For Nature, ever kind to love, Hath granted them the same sweet tongue, Whether with German skies above, Or here our granite rocks among. 1840. THE BEGGAR. A beggar, through the world am I,-- From place to place I wander by. Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me, For Christ's sweet sake and charity! A little of thy steadfastness, Rounded with leafy gracefulness, Old oak, give me,-- That the world's blasts may round me blow, And I yield gently to and fro, While my stout-hearted trunk below And firm-set roots unshaken be. Some of thy stern, unyielding might, Enduring still through day and night Rude tempest-shock and withering blight,-- That I may keep at bay The changeful April sky of chance And the strong tide of circumstance,-- Give me, old granite gray. Some of thy pensiveness serene, Some of thy never-dying green, Put in this scrip of mine,-- That griefs may fall like snow-flakes light, And deck me in a robe of white, Ready to be an angel bright,-- O sweetly-mournful pine. A little of thy merriment, Of thy sparkling, light content, Give me, my cheerful brook,-- That I may still be full of glee And gladsomeness, where'er I be, Though fickle fate hath prisoned me In some neglected nook. Ye have been very kind and good To me, since I've been in the wood; Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart; But good-bye, kind friends, every one, I've far to go ere set of sun; Of all good things I would have part, The day was high ere I could start, And so my journey's scarce begun. Heaven help me! how could I forget To beg of thee, dear violet! Some of thy modesty, That blossoms here as well, unseen, As if before the world thou'dst been, O, give, to strengthen me. 1839. MY LOVE. I. Not as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening-star, And yet her heart is ever near. II. Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know; God giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. III. Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot, Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share. IV. She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise; For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemèd in her eyes. V. She hath no scorn of common things, And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth. VI.