Poems

Front matter

POEMS.

BY

MRS. FRANCIS HORNBLOWER

The Poet's Gift

POEMS.

The world's cold winds must come not there— Where flowers of Paradise unfold; No cheerless doubts, no wildering care, No mammon worship dark and old.

For there doth Wisdom keep his hoard, And Fancy revel clear and bright; With every noble feeling stored, That inward world is all of light.

For nature's hymn is singing there, For ever solemn, ever sweet; And, faraway, the clouds of care Refuse those joyous strains to meet.

Then guard the Poet's sacred gift, Through every change—in every scene— O'er life's dull cares thy heart to lift To faith sublime, to hope serene!

And strike in holy trust thy lyre— For day by day, and year by year, The notes shall thrill with purer fire, "And sweeter music charm thine ear."

Lines

Take then, O Father! this the music clear, Which in my breast I ever reverent hear, Breathing thy glorious name; And touch the chords within, until they rise With purer, deeper, holier melodies, To Thee, from whom they came!

Hymn

Should pestilence, in autumn's shade, Sudden thy blooming health invade, Unshrinking thou that dart shalt bear, For God himself is with thee there.

And should the winter's fiercer hour The bursting tempest on thee shower, Amidst that elemental strife, Calm shalt thou view eternal life.

The Christian heart shall know not fear, Though death in every shape appear; Amid the waves' most awful form, It sees a Father in the storm!

Hymn

Is there His noblest temple? No, Though order reigned supreme, And perfect beauty lay below The first bright morning's beam; Yet God beheld it but the shrine To hold a spirit bright, And bade a being, half divine, Spring forth to life and light!

The human heart—Ah! there he knew His own blest image traced; Devotion, holy, deep, and true, Within that void he placed. His temple there he deigns to fill, A calm and hallowed spot, To human eyes 't is hushed and still, But He forgets it not.

Lines, on the Death of a beloved Friend

Yes! He whom thou hast served so well, To glory inaccessible Now wings thy radiant flight; Thy patient cares, thy tears are o'er, And his own hand doth now restore Thy youth—for ever bright!

Amidst that bliss, from that pure throne, Spirit beloved! ah! once look down On these thy children here; With pitying eye behold their loss, And mark them humbly take their cross, And check each faithless tear.

In thy meek footsteps bid them walk, At "dewy eve" still with them talk, In nature's melodies— Let each fair flower, each fragrant scene, Recall the spot where thou hast been, With memory's fondest sighs.

Ala yes! be with us still—still guide The loved ones fostered at thy side, Reared by thy tenderness— Thy wisdom calm, thy heavenly faith, Thy patient love, preserved till death, Shall still protect and bless.

Though tears may sometimes gem the flowers That tell of days when thou wert ours, To grieve we will not dare, But fondly on our breasts will place The relics, that shall still retrace The image cherished there!

Lines

LINES.

"Thomas à Becket may have inherited a romantic turn of mind from his mother, whose story is a singular one. His father, Gilbert Becket, had been in his youth a soldier in the Crusades, and being taken prisoner, became a slave to an Emir, or Saracen Prince. By degrees he obtained the confidence of his master, and was admitted to his company, where he met a personage who became more attached to him. This was the Emir's daughter. After some time he contrived to escape. The lady, with her loving heart, followed him. She knew, they say, but two words of his language—London and Gilbert; by repeating the former, she obtained a passage in a vessel, arrived in England, and found her trusting way to the Metropolis. She then took to her other talisman, and went from street to street, pronouncing "Gilbert." Chance brought her at last to the one in which he who had won her heart in slavery was living in good condition. The crowd drew the family to the window, the servant recognized her, and Gilbert Becket took to his arms, and to his bridal bed, his far-come Princess, with her solitary fond word."—See Hunt's Indicator, vol. 1.

Her lover's name!—through crowds she went, The crowds she heeded not, His name with every air was blent, In every changing spot— "Gilbert!" her sweet lips cried, and then Did thousands press around, And wondering gazed, until again She uttered that loved sound.

And "Gilbert! Gilbert!" still the wind Bears on each varying gale, Street after street she walks resigned, With stedfast cheek and pale.— Her lovely hair streams on the breeze, Sore are her gentle feet, And yet she stays not till she sees The face she dies to meet.

