* * * * *

  Yet, sweet or bitter, hence what fountains burst,
  While still the more we drink the more we thirst. 
  Trade hardly deems the busy day begun
  Till his keen eye along the page has run;
  The blooming daughter throws her needle by,
  And reads her schoolmate’s marriage with a sigh;
  While the grave mother puts her glasses on,
  And gives a tear to some old crony gone. 
  The preacher, too, his Sunday theme lays down. 
  To know what last new folly fills the town. 
  Lively or sad, life’s meanest, mightiest things,
  The fate of fighting cocks, or fighting kings—­
  Nought comes amiss; we take the nauseous stuff,
  Verjuice or oil, a libel or a puff.

* * * * *

=_Lydia H. Sigourney, 1791-1865._= (Manual, pp. 484, 523.)

=_335._= THE WIDOW AT HER DAUGHTER’S BRIDAL.

  Deal gently, thou whose hand hath won
    The young bird from its nest away,
  Where, careless, ’neath a vernal sun,
    She gayly carolled day by day;
  The haunt is lone, the heart must grieve,
    From where her timid wing doth soar
  They pensive lisp at hush of eve,
    Yet hear her gushing song no more.

  Deal gently with her; thou art dear,
    Beyond what vestal lips have told,
  And, like a lamb from fountains clear,
    She turns, confiding, to thy fold. 
  She round thy sweet, domestic bower
    The wreath of changeless love shall twine,
  Watch for thy step at vesper hour,
    And blend her holiest prayer with thine.

  Deal gently, thou, when, far away,
    ’Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove,
  Nor let thy tender care decay;
    The soul of woman lives in love. 
  And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear,
    Unconscious, from her eyelids break,
  Be pitiful, and soothe the fear
    That man’s strong heart may ne’er partake.

  A mother yields her gem to thee,
    On thy true breast to sparkle rare;
  She places ’neath thy household tree
    The idol of her fondest care;
  And, by thy trust to be forgiven
    When judgment wakes in terror wild,
  By all thy treasured hopes of heaven,
    Deal gently with the widow’s child.

* * * * *

=_William O. Sutler,[80] 1793-._=

From “The Boatman’s Horn.”

=_336._=

  O Boatman, wind that horn again;
    For never did the listening air
    Upon its lambent bosom bear
  So wild, so soft, so sweet a strain. 
  What though thy notes are sad and few,
    By, every simple boatman blown? 
  Yet is each pulse to nature true,
    And melody in every tone. 
  How oft, in boyhood’s joyous day,
    Unmindful of the lapsing hours,
  I’ve loitered on my homeward way,
    By wild Ohio’s bank of flowers,