Speak gently, kindly, to the poor,
Let no harsh tone be heard ;
They have enough they must endure,
Without an unkind word.
Speak gently to the erring-know
They must have toiled in vain ;
Perchance unkindness made them so,
Oh, win them back again!
Speak gently! He who gave His life
To bend man's stubborn will,
When elements were fierce in strife,
Said to them, "Peace, be still !”
Speak gently! 'tis a little thing
Dropped in the heart's deep well;
The good, the joy, which it may bring,
Eternity shall tell.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood!
When fond recollection presents them to view; The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild wood, And every lov'd spot which my infancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure,
For often at noon, when return'd from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell, Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.
How soft from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a full-blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now far ramoved from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well,
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.
WHERE the pools are bright and deep,
Where the grey trout lies asleep,
Up the river, and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thickest and greenest,
There to trace the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from their play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play,
Through the meadow among the hay;
Up the water, and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
THE SWALLOW AND THE REDBREAST.
THE Swallows at the close of day,
When autumn shone with fainter ray,
Around the chimney circling flew,
Ere yet they bade a long adieu
To climes where soon the winter drear
Shall close the unrejoicing year.
Now with swift wing they skim aloof,
Now settle on the crowded roof,
As counsel and advice to take,
Ere they the chilly north forsake.
Then one disdainful turned his eye,
Upon a redbreast twittering nigh,
And thus began with taunting scorn,
"Thou household imp, obscure, forlorn,
Through the deep winter's dreary day,
Here dull and shivering shalt thou stay;
Whilst we, who make the world our home,
To softer climes impatient roam,
Where summer still, on some green isle,
Rests, with her sweet and lovely smile.
Thus speeding far and far away,
We leave behind the shortening day."
""Tis true," the Redbreast answered meek,
"No other scenes I ask or seek;
To every change alike resigned,
I fear not the cold winter's wind.
When spring returns, the circling year
Shall find me still contented here;
But whilst my warm affections rest
Within the circle of my nest,
I learn to pity those that roam,
And love the more my humble home."
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbits' tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
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