While some sit in clouds but to murmur, or grieve That earth has her wormwood, her pitfalls, and brambles; We smile, and go forth her rich gifts to receive, Where the boughs drop their purple and gold on our rambles. Untiring and free, As we work, like the bee, We bear off a sweet from each plant, shrub, and tree: Where some gather thorns but to torture the flesh, Ripe clusters we pluck, and our spirits refresh. Yet, not to self only, we draw from the soil The treasures that Heaven in its vitals hath hidden; For thus to lock up the fair fruits of our toil Were bliss half possessed, and a sin all forbidden. Like morning's first ray, When it spreads into day, Our hearts must flow out, until self melts away! Our joys, in the bosoms around us when sown, Spring up and bloom out, throwing sweets to our own. And this makes the world all a garden to us, Where He, who has walled it, his glory is shedding: His smile is its sun; and beholding it thus, We gratefully feast, while his bounty is spreading. Our spirits grow bright As they bathe in his light, That beams on the board where in joy we unite: And the sparks, which we take to enkindle our mirth, Are blessings from heaven showering down on the earth. And now that we meet, and the chain is of _flowers_, Which binds us together, may sadness ne'er blight them, Till those, who _must_ break from a compact like ours, Ascend where the ties of the blest reunite them! May each, who is here, At the banquet appear, Where Life fills the wine-cup, and Love makes it clear; And Gilead's balm in its freshness shall flow On the wounds, which the _pruning-knife_ gave us below! THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. Thou mournful bird, when shadows fell At yester-eve on hill and dell, I heard thee of thy sorrows tell; And, as the dews distil, Again, amid this twilight gray, I hear thee pour thy solemn lay, With only one sad thing to say, Still crying, "Whip-poor-will." O who has grieved thee, gentle bird, That now thy vesper note is heard And with thy melting, triple word Thus dropping from thy bill? How could they rudely whip at thee, To scare thee from thy native tree, And send thee moaning back to me Repeating, "Whip-poor-will?"