They had no separate interests, Affecting one alone;
To them mistrust and selfishness
Were utterly unknown;
Their hearts were two sweet instruments, Alike in every tone.
I saw them first one summer's day, (They were but six years old,) Wreathing each other's hair with flowers- Crimson, and blue, and gold;
And finding in their hues and scents, A store of wealth untold.
And then, in childish waywardness, They left the flowers to die;
And round and round the garden, chased A gorgeous butterfly;
Oh, what a happy shout they raised When it soar'd into the sky!
And then they talk'd of future days- And here they check'd their pace, And spake in low and earnest tones, And with an earnest face;
Until another butterfly
Recall'd them to the chase.
At length they sate them down to rest, In a bower of cypress trees; And placed a "pretty story-book" Before them on their knees: And they read an old, sad melody, Till their hearts were ill at ease.
And sadness settled like a cloud, Where smiles were wont to brood;
And in their bright and laughing eyes
The tears of pity stood;
And they looked in each other's face, and said, "Poor children in the wood!"
They were happy all the summer's day;
But happier far at night,
When they knelt to say their evening prayers, With spirits pure and light,
And the father and mother kiss'd their babes:It was a blessed sight!
The morrow-I was far away,
Musing with many fears,
How those fair creatures would be changed,
In ten or twenty years;
And I thought about their sweet "good night,"
Till my heart was moved to tears!
OH, come! for the lily
Is white on the lea;
Oh, come! for the wood-doves Are pair'd on the tree: The lark sings with dew
On her wings and her feet; The thrush pours its ditty,
Loud, varied, and sweet: We will go where the twin-hares 'Mid fragrance have been, And with flowers I will weave thee
A crown like a queen.
Oh, come! hear the throstle
Invites you aloud;
And soft comes the plover's cry
Down from the cloud:
THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN. BRIGHT rose the sun o'er Jordan's plain, And on her cities seem'd to bend, His last fond looks-the tuneful strain
Of myriad birds, sang of their end; Yet they, unconscious, met the while, With sinful rites, that morning's smile.
Far off, the walls of Sodom gleam'd Soft through the rosy-tinted air, Distant and noiseless, as she dream'd Of pageants new, and pleasures rare; And nearer still, Gomorrah stood, Bathed in the morning's golden flood.
Her priests were out-the lengthen❜d line Of soldiers, chariots, pagans proud, Were moving to the Idol's shrine,
'Neath which their haughty souls had bow'd, And as they march'd, the timbrels rang, And loud and louder grew their clang.
"Twas their last march-the morning light Shone on Gomorrah's proudest then, On Priest, on altar, heathen rite, And the assembled host of men; But ere the sacrifice was made, Altar and priest in dust were laid.
The wrathful sky was rent in twain, Then leap'd the pent-up lightning down, It quiver'd round the unholy fane,
And dash'd its altar to the ground; When all was wrapp'd in darker night, Than chaos ere creation's light.
And in the blackness fell a shower, Where one might think that Sodom lay, Far off it fell, and lit each tower
And battlement with light of day; While from Gomorrah's loftiest spires, Watch'd many a one the "sea of fires."
The storm roll'd on o'er Jordan's plain, Despair then seized the pagan host, When fast the drops of molten rain Were on their sacred temples tost; They'd seen dread Sodom's fate: their own To other watchers soon was known.
The earth grown weary of its load, These awful pyres shook as a brand, Then sank, that Asphaltites flood
Might hide them from the quaking land And as they sank, her poison'd waves, Were covering for the cities' graves.
When rose the moon on that drear night, It shone not on the cities, flush'd With pleasure and with sin-its light Fell on the Dead Sea dark and hush'd; Heaven's awful vengeance then was o'er; And Jordan's Cities were no more.
WE come! we come! and ye feel our might, As we're hastening on in our boundless flight, And over the mountains, and over the deep, Our broad, invisible pinions sweep Like the spirit of liberty, wild and free! And ye look on our works, and own 'tis we; Ye call us the Winds; but can ye tell Whither we go, or where we dwell?
Ye mark, as we vary our forms of power, And fell the forest, or fan the flower;
When the harebell moves, and the rush is bent, When the tower's o'erthrown, and the oak is rent; As we waft the bark o'er the slumbering wave, Or hurry its crew to a watery grave; And ye say it is we; but can ye trace The wandering Winds to their secret place?
And, whether our breath be loud and high, Or come in a soft and balmy sigh- Our threatenings fill the soul with fear, Or our gentle whisperings woo the ear With music aërial-still, 't is we.
And ye list, and ye look; but what do ye see? Can ye hush one sound of our voice to peace, Or waken one note, when our numbers cease?
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