Is it a dream?—that manly brow, That mien of youthful pride, Which flies from all that charms it now, And rushes to her side; Which folds her to that noble breast, And gently dries her tears, And takes her to a home of rest, And soothes away her fears;

—Which leads her to his kindred's arms, Even as his own, his bride, And asks of all her fond alarms Amidst her wanderings wide— And blesses her, as doubly dear, Through toil and danger his, Who, for his sake, despised all fear, And bore all miseries?

His name her only talisman, How proudly did he smile, To hear how it had led her on Through all the sea-girt Isle.— And oh! how gratefully he raised His soul to heaven above, And that Almighty Guardian praised, Who thus had saved his love!

Hymn

How fair, how bright, how beauteous all, As nature's matin festival Breaks on his 'raptured sense; With thoughtful brow, with feeling heart, In that blest choir he bears a part, And hails Omnipotence!

That bright, that beauteous day must fade. Again in evening's cloudy shade That brilliant sun must set— But joy, and gratitude,and love, On which his soul hath soared above, Oh! these will linger yet—

And sweetly, 'midst the gloom of night, As flies that vision from his sight, And darkness veils the earth— Shall whisper of that future day, Which gives a sun of fadeless ray To man's immortal birth.

Lines

Or with my Father's spirit taste the charm Of all philanthropy and virtue give; Mild judgment, genius bright, and feeling warm, As in Iris works they shall for ever live: Or, in thy page, my Henry! see what youth, Adorned with noblest virtues, may achieve; Arresting Science at the bar of Truth, Labours which death's cold hand may not bereave. O! ever foremost in thy country's page, Thy toils, my brother! shall prolong thy name, A bright example to a thoughtless age Of tender years, yet ripened in thy fame. Yes, sweet the lonely hours I consecrate, My loved companions! to your influence blest; The joys ye bring me are secure from fate, The glad forerunners of eternal rest!

Lines, on the Death of a Young German Author

To hail the love that bad on earth been thine.— In sun or shade, in calm or storm, A sweet and shadowy form Was ever at thy side, And wore the features of thy sainted bride! Ah! fatally too fond, Her gathering arras she spread, And winged the dart that sent thee to the dead! Thou too didst gaze thy promised joys beyond, With yearning all too true, For her who for long years had vanished from thy view. Heaven, pitying parted love, Called thy pure soul above, To its true home and ever dearest rest, Where, with thy young love blest, Thou mightest rove through calm Elysian bowers, And, with thy fancy high, Look down on this our sky, Quaffing the sweets of rich immortal flowers. There, in beatitude, With all supreme and good, Thy glorious nature might its powers unfold, Far from a world to thee so lone and cold. The while that world, That saw an hour unfurled,

The unripe fruit of thy young spirit's bloom, Erected thee a bier, And shed a parting tear, Hanging an unflowered laurel on thy tomb. Arid I, in foreign scene, From thy pure lite-tracks glean Thoughts far too high for tears, and hopes for years to come.

Verses

Wherever want had bowed her head, Was heard his footstep's gentle tread: Where error or where guilt appeared, His mild, rebuking voice was heard; And where the mourner vigil kept, His sympathizing bosom wept.

By all revered, by all beloved, In peace and joy through Life he moved, And that pure spirit found a breast On which his own in trust might rest; And visions of home-felt delight Around him threw their angel-light.

His cup of earthly joy was full, And life itself was beautiful; But even in that hour of bliss, Deeper and holier joys were his; And oft he raised his ardent eyes, In faith, to the immortal skies.

The mandate came—in that bright day, It came, and he was called away; From love, from friendship, and from life, He past, nor felt the painful strife; Oh they were dear—but dearer still To him was his Creator's will.

The glories which through life had shone, In ev'ry scene to guide him on, Came with then pure, immortal glow, To shine upon his dying brow; And the deep, grateful love he bore His God, sustained him in that hour.

He past in calmness and in faith,— Oh! are we thus prepared for death; And tranquil could we hear the call, Which asks us to surrender all, And, in the prime of our career, Meet the cold grave without a fear?

Oh! let us humbly turn to Him Whose word can make the bright eye dim, And with a sudden touch, a blight, Chase every feeling of delight— Who, ere one chill night-breeze has past, An early death can o'er us cast.—

To Him, who in that darkest hour Still o'er us spreads his shield of power, In all we fear, and all we prove, Still shrouds us in his arms of love, And makes that last sad season bright With visions of eternal light!

