THE ROSE

The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower,
    Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flower,
    And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,
    And it seem'd to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret,
    On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was,
    For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
    I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part
    Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
    Already to sorrow resign'd.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,
    Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile,
And the tear that is wip'd with a little address,
    May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

Epitaph on a Hare

Here lies, whom hound did ne’er pursue,

    Nor swifter greyhound follow,

Whose foot ne’er tainted morning dew,

    Nor ear heard huntsman’s hallo’,

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,

    Who, nursed with tender care,

And to domesticate bounds confined,

    Was still a wild jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he took

    His pittance every night,

He did it with a jealous look,

    And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,

    And milk, and oats, and straw,

Thistles, or lettuces instead,

    With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,

    On pippins’ russet peel;

And, when his juicy salads failed,

    Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,

    Whereon he loved to bound,

To skip and gambol like a fawn,

    And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours,

    For then he lost his fear;

But most before approaching showers,

    Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round-rolling moons

    He thus saw steal away,

Dozing out all his idle noons,

    And every night at play.

I kept him for his humor’s sake,

    For he would oft beguile

My heart of thoughts that made it ache,

    And force me to a smile.

But now, beneath this walnut-shade

    He finds his long, last home,

And waits in snug concealment laid,

    Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more agèd, feels the shocks

    From which no care can save,

And, partner once of Tiney’s box,

    Must soon partake his grave.

God Moves in a Mysterious Way

God moves in a mysterious way,
    His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
    And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
    Of never failing skill;
He treasures up his bright designs,
    And works His sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints fresh courage take,
    The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
    In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
    But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence,
    He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
    Unfolding ev'ry hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
    But sweet will be the flow'r.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
    And scan his work in vain;
God is his own interpreter,
    And he will make it plain

The Negro's Complaint

Forc'd from home, and all its pleasures,
  Afric's coast I left forlorn;
To increase a stranger's treasures,
  O'er the raging billows borne.
Men from England bought and sold me,
  Paid my price in paltry gold;
But, though theirs they have enroll'd me,
  Minds are never to be sold.

Still in thought as free as ever,
  What are England's rights, I ask,
Me from my delights to sever,
  Me to torture, me to task?
Fleecy locks, and black complexion
  Cannot forfeit nature's claim;
Skins may differ, but affection
  Dwells in white and black the same.

Why did all creating Nature
 Make the plant for which we toil?
Sighs must fan it, tears must water,
 Sweat of ours must dress the soil.
Think, ye masters, iron-hearted,
 Lolling at your jovial boards;
Think how many backs have smarted
 For the sweets your cane affords.

Is there, as ye sometimes tell us,
  Is there one who reigns on high?
Has he bid you buy and sell us,
  Speaking from his throne the sky?
Ask him, if your knotted scourges,
  Matches, blood-extorting screws,
Are the means that duty urges
  Agents of his will to use?

Hark! He answers!—Wild tornadoes,
  Strewing yonder sea with wrecks;
Wasting towns, plantations, meadows,
  Are the voice with which he speaks.
He, foreseeing what vexations
  Afric's sons should undergo,
Fix'd their tyrants' habitations
  Where his whirlwinds answer—No.

The Snail

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all
Together.

Within that house secure he hides,
When danger imminent betides
Of storm, or other harm besides
Of weather.

Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-collecting power is such,
He shrinks into his house, with much
Displeasure.

Where’er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself has chattels none,
Well satisfied to be his own
Whole treasure.

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,
Nor partner of his banquet needs,
And if he meets one, only feeds
The faster.

Who seeks him must be worse than blind,
(He and his house are so combined,)
If, finding it, he fails to find
Its master.