The Snow Drop by Sarah S. Mower
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Sarah S. Mower >> The Snow Drop
As many children God had given,
As good old Jacob had;
That he might meet them all in heaven,
How fervently he prayed.
What deep emotions filled my breast,
That scene my spirit stirred;
Will not that family be blessed,
That prayer in heaven be heard?
Though oft his duty calls abroad,
Salvation's news to bear,
The father leaves his charge with God,
Confiding in his care.
AN APPEAL FOR IRELAND.
"Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shall find it after many
days."--_Ecel_. xi; 1.
Hark! hear the cry of Erin's sons,
By plague and famine frantic;
The wail of wives and little ones
Comes o'er the broad Atlantic.
O, heed the bitter piercing cry,
That's pealing o'er the ocean;
To us, to us, for aid they fly,
As Israel fled to Goshen.
List! hear that sad and mournful sound,
It is the parent sighing;
Beside him, on the damp cold ground.
His darling ones are lying.
A nation sinking to the grave;
How thick death's shafts are flying!
The loved, the lovely, and the brave,
From want are daily dying.
They're calling to Columbia's sons,
And to her happy daughters;
Take of your bread, ye favor'd ones,
And cast it on the waters.
THE LITTLE CLOUD.
All day the rain has patter'd down,
In dense dark folds, clouds hang around,
The humid air is dead and still,
Thick vapors veil the distant hill.
But now, a little crimson cloud
Beams from an opening in the shroud,
Which, like a dusky pall, o'erspreads
The azure vault above our heads.
Our fancy, while we gaze, takes wings
And flits around earth's brighter things,
Then whispers in our list'ning ears,
"This earth is not all sighs and tears."
This cloud is like the robin's song,
Whose notes were hushed all winter long,
But comes to usher in the hours,
Whose genial warmth revives the flowers.
Or like the south wind's gentle voice,
Bidding all nature's works rejoice,
Teaching the little birds, to sing
A serenade to blooming spring.
Like budding flowers where thorns once grew,
And beauty bursting into view
Where all was dark, and drear, and wild,
Nor pleasures in prospective smiled.
'Tis like the smile that beams through tears,
When hope usurps the place of fears;
Like health, new sparkling in the eye
Of him, whom friends gave up to die.
Faint emblem of the glory shed
Around the dying christian's bed,
That prelude to the dazzling light
Which bursts on his enraptured sight,
When the freed spirit soars above,
And faith is swallowed up in love.
LEWISTON,
AS IT WAS, AND AS IT IS.
It was a wild, sequestered spot,
With here and there a humble cot;
Yet, nature's richest robes were thrown
Around those hills and valleys lone.
'Twas quiet, fair, and lovely, then,
Though beasts of prey and savage men
Roamed o'er those hills of graceful form,
Whose trees for ages braved the storm,
Yet, humbly stooping to behold
The broad majestic stream, that rolled
Through smiling mead and woody plain,
Fast speeding onward to the main,
Or, dashing from its rocky height,
Proclaims the great Creator's might,
Its deep toned music, strangely meet
To mingle with the anthem sweet,
That floated on each whisp'ring breeze,
Which came, soft stealing through the trees
That grew upon the winding shore,
In giant ranks, in days of yore.
When genial spring her magic spell,
Cast 'round each lovely woodland dell,
And woke to life the warbling throng,
While streamlets gaily danced along;
If such a spot on earth be found,
Those hills and vallies all around
Smiled, like the paradise of God,
When first by sinless beings trod.
Thus, rude, romantic, grand, sublime,
Was Lewiston, in olden time.
But Art and Genius, passing by,
Saw this fair spot neglected lie,
Then said, in deep emotion's tone,
"Shall these bright waves go dancing on,
Just like a thoughtless child at play,
Who throws his strength and skill away?"
Anon, they raised the useful mills,
The sparkling waters moved the wheels,
And industry, with cheerful air,
Was pleased to take her station there.
The proud old forest bowed, his head,
With sullen frowns the savage fled,
The timid beaver left the shore,
The deer and moose were seen no more.
Rich cultivated fields appeared.
Neat tasteful dwellings soon were reared,
In graceful ranks we see them stand,
With spacious streets on either hand.
Where once the Indian's wigwam stood,
The factory, with its busy crowd,
Dispenses blessings far and near,
While rich and poor its products share.
Here merchandise, with eagle eyes,
His own and others' wants supplies;
And science, like a swelling tide,
Diffuses knowledge far and wide.
The sweetly pealing sabbath bells,
Now echo round those hills and dells,
And call the villagers to meet
Where they enjoy communion sweet,
With Him who answers ev'ry prayer
That humble faith can utter there.
