Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write unless he 's sent above!) THE GYPSY CHILD. He sprung to life in a crazy tent, Where the cold wind whistled through many a rent; Rude was the voice, and rough were the hands, That soothed his wailings and swathed his bands, No snowy robe for the new-born heir ; But the mother wept, and the father smiled, He grows like the young oak, healthy and broad, With no home but the forest, no bed but the sward; Half naked, he wades in the limpid stream Or dances about in the scorching beam. The dazzling glare of the banquet sheen Hath never fallen on him, I ween: But fragments are spread, and the wood-fire piled, And sweet is the meal of the gypsy child. He wanders at large, while the maidens admire They mark his cheek's rich tawny hue, pure Up with the sun, he is roving along, TIRED OF PLAY. TIRED of play! Tired of play! The sun is creeping up steeple and tree; And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves; How hast thou spent it, restless one! Playing? But what hast thou done beside What promise of morn is left uubroken? There will come an eve to a longer day, That will find thee tired, but not of play! And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now, With drooping limbs and aching brow, And wish the shadows would faster creep, Well were it then if thine aching brow A tale like this, of a day spent well. From the creeping worm to the brooding dove,- Hath plead with thy human heart unheard, - It will bring relief to thine aching brow, "WHERE children are, there is the Golden age." NOVALIS. THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. THERE is a reaper whose name is Death, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, Shall I have naught that is fair, saith he, He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. "My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," The Reaper said, and smiled: "Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child. |