Lines

LINES.

Of Zeno we have an illustrious testimony from a solemn decree of the Athenians:—"Whereas Zeno, the son of Mnseas, the Cittican, having many years professed philosophy in this city, and, as well in all other things, hath demeaned himself like a good man, as particularly exhorting the young men who went to be instructed by him, hath provoked them to virtue and sobriety, withal exhibiting his own life a pattern of the best things, answerable to the discourses he used to make, it is therefore decreed by the people, that Zeno, the son of Mnaseas, be solemnly praised, and crowned (according to the usage) with a golden crown, and that a monument be erected for him at the public charge in the Ceramicum."—From Barrow's Sermons, vol. 1, p. 342.

The matron's foot grew slow As she approached that shrine; There did she lead her child, And say, "Such fate be thine!"

Warriors, with reverent awe And glowing faces, gazed Upon the trophies bright, There unto valour raised—

With flashing eye they came, Their triumph to receive; Fame's fair immortal crown, All that their land could give!

At last a meek form came, A pure and gentle brow, And the bright wreath was his, But it was no warrior now.

Zeno! thy virtues gained A triumph loftier far Than ever hero bore, Returning from the war!

Thy blameless life—thy truth, Thy noble deeds and words, Thy passions chained and kept, By stronger power than swords.

Thy patient trust in grief, Thy humble heart in joy, Thy life exposed to save, Whom power would fain destroy.

These, from thy citizens, A wondering tribute claimed, And at the shrine, thy worth A thousand tongues proclaimed!

Where valour once had trod, Now holier virtue smiled, A nobler conqueror there, Thy country hailed her child.

Lines, suggested by a Religious Lecture

That, even ignorant of nature's laws, He yet ascends unto the first great Cause; And, dark in all the mysteries of earth, Yet rises conscious of a heavenly birth? Is it tradition that thus guides him time, And reads creation to his wondering view; Or, with instinctive knowledge, does he soar Above all lesser works, and God adore? Oh! not tradition—for time's whelming flood Has swept away the beautiful and good, The wealth of nations, sciences, and art, All that of life hath formed the noblest part, Discoveries, changes, and improvement's tide, And man too often o'er the wreck hath sighed; Nor instinct—for a loftier reason gives The sacred hope, in every breast that lives.— Ask the poor savage why he trusts a God? The Arab cries, My camel's steps have trod In desert sands, and left their traces there; I trace my steed even in that empty air; And thus, in all around and all above, I see a mighty spirit work and move! 'T is in his works that thus our Maker lives; The simple reason that the Arab gives, Becomes to us the inference of the heart: Creation breathes of love in every part.—

Before the voice divine was heard from heaven, This preparation was in mercy given; The mind was taught, for truth more deep and high, To read in nature the Divinity; And, having learnt the holy lessons there, To turn to pages more divinely fair. How reads she those? the beauteous world around, Does it not answer the inspiring sound, Confirm the tidings of the angelic voice, For "God is good"—does it not cry "Rejoice!" Exemplify and prove, in every part, The purest wisdom and the nicest art? God's tender mercies are o'er all, 't is said, We look, and lo! the little ravens fed! The hen is gathering softly o'er her brood, The meanest thing that crawls has air and food, A wondrous frame and an Almighty care, Those tender mercies—they are everywhere! Lord of all power and might, the Scriptures call The great presiding Spirit over all; But far more awfully that power is told, The living fires of Heaven when we behold, See the dark clouds encompassing our day, And hear the tempest rushing on its way; While desolation covers all the land, We own the works of an Almighty hand,

And in the beauty that the wreck survives, We feel the love that shields our fragile lives. Then let not superstition turn away The votary of nature from her sway, With gloomy doubts, and dark, erroneous fears, Obscure the heavenly impress that she wears, Or think that revelation can inspire One holy feeling, or one high desire, But nature breathes into the soul a bliss, That may confirm and deepen even this.

Lines

Ay, shed fond tears!—God's holiest gift Is in that feeble infant given; Thine eyes in smiling love uplift, And crave for him the care of Heaven. Dreams of his honor, virtue, truth, In loveliest vision round thee play; See that they crown his opening youth, Yes! guide him on his onward way.