There's music in those sabbath bells,
This pleasing truth methinks they tell,
That God is held in rev'rence there,
And worshiped in His house of prayer.
In the fair background now are seen
Sweet hills and dales, all robed in green,
With here and there a pleasant grove
Where every class delights to rove;
There, age sits down beneath the shade,
Where he has oft in childhood strayed;
There, youths and maidens often walk,
To spend an hour in friendly talk;
There, little children, too, are seen,
Like lambs they gambol o'er the green;
They wander there in summer hours
In quest of birds' nests, fruit, and flowers.
The scholar loves this solitude,
Where tumult never dares intrude;
And here the stranger likes to roam,
And think of loved ones left at home.
The saint, at twilight's pensive hour,
Here seeks the sweet secluded bower;
While whisp'ring zephyrs linger near,
And waft to heaven the humble prayer.
And all who study nature's book,
On this fair page delight to look;
They'll range those hills and vallies o'er,
And trace the river's winding shore.
Nor can they e'er forget to look
Upon the little murm'ring brook,
Which, like a silver belt, winds round
The hill, with oak and elm trees crowned.
But that majestic waterfall,
In grandeur still surpasses all.
Should Art and Genius there assemble,
With solemn awe they'd stand and tremble;
Than all their works, they'd own this greater,
And bow before the great Creator.
TWILIGHT MUSINGS.
BY AMELIA.
I wandered out one summer night,
'Twas when my years were few,
The wind was singing in the light,
And I was singing too.
One fleecy cloud upon the air,
Was all that met my eyes,
It floated like an angel there,
Between me and the skies.
I clapped my hands and warbled wild,
As here and there I flew,
For I was but a careless child,
And did as children do.
I heard the laughing wind behind,
'Twas playing with my hair;
The breezy fingers of the wind,
How cool and moist they were.
The twilight hours came stealing by,
And still I wandered free;
Ten thousand stars were in the sky,
Ten thousand on the sea.
For ev'ry wave with dimpled face,
That leaped upon the air,
Had caught a star in its embrace,
And held it trembling there.
But wherefore weave such strains as these,
And sing them day by day,
When every bird upon the breeze
Can sing a sweeter lay.
I'd give the world for their sweet art.
The simple, the divine;
I'd give the world to melt one heart,
As they have melted mine.
TO AMELIA.
And wouldst thou, sweet minstrel, if earth should unfold
To thee all her treasures of silver and gold,
Resign all thy riches, thy wealth, fame and power,
To sing like the birds in the green woodland bower?
Like thee, dear Amelia, I love the wild bird,
Their soft melting strains, at grey twilight, I've heard;
The whippowils, then, on the cool zephyr's wing,
Their clear pensive notes in rich harmony fling.
I listen each morning with heartfelt delight,
While birds bid adieu to the shadows of night.
And greet in sweet anthems the bright king of day,
As they through the forest are soaring away.
Yet thy flowing numbers, when breathing around,
Awaken such echoes as these never found;
A chord in my bosom, thy sonnet has stirred,
Which never was touched by the notes of a bird.
But meekness in woman to me is so dear,
I love thee the more when such language I hear;
True greatness and modesty, when they combine,
Like stars of the firmament sparkle and shine.
The birds of the forest thy spirits can cheer,
Their songs fill with music thy sensitive ear,
But has that fair dove in thy heart found a nest,
Whose singing can make thee eternally blest?
MOONLIGHT MUSINGS.
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY VIEWING A ROW OF FINE TREES NEAR
MY DWELLING.
These youthful pines, a verdant row,
Cast their dark shadows on the snow;
Just like a picture, or a dream,
Or tale of fairy lands, they seem.
I hear a soft melodious lay,
The winds are with their tops at play;
While moonbeams through their branches stealing,
Wake up a wild romantic feeling.
The forest birds in spring will come,
'Neath these green boughs to make their home,
To cheer us with their sweet wild song,
To build their nests and rear their young.
Child of the wood, in infancy,
I learned to love the forest tree;
I'm still the same romantic creature,
Admiring all the works of nature.
The rocks, the fields, the groves and flowers,
Are fraught with some mysterious powers,
That bind me with a pleasing spell,
Which naught can break while here I dwell.
The wild bird's note, the woodland dell,
Have charms beyond my power to tell;
While winds are through the forest roaring,
My spirit with the sound seems soaring.
