Springing with bold and gleesome bound,
Proclaiming joy that crazes,
And chorusing the magic sound
Of buttercups and daisies?
Are there, I ask, beneath the sky
Blossoms that knit so strong a tie
With childhood's love? Can any please
Or light the infant eye like these?
No, no; there's not a bud on earth,
Of richest tint or warmest birth,
Can ever fling such zeal and zest
Into the tiny hand and breast.
Who does not recollect the hours
When burning words and praises
Were lavished on those shining flowers,
Buttercups and daisies?
There seems a bright and fairy spell
About their very names to dwell;
And though old Time has marked my brow
With care and thought, I love them now.
Smile, if ye will, but some heart-strings
Are closest linked to simplest things;
And these wild flowers will hold mine fast,
Till love, and life, and all be past;
And then the only wish I have
Is that the one who raises
The turf-sod o'er me plant my grave
With buttercups and daisies.
"OUT, thou silly moon-struck elf;
Back, poor fool, and hide thyself!"
This is what the wise ones say,
Should the idiot cross their way,
But if we would closely mark,
We should see him not all dark;
We should find we must not scorn
The teaching of the idiot-born.
He will screen the newt and frog;
He will cheer the famished dog;
He will seek to share his bread
With the orphan, parish fed;
He will offer up his seat
To the stranger's wearied feet.
Selfish tyrants, do not scorn
The teaching of the idiot-born.
Use him fairly, he will prove
How the simple breast can love;
He will spring with infant glee
To the form he likes to see.
Gentle speech or kindness done
Truly binds the witless one.
Heartless traitors, do not scorn
The teaching of the idiot-born.
He will point with vacant stare
At the robes proud churchmen wear
But he'll pluck the rose, and tell
God hath painted it right well.
He will kneel before his food.
Softly saying, "God is good."
Haughty prelates, do not scorn
The teaching of the idiot-born.
Art thou great as man can be?
The same hand moulded him and thee.
Hast thou talent? - Taunt and jeer
Must not fall upon his ear.
Spurn him not; the blemished part
Had better be the head than heart.
Thou wilt be the fool to scorn
The teaching of the idiot-born.
Look on the sky, all broad and fair ¿
Sons of the earth, what see ye there?
The rolling clouds to feast thine eye
With golden burnish and Tyrian dye;
The rainbow's arch, the sun of noon,
The stars of eve, the midnight moon:
These, these to the coldest gaze are bright
They are marked by all for their glory and light; But their color and rays shed a richer beam
As they shine to illumine the poet's dream.
Children of pleasure, how ye dote
On the dulcet harp and tuneful note
Holding your breath to drink the strain,
Till throbbing joy dissolves in pain.
There's not a spell aught else can fling
Like the warbling voice and the silver string;
But a music to other ears unknown,
Of deeper thrill and sweeter tone,
Comes in the wild and gurgling stream
To the poet rapt in his blissful dream.
The earth may have its buried stores
Of lustrous jewels and coveted ores;
Ye may gather hence the marble stone
To house a monarch or wall a throne;
Its gold may fill the grasping hand,
Its gems may flash in the sceptre wand;
Bnt purer treasures and dearer things
Than the coins of misers or trappings of kings-
Gifts and hoards of a choicer kind
Are garnered up in the poet's mind.
The mother so loves that the world holds none
To match with her own fair lisping one;
The wedded youth will nurture his bride
With all the fervor of passion and pride;
Hands will press and beings blend
Till the kindliest ties knit friend to friend.
Oh! the hearts of the many can truly burn,
They can fondly cherish and closely yearn;
But the flame of love is more vivid and strong
That kindles within a child of song.
Life hath much of grief and pain
To sicken the breast and tire the bran;
All brows are shaded by sorrow's cloud,
All eyes are dimmed, all spirits bowed;
Sighs will break from the care-worn breast,
Till death is asked as a pillow of rest;
But the gifted one, oh! who can tell
How his pulses beat and his heart's strings swell? His secret pangs, his throbbing wo
None but himself and his God can know.
Crowds may join in the festive crew,
Their hours may be glad and their pleasures true They may gaily carouse and fondly believe There's no greater bliss for the soul to receive.
But ask the poet if he will give
His exquisite moments like them to live;
And the scornful smile on his lips will play,
His eye will flash with exulting ray-
For he knows and feels that to him is given
The joys that yield a glimpse of heaven.
Oh! there's something holy about each spot
Where the weary sleep and strife comes not;
And the good and great ones passed away
Have worshippers still o'er their soulless clay;
But the dust of the bard is most hallowed and dear;
'Tis moistened and blest by the warmest tear.
The prayers of the worthiest breathe his name,
Mourning his loss and guarding his fame;
And the truest homage the dead can have
Is rendered up at the poet's grave
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