Brief years have past—another hell Now summons forth that infant heir, And to some hearts might only tell Of horns of toil and painful care— But to his ardent ear it speaks Of honoured labours, prizes high; The glow is on his childish cheeks Of a victorious industry.

He will fulfil a mother's dream, Her eye in pride and love shall rest On him, whose every childish scheme Is breathed to her confiding breast. She shall behold him noble, high, Rejoice his virtuous fame to hear; That bell, now ringing through the sky, Still sweetly shall salute her ear.

Yes! he is all a mother's love Would picture in her hour of prayer; And now his steps in manhood move, And other hells ring on the air.— All yes!it is his wedding hour, And joy now breathes in every tone; A lovely bride—a meek, bright flower, A faithful heart, are all his own.

Ah, welcome bells! now gaily ring, With peal on peal salute the ah; What happy thoughts ye with you bring, Of sweet domestic love and care. See! her glad blush has marked your sound, And brighter beams his radiant eye; Yes! pom' your melody around, Ring out your silver notes on high!

The mother's heart has heard ye too, The mother's tears your peal has blest, As with a love for ever true, Once more she clasps him to her breast: At every peal ye ring she smiles— Smiles that would chase her tears away: Although her fond domestic wiles Some moments would prolong his stay.

Long years have past—ah! happy bells, Once more ye ring—but change is there— Your mournful peal with anguish swells The heart of that once joyous heir.— Sad is your sound; the loved of years, The smiling bride—the dearer wife, Unconscious lies—while his warm tears Are pouring from his bosom's strife.

Your lengthened notes—your solemn peal, Speak of bereavement, sorrow, death; No longer may those notes reveal A soul of joy in every breath. Weeping, he lists your altered tone At distance die upon the air; The kind, fond heart, so late his own, No more his vacant hour may share.

Yet once again, changed bells!ye sound, And to the holy aisle ye call; With heart subdued, and thought profound, He hears your solemn accents fall— Bright hopes, fair dreams, there for him wait, Yea, an eternity of love! Ah! sweet once more, despite of fate, He hears your angel summons move.

Peal on! peal on! a glorious peal! The strife is o'er, the victory his— With folded hands, now o'er him steal The visions of immortal bliss; And calmly now he hears your sound, The peace of heaven upon his brow, His foot upon the sacred ground,— Yes, ye have soothed the mourner now!

Epithalamium

So shall no canker e'er invade The bosom of their peaceful shade; So shall each bright day brighter seem, When smiling in love's radiant beam. May each fond wish we breathe them here Be round them through each future year, And this glad morning prove to be The herald of then destiny!

The True Man

Who analyzes human destiny, And finds in all its threads a providence; Who worships nature second but to God, And casts himself into the beautiful, The spiritual forms of God's benevolence, Even with a rapturous faith, a sateless joy; Whose heart from youth to age its freshness keeps, Watered by dews, and fed by suns divine.

The Temple

"Go! carry hence your worldly pride, The pure in heart shall enter here, The humble come their brows to hide. The mourner to dispel his tear.

"A den of thieves my house ye make, Depart"—t' was peace and silence there, Profoundly deep—a calm, to break Only to holiest sounds of prayer.

And Jesus felt the blest repose Divinely sweet. Oh! is there not A soothing for our bitterest woes, Within that shrined and sacred spot?

A holier temple still, is ours, In the veiled precincts of the heart; Our sacrifice—its noblest powers, Beyond the proudest domes of art.

No worldly fears must enter in That blest retreat—no sordid care, No clouds of doubt, no stains of sin, That sacred spot with God must share.

For pure that shrine must ever he, For His own glorious service given, Which shares His own eternity, Which tastes the happiness of heaven!

Si Deresis Pereo

In this sweet trust her opening days were blessed, And joyously she hailed her coming years, For well she knew that even if distressed, There would he one kind hand to dry her tears.

He left her—and in trouble she awoke From her young dream of bliss, but murmured not Over her secret sufferings,nor spoke To any one upon her cruel lot; You would have deemed that he had been forgot, Or that her heart was callous to the stroke; But on her cheek there was one hectic spot— 'T was little—but it told her heart was broke!

And deeper and more deep the painful flush Daily became, but all distress seemed o'er, Save when the life-blood gave a sudden rush, Then faded into paleness as before; At once too proud, too humble to deplore, She bowed her head in quietness:—she knew Her faded prospects could revive no more, Yet was she calm, for she had heaven in view.