The rosy morn, the sunset sky,
The glitt'ring retinue on high,
The sun's broad blaze, the moon's mild beams,
Reflected from the lakes and streams,
The lightning's flash, the thunder's roar,
The ocean dashing on the shore,
And meteors streaming through the air,
Proclaim that God is everywhere.
THOUGHTS
SUGGESTED BY VIEWING A PETUNIA.
Fair plant, well pleased on thee I look,
Thou art a page in nature's book,
Which I delight to read;
Though stoics set thee quite at naught,
And say that none but children ought
On such vain trifles spend a thought,
Their words I little heed.
A child I'd ever wish to be,
With an instructer just like thee,
And listen to her voice;
Fain wouldst thou our best passions move,
And lead our wandering thoughts above,
Where, at the fount of boundless love,
We ever might rejoice.
Our tender care thou dost repay,
Though watched and guarded night and day,
Thus teaching thoughtless man;
When thou art nursed and watered well,
Thy bursting buds with fragrance swell,
And thus the grateful story tell,
That we do all we can.
Thy blooming petals love the light.
The sun smiles on them, they grow bright,
Withdraws his beams, they faint;
Yet, when beneath his radiant gaze,
The modest blush that o'er them plays,
To every thinking mind, portrays
The contrite, humble saint.
Sweet plant, I love thee, yes, I do,
And all thy blooming kindred too,
(More than the works of art,)
For in them, I can ever find
Such beauty, skill and power combined,
As captivate and soothe the mind,
And cheer the drooping heart.
Fair gift, by royal donor given,
dipped in the radiant dyes of heaven,
And strown o'er every land,
Ye shed your fragrance o'er the tomb,
Steal from deep solitude its gloom,
And when the gardener gives you room,
You bless his fostering hand.
Not Newton, though he soared so high,
And traced the planets through the sky,
With such amazing power,
Nor Franklin, whom we praise so loud,
Though lightnings in their misty shroud,
Obeyed his voice and left the cloud,
Could make the simplest flower.
Nor could the chemist's skill suffice
To mingle such exquisite dyes,
As in the flowers appear;
And were all human powers combined,
And centred in one single mind,
Its best productions, we should find,
Stand halting in the rear.
When, veiled in flesh, God dwelt below,
He deigned his watchful care to show,
For man's ungrateful race;
When sin their drowsy eyes had sealed,
He took the lily of the field,
And bade them think what that revealed,
And learn to trust his grace.
The garden which Jehovah planned,
And planted with his own right hand,
Was decked with fragrant flowers;
And shall we boast that we now slight
What God designed to give delight,
Ere sin had cast its with'ring blight
O'er all our mental powers?
TO A WHITE HOLLYHOCK.
Sweet plant, so fair, so pure thy blossoms look,
I almost fancy that some angel, from
His wing the feathers plucked, and of them, at
The twilight hour, thy snowy petals made.
But fancy leads astray. Not one of all
That shining throng, which worship 'round the throne,
Could e'er such work perform. None but the hand
Divine, these curious fabrics wrought.
LINES
SUGGESTED BY VIEWING THE MINIATURE OF A PAIR OF LOVELY
TWIN BOYS, WHO WERE DEPRIVED OF THEIR MOTHER AT THE
AGE OF TWO MONTHS, AND WERE THE ONLY REMAINING CHILDREN
OF THEIR FATHER.
I gaze upon this picture fair,
And find strange beauty mirrored there;
Its magic spell with power is fraught,
To ope the fount of hidden thought.
Sweet childhood's opening blossoms here,
In all their loveliness appear;
Pure innocence, with touching grace,
Smiles in each feature of the face,
Like rosy morning's cheerful rays,
O'er childhood's artless brow, it plays.
The lips, half open, almost speak,
While on the fresh, young, dimpled cheek,
The bloom is like those vernal flowers,
Whose fragrance fills our woodland bowers.
Those speaking eyes the power have caught,
To mirror forth the germs of thought;
Their silent language, deep and strong,
Can touch the hidden springs of song;
Their melting beams can reach the mind,
Where they our best affections find.
Why did these twin-born, smiling boys,
Come here to wake maternal joys,
In that fond, faithful mother's breast,
Where they could but a moment rest?
With love too deep for words to speak,
She pressed each tender infant cheek,
With quivering lips and falt'ring breath,
Before the opening gates of death,
While faintly burned the vital spark,
Within life's frail and shattered bark,
Just mooring in the port of bliss,
She paused to steal one last, fond kiss.
In death's embrace those lips were cold,
Ere half their thrilling tale was told;
The mother and her babes must part,
Before the tender infant heart,
By her soft winning tones, had learned
What love within her bosom burned
Before her counsels, blessed and wise,
Could train her offspring to the skies.
