And he, her lover! husband! what of him? Yes, he will shield, I think, my bud from blight! Yet griefs will come--enough! my eyes are dim With tears I must not shed--at least, to-night. Bless thee, my daughter!--Oh! she is so fair!-- Heaven bend above thee with its starriest skies! And make thee truly all thou dost appear Unto a lover's and thy mother's eyes! Hymn Sung at an Anniversary of the Asylum of Orphans at Charleston We scarce, O God! could lisp thy name, When those who loved us passed away, And left us but thy love to claim, With but an infant's strength to pray. Thou gav'st that Refuge and that Shrine, At which we learn to know thy ways; Father! the fatherless are thine! Thou wilt not spurn the orphan's praise. Yet hear a single cry of pain! Lord! whilst we dream in quiet beds, The summer sun and winter rain Beat still on many homeless heads. And o'er this weary earth, we know, Young outcasts roam the waste and wave; And little hands are clasped in woe Above some tender mother's grave. Ye winds! keep every storm aloof, And kiss away the tears they weep! Ye skies, that make their only roof, Look gently on their houseless sleep! And thou, O Friend and Father! find A home to shield their helpless youth! Dear hearts to love--sweet ties to bind-- And guide and guard them in the truth! To a Captive Owl I should be dumb before thee, feathered sage! And gaze upon thy phiz with solemn awe, But for a most audacious wish to gauge The hoarded wisdom of thy learned craw. Art thou, grave bird! so wondrous wise indeed? Speak freely, without fear of jest or gibe-- What is thy moral and religious creed? And what the metaphysics of thy tribe? A Poet, curious in birds and brutes, I do not question thee in idle play; What is thy station? What are thy pursuits? Doubtless thou hast thy pleasures--what are THEY? Or is 't thy wont to muse and mouse at once, Entice thy prey with airs of meditation, And with the unvarying habits of a dunce, To dine in solemn depths of contemplation? There may be much--the world at least says so-- Behind that ponderous brow and thoughtful gaze; Yet such a great philosopher should know, It is by no means wise to think always. And, Bird, despite thy meditative air, I hold thy stock of wit but paltry pelf-- Thou show'st that same grave aspect everywhere, And wouldst look thoughtful, stuffed, upon a shelf. I grieve to be so plain, renownëd Bird-- Thy fame 's a flam, and thou an empty fowl; And what is more, upon a Poet's word I'd say as much, wert thou Minerva's owl.