Читать книгу Gems of Poetry, for Girls and Boys - Unknown - Страница 1

"The flowers are blooming everywhere,

On every hill and dell,

And O, how beautiful they are!

How sweetly, too, they smell!

"The little brooks, they dance along,

And look so glad and gay;

I love to hear their pleasant song,

I feel as glad as they.

"The young lambs bleat and frisk about,

The bees hum round their hive,

The butterflies are coming out,—

'Tis good to be alive.

"The trees, that looked so stiff and gray,

With green wreaths now are hung;

O mother! let me laugh and play,

I cannot hold my tongue.

"See yonder bird spread out his wings,

And mount the clear blue skies;

And hark! how merrily he sings,

As far away he flies."

"Go forth, my child, and laugh and play,

And let your cheerful voice,

With birds, and brooks, and merry May,

Cry aloud, Rejoice! rejoice!

"I would not check your bounding mirth,

My little happy boy,

For He who made this blooming earth

Smiles on an infant's joy."

I am monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute,

From the centre all round to the sea,

I am lord of the fowl and the brute.

O solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?

Better dwell in the midst of alarms

Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone,

Never hear the sweet music of speech,—

I start at the sound of my own.

The beasts, that roam over the plain,

My form with indifference see,

They are so unacquainted with man,

Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestowed upon man,

O had I the wings of a dove.

How soon would I taste you again!

My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth,

Might learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheered by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold

Resides in that heavenly word!

More precious than silver or gold,

Or all that this earth can afford.

But the sound of the church-going bell

These valleys and rocks never heard,

Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell,

Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared.

Ye winds, that have made me your sport,

Convey to this desolate shore

Some cordial endearing report,

Of a land I shall visit no more.

My friends, do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me?

O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!

Compared with the speed of its flight,

The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light.

When I think of my own native land,

In a moment I seem to be there;

But, alas! recollection, at hand,

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest.