A Scrap for the Season
Dublin Core
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For things to sorrow long. Philosophy,
Whose ken is clear, does prove us this. Still night,Which sits, so frequent weeping that the eye
Of twilight should neglect her, - scorns to sigh,So soon as wooers throng her lighted courts.
How smilingly she decks her with her wreathOf stars, to win new suitors! What gay thoughts,
She whispers softly with her balmy breath,To such as praise her! And what merry airs,
Fall sweet on those whom she delights to charm.Long grief weighs not with her. Old jealous cares,
That wring betimes such dropping tears, soon calmIn pleasant joy notes; and each new-born ray
Salutes her, as in misty robes, she hiesTo greet with dewy lip young peering day,
Before she sinks to dreaming.See the skies,
At this mild April time, how they rejoice!
And all the streams that were so dull, but nowHow cheerfully they course with rippling voice,
And laugh along their borders! Every boughNow lifts itself to catch the sun's warm glance!
The tiny insects, and the chirping birds,Join matin songs! the earth, from her dull trance,
Wakes smilingly! with joy, the pent up herdsDrink in the breeze! the young, peeping grass blades,
And the early plants, each other jostleIn their new attire! while from 'neath cool shades,
All noiselessly, bright creatures dart, and bustleIn the sunny tide! Cheerfulness is spread
O'er everything. With merry tones alone,The tale is told, of life and beauty fled,
Of blighted growth, and dreary winter gone.'Tis even so with us. When ills come down,
And veil us in dull grief, - we bow to earth
With fainting hearts; we weep and groanO'er disappointed hopes; or mourn the dearth
Of broken fortunes, and divided loves.But soon the soul its upward bearing proves.
Though lowly press'd, sufficiency we findWithin ourselves; a something, that doth calm
Our poignant woes. 'Tis in the subtle mind; -In thoughts that range, that soar, expand and warm
In holy light; or those that quiet seekAttentive spirits. For it is arrang'd
By Him who keeps us, that the heart, though bleak,And wasted sore by winds that kill; estrang'd
By poverty, or scathed by wrong, should seeA light in nature and in fellowship,
That makes it bright and hopeful. Gay, and freeFrom outward grief, society doth keep
Sad thoughts away. Where'er we troubled turn,Men laugh together; so that though to weep
We be inclined, we soon grow pleas'd, soon learnWhat great resources for relief and joy
Dwell in the buoyant soul.New York, April 11th, 1841.
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