Through the vista of time that intervenes;
Again I chase the winged hours
And gather thy yellow unfolding flowers,
Golden boats all afloat on a green leafy sea.
What did you say?
Orange blossom!
Adorning the bosom,
Or twined in the curl of a fair lady's hair;
Ah, sometimes you be
But a mockery;
Her lips may be false, though her brow seem so fair,
Then so many heart-aches you blossoms are.
Joy, trouble, or care is your progeny—
A various, wonderful family.
What did you say?
Pansies are fraught
With beautiful thought;
Bright thought and golden, and brilliant in hue;
Give me the blue one, that is the true one.
I'll have nothing to do
Pansy, would you—
With "genus," or "classes," or "family."
You bring a thought, a dear thought to me.
A thought, did I say?
For my botany?
No, fling it in Botany Bay.
Poppy-nepenthe
Tell me who sent thee,
To lull me to sleep o'er my botany?
So drowsy am Ĭ—
I can not tell why
Nor how-many-stamens-or-poppies I see;
When I wake I'll remember how many there be;
What did you say?
Botany?
Go fling it in Botany Bay.
PARADISE AND THE PERI.
One morn a Peri at the gate
Of Eden stood, disconsolate;
And as she listened to the Springs
Of Life within, like music flowing,
And caught the light upon her wings,
Through the half-opened portal glowing,
She wept to think her recreant race
Should e'er have lost that glorious place!
"How happy," exclaimed this child of air,
"Are the holy Spirits who wander there
'Mid flowers that shall never fade and fall;
Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea,
And the stars themselves have flowers for me,
One blossom of heaven outblooms them all!
"Though sunny the lake of cool Cashmere,
With its plane-tree isle reflected clear,
And sweetly the founts of that valley fall;
Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay,
And the golden floods that thitherward stray;
Yet-oh! 'tis only the blest can say
How the waters of heaven outshine them all!"
"Go,—wing your flight from star to star,
From world to luminous world, as far
As the universe spreads its flaming wall,
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,
And multiply each through endless years,
One minute of heaven is worth them all!"
The glorious Angel who was keeping
The gates of Light, beheld her weeping;
And, as he nearer drew and listened
To her sad song, a tear-drop glistened
Within his eyelids like the spray
From Eden's fountain, when it lies
On the blue flower, which-Brahmins say-
Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.
"Nymph of a fair but erring line!"
Gently he said-"One hope is thine.
'Tis written in the BOOK of FATE
The Peri may yet be forgiven
Who brings to this eternal gate
The gift that is most dear to Heaven!
Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin,
'Tis sweet to let the Pardoned in."
Rapidly as comets run
To the embraces of the sun,
Fleeter than the starry brands
Flung at night from angel hands,
At those dark and daring sprites
Who would climb th' empyreal heights,
Down the blue vault the Peri flies
And, lighted earthward by a glance
That just then broke from Morning's eyes,
Hung hovering o'er the world's expanse.
But whither shall the Spirit go
To find this gift from Heaven? "I know
The wealth" she cries, "of every urn
In which unnumbered rubies burn,
Beneath the pillars of Chilminar:
I know where the Isles of Perfume are,
Many a fathom down in the sea
To the south of sun-bright Araby;
I know, too, where the Genii hid
The jewel'd cup of their King Jamshid,
With Life's elixir sparkling high:
But gifts like these are not for the sky.
Where was there ever a gem that shone
Like the steps of Alla's wonderful Throne?
And the Drops of Life-oh! what would they be,
In the boundless deep of Eternity?"
While thus she mused, her pinions fann'd
The airs of the sweet Indian land,
Whose air is balm, whose ocean spreads
O'er coral rocks and amber beds;
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice
Might be a Peri's Paradise!
But crimson now her rivers ran
With human blood; the smell of death
Came reeking from those spicy bowers;
And man-the sacrifice of man-
Mingled his taint with every breath
Unwafted from the innocent flowers.
Land of the Sun! What foot invades
Thy pagods and thy pillared shades-
The cavern shrines, and idol stones,
Thy monarchs and their thousand thrones?
'Tis he of Gazna-fierce in wrath
He comes, and India's diadems
Lie scattered in his ruinous path.
His bloodhounds he adorns with gems
Torn from the violated necks
Of many a young and loved Sultana;
Maidens, within their pure Zenana;
Priests, in the very fane he slaughters,
And chokes up with the glittering wrecks
Of golden shrines the sacred waters!
Downward the Peri turns her gaze,
And through the war-field's bloody haze
Beholds a youthful warrior stand
Alone, beside his native river,
The red blade broken in his hand,
And the last arrow in his quiver.
"Live," said the Conqueror; "live to share
The trophies and the crowns I bear!"
Silent that youthful warrior stood;
Silent he pointed to the flood,
All crimson with his country's blood,
Then sent his last remaining dart,
For answer, to the Invader's heart.
False flew the shaft, though pointed well;
The Tyrant lived, the HERO fell!
Yet marked the Peri where he lay;
And when the rush of wars was past,
Swiftly descending on a ray
Of morning light, she caught the last,
Last glorious drop his heart had shed
Before its free-born spirit fled!
"Be this," she cried, and winged her flight, "My welcome gift at the Gates of Light.
Though foul are the drops that oft distill
On the field of warfare, blood like this
For liberty shed, so holy is
It would not stain the purest rill
That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss!
Oh! if there be on this earthly sphere
A boon, an offering heaven holds dear,
'Tis the last libation Liberty draws
From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!"
"Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave
The gift into his radiant hand,
"Sweet is our welcome of the brave
Who die thus for their native land;
But see, alas! the crystal bar
Of Eden moves not; holier far
Than even this drop the boon must be
That opes the gates of heaven for thee!"
To have bangs or not to have bangs, that's the question. Whether it is better to suffer the outrageous bangs or take up arms against the sea of troubles and end them, is a serious consideration. You may take a pious Christian girl, bang her hair, and she will do some hideous deviltry in nine hours. The girl is no more responsible for her meanness than is any other lunatic. She can't help it. Bangs completely derange the little sinner and are the sole cause of her impudence. Sampson's strength lay in his hair. A girl's deviltry is in her bangs; they change the whole nature of her and lead her whithersoever they will.
Dislodge the bangs and the girl will return to the path of rectitude. The longer the bangs the meaner the possessor, and the uglier.
Some of us boys once put a board over the face of the gentlest cow on the farm, a cow that had a wide reputation for order, sobriety and quietude. In an hour that cow was tearing through the fences like a tornado, shook her head at everything and seemed to say:
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