Then begged that I would deign to wave
My verdant branches o'er his grave.
And since the polished white man came,
He's loved and honored me the same;
Though all the neighboring trees around
Were slain, as cumberers of the ground,
Yet here I tower in grandeur still,—
The pride and glory of the hill.
My dauntless spirits never quail
At earthquakes, hurricanes, or hail;
The rolling thunder's fiery car
Has never dared my form to mar;
I've heard its rumbling undismayed,
While forked lightnings round me played;
But O, thou little murm'ring brook,
How mean and meager is thy look;—
Babbling, babbling, all day long,—
How I detest thy simple song.
I would not have thee in my sight,
Did not all nobles claim a right
To keep some menial servant near,
And therefore 'tis that thou art here.
As I am always very neat.
I'll deign to let thee wash my feet;—
Such work becomes one in thy place,—
To drudge for me is no disgrace."
The spirit of the brook was stirred,
But still her voice had not been heard,
Had not a zephyr, ling'ring round,
In friendly mood, caught up the sound,
And flying round the monarch's head,
Breathed in his ear the words she said.
The streamlet, with a deep drawn sigh,
In silv'ry tones, made this reply:
"Illustrious oak, pray deign to hear,
'Twill not disgrace thee—none are near,
And I this once a word would say,
As I am wending on my way;—
Behold that path wind through the grass,
Where many by thee daily pass;
See, where it ends, just on my brink,
Then frankly tell what thou dost think.
Both man and beast, when they are dry,
Come here and find a rich supply;
And many come for pleasure too,
When they have nothing else to do.
Bright pebbles in my waters lie,
Which have a charm in childhood's eye;
And little children stray from home,
Upon my sunny shores to roam;—
With me they play their artless pranks,
And gather flowers along my banks;—
Sweet flowers that shun thy gloomy shade,
And hither come to ask my aid.
The poet loves my 'simple song';—
With me he often tarries long;
He tells me that he wanders here,
To catch some new and bright idea,
Which makes his tuneful numbers roll,
In music that enchants the soul.
And people too of every class,
Come here their leisure hours to pass;
I often feel the warm embrace
Of ruby lips upon my face,
For those who never bend the knee
To haughty monarchs, just like thee,
Will fall down prostrate at my side.
And kiss the face thou dost deride.
Thou sayest, thou art very neat,
And I, the slave to wash thy feet!
Should all the streamlets cease to flow,
Not one on earth could e'er be so.
Our strength propels the busy mills,
And all the land with plenty fills,—
They bring, some silver—others gold—
And shield the poor from winter's cold.
The vapors, which from us ascend,
To vegetation are a friend;—
In dew they soon descend again,
Or fall in fruitful showers of rain.
Were there no brooks, there'd be no bread—
Then tell me, how could man be fed?
No man, nor beast, or plant, or flower,
Without us could survive an hour;—
The feathered songsters of the grove.
Would cease to chant their notes of love.
Earth would become a scene of gloom—
One vast extended direful tomb.—
And I must tell thee, ere I go,
That thy proud head would soon lie low,—
Thou 'dst fade and wither, droop and die,
And in the dust neglected lie.
Yet still no praise belongs to me—
I do not sympathize with thee;
I never can be proud and vain,
And imitate thy boasting strain;
But humbly on my way I'll plod,
For I receive my strength from God."
MORAL.
These farmers and mechanics, here,
Much like the little brook appear;
Reared 'midst fair Franklin's hills and dells,
Where proud ambition seldom dwells;
They view their hands for labor made,
And think that God should be obeyed;
Then grasp the plough and till the soil—
It yields rich fruit, and corn, and oil,
By which the multitude are fed.
And blessings o'er the land are spread.
Mechanics next should take a stand
Beside the yeoman of our land;
Where'er enlightened men are found,
They're showering blessings all around.