Sweet babes! so helpless, frail and fair,
Why here, without her watchful care?
Your sainted brother never wept
Beside the grave, where loved ones slept,
While clouds were gathering round his head,
He to the Savior's bosom fled.
Then why not plume your tiny wings,
And soar to where your mother sings?
Why tarry on this barren shore;
Till waves of trouble round you roar?
Ah! now I know; you linger here,
Your father's lonely hours to cheer.
Death would not pluck the last fair flower,
That bloomed in his connubial bower;
He fondly loves his orphan boys,
They half restore his withered joys.
Sweet rosebuds, springing from the tomb,
Long round his hearthstone may you bloom,
With smiles of love your father greet,
And fill your mother's vacant seat.
THE CULTIVATION OF FLOWERS.
Where can we find a more healthy and delightful employment, than the
cultivation of flowers? Though of less importance than those plants
which are necessary for the support of animal life, yet, rightly
considered, they yield a pleasant and instructive entertainment for the
intellectual powers, and may justly be termed food for the mind.
"Nonsense" some of our readers exclaim, "Nonsense, to talk of feeding
the immortal mind, with flowers! For one, I think people may find some
more useful employment than that of persuading their fellow beings to
spend the precious hours of this _short_ life upon these useless
playthings."
But pause, my readers, and consider who gave this finishing touch to the
face of nature. Who strewed the fields with flowers? Were they not
brought into existence by the same All-wise Being who created the earth
upon which we dwell, with its millions of intelligent beings, its vast
oceans, its towering mountains, its flaming volcanoes and its majestic
rivers with their awe inspiring cataracts; who created the sun, that
great fountain of light and heat, and the centre of attraction for those
vast globes which revolve around it, and then counterpoised with such
precision the different forces which produce and continue their motion,
that they continue to perform their appointed revolutions, without the
least deviation from that orbit, in which they were placed at creation's
dawn; who "made the stars also," that innumerable multitude of fixed
stars, or suns with their attending planets which inhabit the boundless
regions of space; whose wonderful works are so numerous as to overwhelm
the feeble mind of man, and to compel him to conclude at the
commencement, by saying that they are infinite? And shall we be so
impious as to hush the voice of reason, and disregard the words of holy
writ enough to say, that even the little violet was made in vain? I
should sooner believe that Washington, the father of our country, while
the destiny of our nation was placed, as it were, in his hands, was in
the habit of deserting his army while on the battle field, engaged in
the most bloody conflict with a mortal foe, for the sole purpose of
amusing himself with soap bubbles and firebrand ribbons.
"But," says one, "they were created for a scourge and a snare to fallen
man; for while we are compelled to spend much of our time in destroying
thorns and thistles from our premises, they are continually tempting the
weaker part of our race to spend their strength and time upon that,
which at best, can yield no profit." But against this assertion, the
scriptures afford us ample proof, for we are there informed, that they
were created before the fall, and pronounced very good, while thorns and
thistles were brought forth afterwards; for the Lord said, when
pronouncing the curse upon Adam, "Cursed be the ground for thy sake,
thorns and thistles shall it bring forth unto thee," thus implying that
they were not already in existence. And again, flowers are universally
spoken of in scripture as blessings, or used as emblems of things
valuable or pleasing, while thorns and thistles are always used to
represent things hurtful, or afflictive. And if any part of nature's
works retain their native purity and remain unchanged, save by the hand
of death, is it not flowers? It is true, they neither supply us with
food or clothing, and if they possess medical qualities, they might as
well be contained in the plant without the appendage of a flower. Nor
were they made for the fowls of the air, or the beasts of the field, for
they totally disregard them; we never see the ox, the horse, or the
sheep, stop to smell their fragrance or gaze upon their beauty. And many
of those who are termed the lords of creation, consider them beneath the
notice of intellectual beings, and yet they were made for some wise
purpose. We will therefore admit the truth of an assertion made by a
friend, who remarked that flowers were doubtless created for the sole
purpose of gratifying the weak and childish minds of the female sex. Be
it so, let us thankfully receive the gift, and think ourselves honored
by being thought worthy of the fairest and sweetest part of nature's
productions; for which she has reserved her most grateful perfumes, her
richest dyes, and the finest strokes of her pencil. Yes, we _will_
cultivate flowers, for we do not profess to be more scrupulous about the
manner in which we spend our time than the Lord of the universe was,
for he planted flowers in _his_ garden. The scriptures inform us that he
planted every tree that was pleasant to the sight. And flowers certainly
were pleasant, even to the pure eyes of our Savior; for while speaking
of the lilies of the field, he says, "Even Solomon, in all his glory,
was not arrayed like one of these." And the wisest of men, when
searching the world over for comparisons worthy of his beloved, exclaims
in the fullness of a heart overflowing with love and gratitude, "He is
the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valley."
