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Updated: May 28, 2025
I kin see dat one er yourn wid de little bit er flow'rs all over hit des es plain es ef 'twuz yestiddy." "The waistcoats are all gone now," said Dan gravely, "and so are the shirts. The war is over and you are your own master, Big Abel. You don't belong to me from this time on." Big Abel shook his head grinning.
Or if dreams your fancy move, Hear it whisper me and love; Then in pity to the swain, Who must heartless else remain, Soft as gentle dewy show'rs, Slow descend on April flow'rs; Soft as gentle riv'lets glide, Steal unnoticed to my side; If the gem you have to spare, Take your own and place it there.
"The hay is carried; and the hours Snatch, as they pass, the linden flow'rs; And children leap to pluck a spray Bent earthward, and then run away. Park-keeper! catch me those grave thieves About whose frocks the fragrant leaves, Sticking and fluttering here and there, No false nor faltering witness bear.
In this same pleasant meadow at your will, I ween, you wander'd there collecting flow'rs Of sober tint, and herbs of medicinal powers! There for the monarch-murder'd soldier's tomb You wove the unfinish'd wreath of saddest hues, And to that holier chaplet added bloom Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews. But lo! your Henderson awakes the Muse His spirit beckon'd from the mountain's height!
"Cauld blew the bitter-biting North Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. "The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield* O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane.
"That on the green turf suck'd the honey'd showers, And purpled all the ground with vernal flow'rs."
Here be woods as green As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet As when smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet Face of the curled streams, with flow'rs as many As the young spring gives, and as choice as any; Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells, Arbours o'ergrown with woodbines, caves and dells; Choose where thou wilt, whilst I sit by and sing, Or gather rushes to make many a ring For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love, How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove, First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes She took eternal fire that never dies; How she convey'd him softly in a sleep, His temples bound with poppy, to the steep Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night, Gilding the mountain with her brother's light, To kiss her sweetest.
Or trace his footsteps by the rising flow'rs? Your golden wings now hov'ring o'er him shed Protection: now are wav'ring in applause To that blest son of foresight! Lord of fate! That awful independent on to-morrow! Whose work is done; who triumphs in the past; Whose yesterdays look backward with a smile."
Life is full of peace and pleasure When we're saved by grace; Sweetest joys overflow the measure When we're saved by grace; Gifts from heaven fall in show'rs, Cheering dark and lonely hours, By our pathway bloom sweet flow'rs, When we're saved by grace.
Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, For many a long month lost in snow profound, When Sol from Cancer sends the seasons bland, And in their northern cave the storms hath bound; From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, Torrents are hurl'd, green hills emerge, and lo, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flow'rs are crown'd; Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.
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