Yet time would fail should I rehearse
Their brave exploits, in simple verse;
But there's a class, (I hope not here,)
Who, like the boasting oak, appear;
They think their hands were never made
To wield the distaff, plough, or spade;—
Their taper fingers, soft and fair,
Are made to twine their silken hair,
Or place upon a brow of snow,
Their gold and diamond rings, to show.
Their dainty lips can sip ice-cream,
Or open with convulsive scream,
Whene'er they meet the farmer's cow,
The ox, or steer, which draws the plough.
Should the mechanic's labor cease,
'Twould wound their pride—destroy their peace;
Their flaunting garments, light and frail,
Would quickly fade, wear out and fail.
Soon, soon, they'd come with humbled pride,
To him whom they could once deride,
To ask a shelter from the storm,
And clothes to keep their bodies warm.
Should farmers their rich stores withhold,
Their lily hands would soon grow cold;—
No more their lips would curl with scorn,
At him who grows and brings them corn;---
You'd see them kneeling at his feet,
To beg for something more to eat;
And plead with him their lives to save,
And snatch them from an opening grave.
Now let us, like the little brook
We've heard of in the fable,
Employ our hearts, our heads and hands,
In doing what we're able;
Till all Columbia praise our deeds,
And nations, o'er the waters,
Will tune their harps and chant their song,
For Franklin's sons and daughters.
A HYMN.
COMPOSED FOR A DONATION GATHERING.
The armies of Isr'el round Mount Sinai stood,
And heard, 'midst its thunders, the voice of their God;
All silent and awe-struck they heard the command—
"Bring unto the Lord the first fruits of your land."
These words are as sacred, their import the same—
As when they came pealing through Sinai's dread flame,—
The banner of Jesus should soon be unfurled,
And waving in triumph all over the world.
Salvation's glad tidings! Oh send them abroad!
And tell the poor pagan that there is a God!
Let those who are toiling in dark heathen lands,
Find Christians all ready to strengthen their hands.
Yet let not your gifts and your offerings all roam;—
Remember the servant of Jesus at home;
He's spending his strength and his life in the cause,—
From wells of salvation pure water he draws.
The wells are our Father's, but still they're so deep,
That shepherds are needed to water the sheep;
And shall they thus labor and toil for our good,
And we not supply them with clothing and food?
How can we still hope that our souls are new born,
And muzzle the oxen which tread out the corn!—
Did God care for oxen, or did he say thus,
Designing to give some instruction to us?
St. Paul has explained it and told what to do—
"Who preaches the gospel must live of it too;"
Some say, were we able we'd give with delight;
But think of the widow who cast in her mite!
What though we've no money to pamper our pride,
She kept not a penny for wants unsupplied;
Yet Jesus beheld her and sanction'd the deed,
And promis'd in future to shield her from need.
Cast your bread on the waters; obey the command,—
The Lord will restore it; His promise will stand;
Who give unto these, in the name of the Lord,
A cup of cold water, shall have their reward.
THE MARRIAGE VOWS.
COMPOSED TO BE SUNG ON A WEDDING OCCASION, AUGUST 1ST, 1847
O 'tis an interesting sight,
When youthful hands and hearts unite!
The Lord himself was pleas'd to own
That man should never dwell alone.
A rib he took from Adam's side,
And from it made a blooming bride;
In Eden's bowers he placed the pair,—
Then joined their hands in wedlock there.
The nuptial ties by God were bound,
While angels chanted anthems 'round;
Then mounting on swift pinions sang,
Till heaven's high arch with music rang.
The Lord is present still to hear,—
The words you breathed have reached his ear;
And his recording angel, now,
Is writing down the marriage vow.
Wilt thou, the bridegroom, till the end,
Still prove the fair one's faithful friend,
Who leaves her childhood's happy home,
With thee through future life to roam?
She trusts her fragile bark with thee,—
O steer it well o'er life's rough sea.
And with an undivided heart,
Wilt thou, fair maiden, act thy part?
As pure let thine affections be,
As those white robes now worn by thee;
O keep the sacred holy trust,
Till these fair forms turn back to dust.