She loved and she forgave him—and in dying She asked a blessing on his future years; And so she went to sleep, meekly relying Upon that Power which shall efface all tears.—

Her simple turf the young spring floweret wears, And the pale primrose grows upon her tomb; And when the storm its little blossom tears, It bows its head—an emblem of her doom!

The Sisters

Ah! no; there knelt beside her one alone, Whose young slight form had rivetted her look; A fair cheek, scarce less pallid than her own, A soft, clear brow, which bloom had all forsook; Dark, heavenly eyes, filled with resistless tears, The sister of her first and happiest years.

She did not weep; but as those eyes she read, With tenderness and grieving love o'er-fraught, With throbbing heart and faltering voice she said, "Sister, recall me sometimes to your thought— 'Midst brighter hopes, and gayer scenes, oh yet Let not your heart this evening hour forget!

"Oh! sometimes, though all else should have forgot As the south wind shuts the late violet, Come with full heart to this deserted spot, And think of days when here we fondly met; Recall our infant sports,our youthful love, And turn some fond and sorrowing thoughts above."

"The flowers shall breathe to thee their softest sighs, And fancy mingle my departing breath: And all these mournful evening melodies, Oh! they shall seem to thee my knell of death!— Sister, farewell!" a cold shade softly fled O'er the bright brow—and she had vanished!

Lines

The bright rose fled the radiant brow, And every matchless grace, And tresses whiter than the snow Shaded the lovely face; The form elate in youthful pride Bent to the faintest blast that sighed.

Yet 'midst that rushing throng I met One face all calm and sweet; No cloud was there of vain regret, No step that would retreat— Undaunted there that meek form stood, Fearless in its own sanctitude.

The vision came, and brighter light Shone from that glorious eye, And crimsoned with divine delight The cheek of pallid dye; As the dark wings rushed on the blast, Amidst his blissful smiles they passed.

Good Morn!

And thy lip is mute, and thy knee unbending, And where is the sweet prayer to heaven ascending? What, slumbering still? arise! arise! For thy lovely dreams are phantasies, And mock thy waking—but come with me, And listen to life's reality. Oh! come and muse on that deeper sleep O'er which hope will her silent vigils keep, Ami soothe and shield, with her guardian wing, The spirit's secret fluttering; And lead it on to that brighter day, Which knows no evening, and no decay!

On a late Violet

The wild autumnal storm Which whistles o'er thy form, Will in its ruthlessness exhale Thy slight "perfume upon the gale;" And thou still lower hang thine humble head. Then come, and on the tomb Of one whose short-lived bloom Was like thine own, thy parting sweetness shed; For she, like thee, when wintry storms appeared, Her modest head upreared, And in her gentleness defied the blast; Like thee, she faded slowly, day by day. Like thine, her early bloom exhaled away, When summer suns and the bright hours were past.

Charity

The lingering beam of twilight dies, And canst thou whisper where 'tis fled? There was a glow in summer skies, Where was that rosy lustre shed? The sweetness of the evening dews, Their fragrance how do they diffuse?

And tell me, spring's first tender flower, How does it burst its icy sheath? The zephyrs on their winged hour, What spirit bids them freshly breathe? If nature's secrets be not thine, How then the human soul divine?

Go! bend to God! and leave to him The mystery of thy brother's heart, Nor vainly think his faith is dim, Because in thine it hath no part: He too is mortal, and, like thee, Would soar to immortality.

And if, in duty's hallowed sphere, Like thee he meekly, humbly bends, With hands unstained, and conscience clear, With life's temptations he contends, O! leave him that unbroken rest, The peace that shrines a virtuous breast.

And if his thoughts and hopes should err, Still view him with a gentle eye; Remembering doubt, and change, and fear Are woven in man's destiny; And when these clouds are past away, The truth shall dawn like opening day!

Omnipresence

And sweet it is, in sacred walls, Surrounded by our friends to stand, The selfish love that oft enthralls To cast, and join an holy band; And hear their choral voices raise, Along with ours, the hymn of praise.

To hear the preacher's solemn voice, Inspiring hopes and dreams of heaven, And call his people to rejoice, And hail the great salvation given; Or in a gentler, humbler tone, Their errors and their sins to own.

