And now the petal, twisted tight, Above the calyx peers to sight With apex tipped with purple, bright As if the rainbow dyed it.

While on the air it vacillates, Its owner's bosom palpitates To see it open, as he waits Impatient close beside it.

Another rising sun has thrown Its beams upon the vine, and shown The splendid Morning-Glory blown, As if some little fairy, When early from his couch he went, On some ethereal journey bent, Had there inverted left his tent Of purple, high and airy.

And many a fair and shining flower As bright as this adorned the bower, Displayed like jewels in an hour, Where'er the vine was clinging.

As each corolla lost its twist, The zephyr fanned, the sunbeam kissed The little vase of amethyst; And round it birds were singing.

And now the little boy comes out To see his vine. He gives a shout, And sings and laughs, and jumps about Like one two-thirds demented.

His little playmates, one, two, three, Come round the beauteous vine to see, And each cries, "Give a flower to me, And I'll go off contented."

But "No," the selfish owner cried, And pushed his comrades all aside, While walking round his bower with pride, "Not one of you shall sever A floweret from the stem so gay; I own them, not to give away!

I'll come to see them every day; And keep them mine for ever!"

So, when at noon from school he came, To see his vine was first his aim: But oh! his feelings who can name, As mute he stood and eyed it?

For not a flower could he behold, While each corolla, inward rolled, Appeared as shrivelled, dead, and old As if a fire had dried it.

"Alas!" the selfish owner said, "My Glories----oh! they all are dead!

And all my little friends have fled Aggrieved! for I've abused them.

They'll keep away, and but deride My sorrow, when they hear my pride Is gone;--that quick the pleasures died Which rudely I refused them!"

=The Old Cotter and his Cow=

My good old Cow, I scarce know how Again we've wintered over; With my scant fare, And thine so spare-- No dainty dish, nor clover!

We both were old, And keen the cold; While poorly housed we found us; And by the blast That, whistling, pa.s.sed, The snows were sifted round us.

While, many a day.

Few locks of hay Were most thy crib presented, A patient Cow, And kind wast thou, And with thy mite contented.

But though the storms Have chilled our forms, And we've been pinched together, The dark, blue day Is pa.s.sed away; We've reached the warm spring weather!

The bounteous earth Is shooting forth Her gra.s.s and flowers so gayly; Thou now canst feed Along the mead, While food is growing daily.

The soft, sweet breeze Through budding trees Now fans my brow so h.o.a.ry: And these old eyes Find new supplies Of light from nature's glory.

Though poor my cot, And low my lot, With thee, my richest treasure, I take my cup, And looking up, Bless Him who gives my measure.

=The Speckled One=

Poor speckled one! none else will deign To waft thy name around; So, let me take it on my strain, To give it air and sound.

Yes--air and sound, low child of earth!

For these are oft the things That give a name its greatest worth, Its gorgeous plumes and wings.

But do not shun me thus, and hop Affrighted from my way!

Dismiss thy terrors--turn and stop; And hear what I may say.

Meek, harmless thing, afraid of man?

This truly should not be.

Then calmly pause, and let me scan My Maker's work in thee.

For both of us to Him belong; We're fellow-creatures here; And power should not be armed with wrong, Nor weakness filled with fear.

I know it is thy humble lot To burrow in a hole-- To have a form I envy not, And that without a soul.

In motion, att.i.tude and limb I see thee void of grace; And that a look supremely grim, Reigns o'er thy solemn face.

But thou for this art not to blame; Nor should it make us load With obloquy, and scorn, and shame The honest name of TOAD.

For, though so low on nature's scale-- In presence so uncouth, Thou ne'er hast told an evil tale, Of falsehood, or of truth.

Thy thoughts are ne'er on malice bent-- Nor hands to mischief p.r.o.ne; Nor yet thy heart to discontent; Though spurned, and poor and lone.

No coveting nor envy burns In thy bright golden eye, That calm and innocently turns On all below the sky.

Thy cautious tongue and sober lip No words of folly pa.s.s, Nor, are they found to taste and sip The madness of the gla.s.s.

Thy frugal meal is often drawn From earth, and wood, and stone; And when thy means by these are gone, Thou seem'st to live on none.

I hear that in an earthen jar Sealed close, shut up alive, From food, drink, air, sun, moon and star, Thou'lt live and even thrive:--

And that no moan, or murmuring sound Will issue from the lid Of thy dark dwelling under ground, When it is deeply hid.

Thou hast, as 'twere, a secret shelf, Whereon is a supply Of nourishment, within thyself, Concealed from mortal eye.

Methinks this self-sustaining art 'Twere well for us to know, To keep us up in flesh and heart, When outer means grow low.

Could we contain our riches thus, On such mysterious shelves, Why, none could rob or beggar us; Unless we lost ourselves!

But ah! my Toadie, there's the rub, With every human breast-- To live as in the cynic's tub, And yet be self-possessed!

For, how to let no boast get round Beyond our tub, to show That we in head and heart are sound, Is one great thing to know.

And yet, the prison-staves and hoop To let no murmur through, However hard we find the coop, Is greater still to do.

Then go, thou sage, resigned and calm, Amid thy low estate; And to thy burrow bear the palm For victory over fate.

We conquer, when we meekly bear The lot we cannot shape; And hug to death the ills and care From which there's no escape.

=The Blind Musician=