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And when maturer age he sees
With ready pen so swift inditing, With envy he beholds the ease
Of long-accustomed letter-writing.
Courage, young friend ; the time may be,
When you attain maturer age,
Some, young as you are now, may see
You with like ease glide down a page.
Even then, when you, to years a debtor,
In varied phrase your meaning wrap, The welcom’st words in all your letter
May be those two kind ones at the top.
ON ANOTHER'S SORROW.- Blake.
Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief ?
Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow's share ?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled ?
Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No! no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird's grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear,
And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast ?
And not sit the table near,
Weeping tear on infant's tear?
And not sit, both night and day,
Weeping all our tears away?
O, no ! never can it be !
Never, never can it be!
He doth give his joy to all ;
He becomes an infant small;
He becomes a man of woe ;
He doth feel the sorrow too.
Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not nigh;
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.
0, he gives to us his joy,
That our griefs he may destroy ; .
Till our grief is filed and gone,
He doth sit by us and moan.
THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN.-H. F. Gould. “I Pebble! and yield to none!” Were the swelling words of a tiny stone ; “ Nor time nor seasons can alter me ; I am abiding, while ages flee.
THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN.
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain
Have tried to soften me, long, in vain ;
And the tender dew has sought to melt
Or touch my heart; but it was not felt.
There's none that can tell about my birth,
For I ’m as old as the big, round earth.
The children of men arise, and
Out of the world, like the blades of grass ;
And many a foot on me has trod
That 's gone from sight, and under the sod !
I am a Pebble ! but who art thou,
Rattling along from the restless bough?”
The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute, And lay for a moment abashed and mute ; She never before had been so near This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere; And she felt for a time at a loss to know How to answer a thing so coarse and low. But to give reproof of a nobler sort Than the angry look or the keen retort, At length she said, in a gentle tone :“Since it has happened that I am thrown From the lighter element, where I grew, Down to another so hard and new, And beside a personage so august, Abased I will cover my head with dust, And quickly retire from the sight of one Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun, Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel, Has ever subdued or made to feel !" And soon in the earth she sunk away From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay.
But it was not long ere the soil was broke By the peering head of an infant oak!
And as it arose and its branches spread,
The Pebble looked up, and wondering said :
- A modest Acorn! never to tell
What was inclosed in its simple shell ;
That the pride of the forest was folded up
In the narrow space of its little cup !
And meekly to sink in the darksome earth,
Which proves that nothing could hide her worth !
And, O, how many will tread on me,
To come and admire the beautiful tree,
Whose head is towering toward the sky,
Above such a worthless thing as I !
Useless and vain, a cumberer here,
I have been idling from year to year.
But never from this shall a vaunting word
From the humbled Pebble again be heard,
Till something without me or within
Shall show the purpose for which I 've been !
The Pebble its vow could not forget,
And it lies there wrapped in silence yet.
The sun descending in the west,
The evening star doth shine ;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight
Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy groves,
Where Hocks have ta’en delight;
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen, they pour blessing
And joy without ceasing
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest,
Where birds are covered warm ;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them from all harm;
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down on their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and weep,
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep ;
But if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.
CHILDHOOD! happiest stage of life!
Free from care, and free from strife,
Free from memory's ruthless reign,
Fraught with scenes of former pain ;