Sweet flowers, there is room enough for you in the female mind. We will
take you to our bosoms and cherish you with that affectionate regard,
which your lovely qualities deserve. We will admire your spotless purity
and innocence. You were thought worthy of a place in the blissful bowers
of Eden. And for aught we know, ye were the only part of nature's works
which were created solely for the purpose of charming the mind and
gratifying the senses of sinless beings. And may we make a profitable
use of these lovely relics of paradise! May they continually remind us
of the skill, wisdom and goodness of the great Architect of the
universe!
Where can we find a more transparent medium through which we may "look
through nature up to nature's God," than a veil interwoven with flowers?
When fatigued in body, where can we find a more pleasant resting place
than beneath the cool shade of an arbor, in the flower garden? When our
spirits are depressed or our minds perplexed with distracting care,
thither let us repair: it will prove a more effectual remedy than on
hour spent in gossipping, or an evening in the ball room. It can but
exert a healthful influence over the mind, to inhale such exquisite
odors, and gaze upon such beautiful colors and delicate tints, combined
with gracefulness and elegance of form. The art of man has long been
striving to imitate them, but the simplest flower that blooms still
eclipses their best performances. And yet the gorgeous canopy that decks
the monarch's throne owes half its splendor to the imperfect miniature
of the inhabitants of the flower garden.
And strange as it appears, how often do we see persons, who would blush
were they seen contemplating the simple beauties of a delicate flower,
pride themselves in embellishing their dwellings and equipage with its
coarsely wrought picture. But while they are pleasing themselves with
the shadow, we will feast ourselves on the substance.
"I am weary of this lecture upon flowers," the stoical reader exclaims:
If so, my friend, you are at liberty to retire to any place of
entertainment which your better judgment may suggest; but I will lay
aside my pen to walk among the flowers; and see if some of those silent,
though eloquent preachers, will not furnish the mind with some new idea,
which may serve as a foundation for another discourse.
MUSIC OF THE MIND.
What is music of the mind? Is it the soft harmonious strains of the
little minstrel which often steals into some secret nook within the
heart, and there tunes her silent harp to notes of sweetest melody?
Though we never hear her melting lays, yet persons in every station,
from the king upon his throne to the beggar by the wayside, and the rude
untutored savage roaming through his native forest, often experience
that exquisite pleasure produced by her magic spell.
We are continually surrounded by scenes calculated to produce this
music. The variegated scenery of different landscapes; the changing
seasons of the year; Spring with her balmy air, soft refreshing showers,
green fields, fragrant flowers, and merry cheerful birds; Summer, with
her sultry days, her cool inviting shades, her waving fields, and
delicious fruits; and Autumn, with his rich golden harvest, bright
pensive dreamy days, and clear moonlight evenings, have power to rouse
the minstrel from her slumbers; and even rude old Winter, clothed in
clouds and storms and drifting snows, can with his icy fingers sweep her
silent harp strings and wake their wildest melody.
We retire beneath the sacred shade of some ancient forest, and look upon
nature as she stands forth arrayed in all the charms of her primeval
beauty; where art has never plucked her native bloom, and tinged her
cheek with carmine. We there gaze upon the tall old trees, which have
for centuries been towering higher and higher, till they seem ambitious
to wave their lofty tops among the very clouds of heaven. We quench our
thirst with the sparkling waters of the pure spring, which bubbles up
cool and clear from its crystal fountain, washing the roots of the
trees, and trickling over the ground in bright streams, like threads of
molten silver, till they unite in one of those beautiful streamlets
which lend such enchantment to the woodland bowers; here, murmuring
melodiously among smooth rocks and bright pebbles, while the dimpling
eddies upon its surface reflect the rays of laughing sunshine which
quiver through the leafy canopy above; there, dashing over a projecting
rock forming a little cascade, and then flowing smoothly along, bearing
upon its tranquil bosom the fair images of the flowers which spring up
along its banks, upon the sloping hill-side and in every shady nook and
dell, smiling in strange beauty among the stern features of the woodland
scene. Sweet flowers, so fair and fragile, that they flourish only when
sheltered from the rude blast and pelting storm by some friendly shade,
and so modest and retiring in their habits, that they shun the open
field, where they must encounter the scrutinizing gaze of the noonday
sun, and choose this sweet seclusion for their home.