THE FULNESS OF THE YEAR.
FLEETLY hath pass'd the year. The seasons came
Duly as they were wont-the gentle Spring,
And the delicious Summer, and the cool,
Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain,
And Winter, like an old and hoary man,
Frosty and stiff-and so were chronicled.
We have read gladness in the new green leaf,
And in the first-blown violets; we have drunk
Cool water from the rock, and in the shade
Sunk to the noontide slumber; we have pluck'd
The mellow fruitage of the bending tree,
And girded to our pleasant wanderings
When the cool wind came freshly from the hills;
And when the tinting of the autumn leaves
Had faded from its glory, we have sat
By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced
Over the fulness of the gather'd sheaf.
"God hath been very good!" 'Tis He whose hand
Moulded the sunny hills, and hollow'd out
The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep
The fountains in their secret places cool;
And it is He who leadeth up the sun,
And ordereth the starry influences,
And tempereth the keenness of the frost;
And therefore, in the plenty of the feast,
And in the lifting of the cup, let Him
Have praises for the well-completed year.
-American.
N. P. WILLIS, 1807-
I TOLD thee, soul, that joy and woe
Were but a gust, a passing dew,-
I told thee so,—I told thee so,-
And oh, my soul! the tale was true.
This mortal life, a fleeting thing,
When most we love, it swiftest flies:
It passes like a shade and dies;
And while it flaps its busy wing,
It scatters every mist that lies
Round human hopes;-all air and dew,I told thee so,-I told thee so,
And oh, my soul! the tale was true.
Like the dry leaf that autumn's breath
Sweeps from the tree,—the mourning tree :
So swiftly and so certainly
Our days are blown about by death;
For life is built on vanity;
Renewing days but death renew,-
I told thee so,-I told thee so,-
And oh, my soul! the tale was true.
Oh, let us seize on what is stable,
And not on what is shifting; all
Rushes down life's vast waterfall,
On to that sea interminable
Which has no shore. Earth's pleasures pall;
But heaven is safe and sacred too :
I told thee so,-I told thee so,—
And oh, my soul! the tale was true.
ON FINDING ONE IN FULL BLOOM ON CHRISTMAS-DAY,
THERE is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine;
Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and decline.
But this small flower, to Nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the Sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.
The purple heath and golden broom On moory mountains catch the gale, O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, The violet in the gale.
But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultured round It shares the sweet carnation's bed, And blooms on consecrated ground In honour of the dead.
The lambkin crops its crimson gem, The wild bee murmurs on its breast, The blue-fly bends its pensile stem, Light o'er the sky-lark's nest.
'Tis Flora's page ;-in every place,
In every season fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere.
On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The Rose has but a summer reign,
The DAISY never dies.
JAMES MONTGOMERY, 1771-1854.
GOD, THE GIVER OF ALL GOOD!
ETERNAL God, of beings First,
Of all created good the Spring,
For Thee I long, for Thee I thirst,
My Love, my Saviour, and my King!
Thine is a never-failing store:
If God be mine, I ask no more.
The fairest world of light on high
Reflection makes but faint of Thine ;
The glorious tenants of the sky
In God's own beams transported shine: But, shouldst Thou wrap Thy face in shade, Soon all their life and lustre fade.
Thy presence makes celestial day,
And fills each raptured soul with bliss ;
Night would prevail, were God away,
And spirits pine in Paradise!
In vain would all the angels try
To fill Thy room, Thy lack supply.
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