For sweet it is in prayer to bow, Where every head is humbly bent, And thousand hearts, in reverence low, Their mingled vows to heaven have sent; Forgetful of each meaner aim, Kindling our universal flame.

In sacred fane or loneliest spot, O God! alike thy presence dwells; For space or time to Thee is not; In public haunts, or hermit cells, To Thee the good, the pure, the wise, Send everywhere a sacrifice!

The Mother's Prayer

She prays that a father's love will shrine His opening youth with a trust divine; That the world, in its varied forms of ill, May never his guileless bosom fill; But, all unsullied, the heavenly flame May return to Him from whom it came.

Oh! more and more earnest that mother's prayer, As her sighs are breathed on the midnight air; Her own sad fate she has all forgot, The unkindness that wounds her daily lot, The neglect that leaves her to weep unknown, Oh! her heart is full of her child alone.

And the prayer is heard—it is traced above, In the glowing light of a mother's love; A few short days—she must fade and die, And the baby will heed not her farewell sigh; But when she is laid in her youthful grave, That prayer will have power to soothe and save.

O human love! what a load it would be, Fearful and sad, to cherish thee, In a world where all things lovely fly The delighted gaze of the dreamer's eye,

But for the hope that cannot fade, For the clear bright faith that knows no shade.

There is a land where the smile is true, Where the cheek is ever a healthy hue, Where the heart for unkindness weeps no more, And the thousand fears of earth are o'er; And in that land, Oh! is it not sweet To think, that the mother and child will meet?

Hymn

The stars of heaven are shining on, Though these frail eyes are dim with tears, The hopes of earth indeed are gone, But are not ours the immortal years?

Father! forgive the heart, that chugs Thus trembling to the things of time; And hid my soul, on angel wings, Ascend into a purer clime.

There shall no doubts disturb its trust, No sorrows dim celestial love, But these afflictions of the dust, Like shadows of the night, remove.

That glorious hour will well repay A life of toil, and pain, and woe; O Father! joyful on my way, To chink Thy bitter cup I go.

Lines

Trembling on earth—His weakest child— Ah! yet I hear His accents mild— I see His face divine. "Fear not, my creature!" doth He say, "Pursue in calm thy earthly way, "Eternity is thine!"

"Feed with pure fire the immortal hope, "The sacred sapphire gates to ope "I ask but love and faith: "Those angels in thy bosom shine, "My perfect peace shall then be thine, "A peace that fears not death."

Father adored! I know thy voice, I feel each quivering chord rejoice, That in my bosom plays; With raptured spirit now I dare, On this delicious morning air, To celebrate Thy praise!

Praise Him, ye heavens! praise Him, ye deeps! O'er which infinitude now sleeps, His boundless power and great;— Praise Him, eternal roofs above, Whose chorus of supremest love Those vaults doth recreate.

Praise Him, ye mortal choirs below, Ye birds, whose throats your Maker know, So exquisitely strung! Ye flowers! your thousand sweets expand, Praise the Great Painter—Him whose hand Your heavenly fragrance flung.

And praise Him thou, my throbbing breast, Prepare Him there a sacred rest, A temple pure and calm; Till every thought that trembles there A harmony divine shall share, A sweet and holy balm!

The Fairy

And I will hold a fairy court, And call each slumbering fay; And wild and gaily will we sport, As the twilight fades away! >>I'll be a fairy, &c.

Life

The stars are in eclipse—the heavens are dimmed, Even God himself, on the eternal throne, No more is conscious to the heart obscure; Things palpable are all—and Mammon there Sits as a sceptred king—and mortal glories, With then vain, shadowy coruscations, shed A visionary splendour. Darkened heart, Where the sublime and true can enter not! Where is the temple, there for the Supreme, The altar fit for God? He comes not there Where earthly passions rage, where persecution Lights her unholy fires, where avarice broods Over his sordid dreams, where love deserves not The glory of its name; poor selfish passion, Which desolates the heart—He comes not there. Yet this is life—this is the education Which the world gives its votaries. Early death, Which comes with shadowing peace upon his wings, And folds the young, unstained heart to heaven, Its visions bright, its dearest hopes unbroken, Its aspirations yet upon their flight, Unsoiled by the world's dust, why do we mourn thee? Valuing the sweet breath of the dewy morn, Less than the heat, and toil, and battling day.