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188 MRS. E. C. KINNEY. Will fix the mourner's eye, tho' trembling fears Fill all his heart, and thickly fall his tears: O, I could watch till morn should change the sight, This cold, this beautiful, this mournful Winter night' CULTIVATION. WEEDS grow unasked, and even some sweet flowers Spontaneous give their fragrance to the air, And bloom on hills, in vales, and everywhere— As shines the sun, or fall the summer showers— But wither while our lips pronounce them fair! Flowers of more worth repay alone the care, The nuture, and the hopes of watchful hours; While plants most cultured have most lasting powers. So, flowers of Genius that will longest live Spring not in Mind's uncultivated soil, But are the birth of time, and mental toil, And all the culture Learning's hand can give: Fancies, like wild flowers, in a night may grow; But thoughts are plants whose stately growth is slow. ENCOURAGEMENT. WHEN first peeps out from the earth the modest vine, Asking but little space to live and grow, How easily some step, without design, May crush the being from a thing so low! But let the hand that doth delight to show Support to feebleness, the tendril twine Around some lattice-work, and 't will bestow Its thanks in fragrance, and with blossoms shine. And thus, when Genius first puts forth its shoot— So timid that it scarce dare ask to live— MRS. E. C. KINNEY 189 The tender germ, if trodden under foot, Shrinks back again to its undying root; While kindly training bids it upward strive, And to the future flowers immortal give. THE SPIRIT OF SONG. ETERNAL Fame! they great rewards, Throughout all time, shall be The right of those old master-bards Of Greece and Italy; And of fair Albion's favoured isle, Where Poesy's celestial smile Hath shone for ages, gliding bright Her rocky cliffs and ancient towers, And cheering this new world of ours With a reflected light. Yet, though there be no path untrod By that immortal race— Who walked with Nature as with God, And saw her face to face— No living truth by them unsung— No thought that hath not found a tongue In some strong lyre of olden time; Must every tuneful lute be still— That may not give a world the thrill Of their great harp sublime? Oh, not while beating hearts rejoice In Music's simplest tone, And hear in Nature's every voice An echo to their own! Not till these scorn the little rill That runs rejoicing down the hill,
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 19:00:20
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 18:35:12