the eye he found;
All nature seemed as dead.
One tiny tuft of moss alone,
Mantling with freshest green a stone,
Fixed his delighted gaze;
Through bursting tears of joy he smiled,
And, while he raised the tendril wild,
His lips o'erflowed with praise.
O, shall not He who keeps thee green,
Here in the waste, unknown, unseen,
Thy fellow-exile save?
He who commands the dew to feed
Thy gentle flower can surely lead
Me from a scorching grave.
The heaven-sent plant new hope inspired,
New courage all his bosom fired,
And bore him safe along,
Till, with the evening's cooling shade,
He slept within the verdant glade,
Lulled by the negro's song.
Thus we, in this world's wilderness,
Where sin and sorrow,— guilt, — distress,
Seem undisturbed to reign,
May faint because we feel alone,
With none to strike our favorite tone,
And join our homeward strain.
Yet often, in the bleakest wild
Of this dark world, some heaven-born child,
Expectant of the skies,
Amid the low and vicious crowd,
Or in the dwellings of the proud,
Meets our admiring eyes.
From gazing on the tender flower,
We lift our eye to Him whose power
Hath all its beauty given;
Who in this atmosphere of death
Hath given it life, and form, and breath,
And brilliant hues of heaven.
Our drooping faith, revived by sight,
Anew her pinions plumes for flight,
New hope distends the breast;
With joy we mount on eagle wing,
With bolder tone our anthem sing,
And seek the pilgrim's rest.
LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.
Mrs. Hemans.
THE breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tost;
LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.
And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame ;
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear,
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang,
And the stars heard and the sea!
And the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang To the anthems of the free!
The ocean-eagle soared
From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared, This was their welcome home!
There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim-band;
Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?
They sought a faith's pure shrine!
Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod!
They have left unstained what there they found, -
Freedom to worship God'
A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR.
SHE had been told that God made all the stars
That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood
Watching the coming of the twilight on,
As if it were a new and perfect world,
And this were its first eve. How beautiful
Must be the work of nature to a child
In its first fresh impression! Laura stood
By the low window, with the silken lash
Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth
Half parted with the new and strange delight
Of beauty that she could not comprehend,
And had not seen before. The purple folds
Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky
That looked so still and delicate above,
Filled her young heart with gladness, and the eve
Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still
Stood looking at the west with that half smile,
As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.
Presently, in the edge of the last tint
Of sunset, where the blue was melted in
TO A CHILD DURING SICKNESS.
To the first golden mellowness, a star
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight
Burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands,
Her simple thought broke forth expressively, -
"Father, dear father, God has made a star.”
TO A CHILD DURING SICKNESS.-Leigh Hunt.
SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,
My little, patient boy!
And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.
I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.
Thy sidelong, pillowed meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid,
The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,-
These, these are things that
Dread memories for years.
Sorrows I've had, severe ones
I will not think of now;
And calmly, midst my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow;
But when thy fingers press,
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,
The tears are in their bed.
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