An infant rose from its cradle-bed,
And clung to the mother's breast,
But soon to the knee of its sire it sped :-
Love was its gift-and the angels said,
That the baby's gift was best.
Then the father spake, with a grateful air,
Of the God his youth had known;
And the mother's sigh of tender care
Went up in the shape of a wingèd prayer,
And was heard upon his throne.
THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN.
"I AM a Pebble! and yield to none!" Were the swelling words of a tiny stone ;— "Nor time nor seasons can alter me;
I am abiding while ages flee.
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain
Have tried to soften me long in vain;
And the tender dew has sought to melt
Or touch my heart, but it was not felt.
There's none that can tell about my birth,
For I'm as old as the big round earth.
The children of men arise, and pass
Out of the world, like the blades of grass;
And many a foot on me has trod,
That's gone from sight and under the sod.
I am a Pebble! but who art thou,
Rattling along from the restless bough?"
The Acorn was shock'd at this rude salute,
And lay for a moment abash'd and mute;
She never before had been so near
This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere;
And she felt for a time at a loss to know
How to answer a thing so coarse and low.
But to give reproof of a nobler sort
Than the angry look or the keen retort,
At length she said, in a gentle tone,
"Since it has happen'd that I am thrown
From the lighter element where I grew,
Down to another so hard and new,
And beside a personage so august,
Abas'd, I will cover my head with dust,
And quickly retire from the sight of one
Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor
Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel, Has ever subdued or made to feel."
And soon in the earth she slunk away, From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay.
But it was not long ere the soil was broke
By the peering head of an infant oak!
And as it arose, and its branches spread,
The Pebble look'd up, and wondering, said,
"A modest Acorn-never to tell
What was inclos'd in its simple shell!
That the pride of the forest was folded up
In the narrow space of its little cup!
And meekly to sink in the darksome earth,
Which proves that nothing could hide her
worth!
And, oh! how many will tread on me,
To come and admire the beautiful tree,
Whose head is towering towards the sky,
Above such a worthless thing as I!
Useless and vain, a cumberer here,
I have been idling from year to year.
But never, from this, shall a vaunting word
From the humbled Pebble again be heard,
Till something without me or within,
Shall show the purpose for which I've been!"
The Pebble its vow could not forget,
And it lies there wrapp'd in silence yet.
THE DOG AND THE WATER LILY.
THE noon was shady, and soft airs
Swept Ouse's silent tide,
When, 'scap'd from literary cares,
I wander'd on his side.
My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree,
(Two nymphs* adorn'd with every grace That spaniel found for me,)
Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds,
Now starting into sight,
Pursued the swallow o'er the meads
With scarce a slower flight.
* Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.
It was the time when Ouse display'd
His lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent survey'd,
And one I wish'd my own.
With cane extended far I sought
To steer it close to land;
But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escap'd my eager hand.
Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains
With fix'd considerate face,
And puzzling set his puppy brains
To comprehend the case.
But with a cherup clear and strong
Dispersing all his dream,
I thence withdrew, and follow'd long
The windings of the stream.
My ramble ended, I return'd;
Beau, trotting far before,
The floating wreath again discern'd,
And plunging, left the shore.
I saw him, with that lily cropp'd,
Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd
The treasure at my feet.
Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cried,
Shall hear of this thy deed:
My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed:
But chief myself I will enjoin,
Awake at duty's call,
To show a love as prompt as thine
To Him who gives me all.
SWEET brooklet! ever gliding-
Now high the mountain riding,
The lone vale now dividing,
Whither away?
"With pilgrim course I flow,
Or in summer's scorching glow,
Or o'er moonless wastes of snow,
Nor stop nor stay:
"For still, by high behest,
To a bright abode of rest,
On my parent Ocean's breast,
I haste away."
Many a dark morass,
Many a craggy mass,
Thy feeble force must pass,
Yet, yet delay!
"Though the marsh be dire and deep, Though the crag be stern and steep, On, on, my course must keep :
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