THE CUCKOO. JOHN LOGAN. HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of spring! Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing. Soon as the daisy decks the green, Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers. The schoolboy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, What time the pea puts on the bloom, Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, No winter in thy year! Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. | All thoughts of ill: all evil deeds, SAINT AUGUSTINE! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread That have their root in thoughts of ill: Whatever hinders or impedes The action of the nobler will; Beneath our feet each deed of All these must first be trampled shame! All common things, each day's events, That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend. The low desire, the base design, That makes another's virtues less: The revel of the ruddy wine, And all occasions of excess: The longing for ignoble things: The strife for triumph more than truth; The hardening of the heart, that brings Irreverence for the dreams of youth; down Beneath our feet, if we would gain In the bright fields of fair renown The right of eminent domain. We have not wings, we cannot soar; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more, The cloudy summits of our time. The mighty pyramids of stone That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, When nearer seen, and better known, Are but gigantic flights of stairs. The distant mountains, that uprear Their solid bastions to the skies, Are crossed by pathways, that appear As we to higher levels rise. We speak of a Merry Christmas, And many a happy New Year; But each in his heart is thinking Of those that are not here. O LITTLE feet! that such long years fears Must ache and bleed beneath your I, nearer to the wayside inn Am weary, thinking of your road. O little hands! that weak or strong, Have still to serve or rule so long, Have still so long to give or ask; I, who so much with book and pen Have toiled among my fellow-men, Am weary, thinking of your task. O little hearts! that throb and beat With such impatient, feverish heat, Such limitless and strong desires; Mine that so long has glowed and burned, With passions into ashes turned Now covers and conceals its fires, O little souls! as pure and white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source divine; Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine! tunes, And of what they did and said, Till the dead alone seem living, And the living alone seem dead. And at last we hardly distinguish Between the ghosts and the guests; And a mist and shadow of sadness Steals over our merriest jests. STAY, STAY AT HOME, MY HEART, AND REST. STAY, stay at home, my heart, and rest; Home-keeping hearts are happiest, For those that wander they know not where Are full of trouble and full of care; To stay at home is best. Weary and homesick and distressed, They wander east, they wander west, And are baffled and beaten and blown about By the winds of the wilderness of doubt; To stay at home is best. |