Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy-
Blessings on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod.
Happy if their track be found.
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
TIRED of play! tired of play!
What hast thou done this livelong day?
The bird is hushed, and so is the bee,
The sun is creeping up steeple and tree;
The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves,
And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves;
Twilight gathers, and day is done; -
How hast thou spent it, precious one?
Playing? - But what hast thou done beside,
To tell thy mother at eventide ?
What promise of morn is left unbroken?
What kind word to thy playmate spoken?
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?
How with thy faults has duty striven?
What hast thou learned by field and hill,
By green-wood path, and by singing rill?
There will come an eve to a longer day,
That will find thee tired, but not of play.
Well for thee then, if thy lip can tell
A tale like this of a day spent well.
If thine open hand hath relieved distress,
If thy pity hath sprung at wretchedness,
If thou hast forgiven the sore offence,
And humbled thy heart with penitence;
If Nature's voices have spoken to thee
With their holy meanings, eloquently;
If every creature hath won thy love,
From the creeping worm to the brooding dove,
And never a sad, low-spoken word.
Hath plead with thy human heart unheard,—
Then, when the night steals on as now,
It will bring relief to thine aching brow,
And with joy and peace at the thought of rest,
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.
"Nor to myself alone,"
The little opening flower transported cries,-
"Not to myself alone I bud and bloom;
With fragrant breath the breezes I perfume,
And gladden all things with my rainbow dyes.
The bee comes sipping, every eventide,
His dainty fill;
The butterfly within my cup doth hide
From threatening ill."
The circling star with honest pride doth boast, "Not to myself alone I rise and set;
I write upon night's coronal of jet
His power and skill who formed our myriad host;
A friendly beacon at heaven's open gate,
I gem the sky,
That man might ne'er forget, in every fate,
His home on high."
The heavy-laden bee doth murmuring hum,-
"Not to myself alone, from flower to flower,
I rove the wood, the garden, and the bower,
And to the hive at evening weary come :
For man, for man, the luscious food I pile,
With busy care,
Content if I repay my ceaseless toil
With scanty share.”
"Not to myself alone,”
The soaring bird with lusty pinion sings,
"Not to myself alone I raise my song;
I cheer the drooping with my warbling tongue,
And bear the mourner on my viewless wings;
I bid the hymnless churl my anthem learn,
And God adore;
I call the worldling from his dross to turn,
And sing and soar."
The streamlet whispers on its pebbly way,
"Not to myself alone I sparkling glide;
I scatter health and life on every side,
And strew the fields with herb and floweret gay.
I sing unto the common, bleak and bare,
My gladsome tune;
I sweeten and refresh the languid air
In droughty June."
O man! forget not thou-earth's honored priest,
Its tongue, its soul, its lip, its pulse, its heart-
In earth's great chorus to sustain thy part!
Chiefest of guests at love's ungrudging feast,
Play not the niggard; spurn thy native clod,
And self disown;
Live to thy neighbor, live unto thy God;
Not to thyself alone!
|