The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Youth's Coronal, by Hannah Flagg Gould
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THE YOUTH'S CORONAL.
BY HANNAH FLAGG GOULD
AUTHOR OF "POEMS," ETC., ETC.
Whate'er the good instruction may reveal,
The head must take, before the heart can feel.
THE MORALIZER.
1851
ADDRESS
TO THE YOUTH OF MY COUNTRY.
In preparing the following pages, my aim has been, to produce a book alike entertaining and instructive;—one which, in the reading, should afford an amusement to the mind, pleasant as the spring-blossoms on the tree; and, in its influences on the heart in after life, be like the good fruits that succeed and ripen, to refresh and nourish us, when the vernal season is over and gone, and the voices of the singing-birds are lost in the distance.
Choosing an appropriate title for such a presentation, I have borrowed my idea from the words of the wise king of Israel:—"Hear the instruction of thy father, and forsake not the law of thy mother; for they shall be an ornament of grace unto thy head," &c., and other Scripture passages of similar figurative meaning; for, though often given in a sportive way, it is my design that no moral shall be conveyed in the volume, but such as a good and judicious parent would wish a child to imbibe.
Accept, then, my young Friends, this new CORONAL of the little flowers of poesy which I have woven for you. When you shall have examined and scented it, and found no thorn to pierce—no juice or odor to poison you in its whole circle, wear it for the giver's sake; and enjoy it and profit by its healthful influences, for your own.
Gladly would I feel assured that, in some future years,—when I shall have done with earthly flowers, and you will be engaged in the busy scenes and arduous duties of mature life,—the import of these leaves may from time to time arise to your memory, in all its dewy freshness, like the fragrance which the summer-breeze wafts after us, from the lilies and violets we have passed and left far behind us, in our morning rambles. Then, if not to-day, you will be convinced that I was—as now I am,
Your true Friend,
H. F. GOULD.
Newburyport, Mass., August, 1850.
CONTENTS
[Sudden Elevation; or The Empaled Butterfly]
[The Bee, Clover, and Thistle]
[The Stove and the Grate-Setter]
[Humility; or, The Mushroom's Soliloquy]
[The Bat's Flight By Daylight An Allegory]
The Sale of the Water-Lily
And these would sometimes come, and cheer
The widow with a song,
To let her feel a neighbor near,
And wing an hour along.
A pond, supplied by hidden springs,
With lilies bordered round,
Was found among the richest things,
That blessed the widow's ground.
She had, besides, a gentle brook,
That wound the meadow through,
Which from the pond its being took,
And had its treasures too.
Her eldest orphan was a son;
For, children she had three;
She called him, though a little one,
Her hope for days to be.
And well he might be reckoned so;
If, from the tender shoot,
We know the way the branch will grow;
Or, by the flower, the fruit.
His tongue was true, his mind was bright;
His temper smooth and mild:
He was—the parent's chief delight—
A good and pleasant child.
He'd gather chips and sticks of wood
The winter fire to make;
And help his mother dress their food,
Or tend the baking cake.
In summer time he'd kindly lead
His little sisters out,
To pick wild berries on the mead,
And fish the brook for trout.
He stirred his thoughts for ways to earn
Some little gain; and hence,
Contrived the silver pond to turn.
In part, to silver pence.
He found the lilies blooming there
So spicy sweet to smell,
And to the eye so pure and fair,
He plucked them up to sell.
He could not to the market go:
He had too young a head,
The distant city's ways to know;
The route he could not tread.
But, when the coming coach-wheels rolled
To pass his humble cot,
His bunch of lilies to be sold
Was ready on the spot.
He'd stand beside the way, and hold
His treasures up to show,
That looked like yellow stars of gold
Just set in leaves of snow.
"O buy my lilies!" he would say;
"You'll find them new and sweet:
So fresh from out the pond are they,
I haven't dried my feet!"
And then he showed the dust that clung
Upon his garment's hem,
Where late the water-drops had hung,
When he had gathered them.
And while the carriage checked its pace,
To take the lilies in,
His artless orphan tongue and face
Some bright return would win.
For many a noble stranger's hand,
With open purse, was seen,
To cast a coin upon the sand,
Or on the sloping green.
And many a smiling lady threw
The child a silver piece;
And thus, as fast as lilies grew,
He saw his wealth increase.
While little more—and little more,
Was gathered by their sale,
His widowed mother's frugal store
Would never wholly fail.
For He, who made, and feeds the bird,
Her little children fed.
He knew her trust: her cry he heard;
And answered it with bread.
And thus, protected by the Power,
Who made the lily fair,
Her orphans, like the meadow flower,
Grew up in beauty there.
Her son, the good and prudent boy,
Who wisely thus began,
Was long the aged widow's joy;
And lived an honored man.
He had a ship, for which he chose
"The LILY" as a name,
To keep in memory whence he rose,
And how his fortune came.'
He had a lily carved, and set,
Her emblem, on her stem;
And she was called, by all she met,
A beauteous ocean gem.
She bore sweet spices, treasures bright;
And, on the waters wide,
Her sails as lily-leaves were white:
Her name was well applied.
Her feeling owner never spurned
The presence of the poor;
And found that all he gave returned
In blessings rich and sure.
The God who by the lily-pond
Had drawn his heart above,
In after life preserved the bond
Of grateful, holy love.
The Humming-Bird's Anger
"Small as the humming-bird is, it has great courage and violent passions. If it find a flower that has been deprived of its honey, it will pluck it off, throw it on the ground, and sometimes tear it to pieces." BUFFON.
On light little wings as the humming-birds fly,
With plumes many-hued as the bow of the sky,
Suspended in ether, they shine to the light
As jewels of nature high-finished and bright.
Their vision-like forms are so buoyant and small
They hang o'er the flowers, as too airy to fall,
Up-borne by their beautiful pinions, that seem
Like glittering vapor, or parts of a dream.
The humming-bird feeds upon honey; and so,
Of course, 'tis a sweet little creature, you know.
But sweet little creatures have sometimes, they say,
A great deal that's bitter, or sour, to betray!
And often the humming-bird's delicate breast
Is found of a very high temper possessed.
Such essence of anger within it is pent,
'Twould burst did no safety-valve give it a vent.
Displeased, it will seem a bright vial of wrath,
Uncorked by its heat, the offender to scath;
And, taking occasion to let off its ire,
'Tis startling to witness how high it will fire.
A humming-bird once o'er a trumpet-flower hung,
And darted that sharp little member, the tongue,
At once to the nectarine cell, for the sweet
She felt at the bottom most certain to meet.
But, finding some other light child of the air
To rifle its store, had already been there;
And no drop of honey for her to draw up,
Her vengeance broke forth on the destitute cup.
She flew in a passion, that heightened her power;
And cuffing, and shaking the innocent flower,
Its tender corolla in shred after shred
She hastily stripped; then she snapped off its head.
A delicate ruin, on earth as it lay,
That bright little fury went, humming, away,
With gossamer softness, and fair to the eye,
Like some living brilliant, just dropped from the sky.
And since, when that curious bird I behold
Arrayed in rich colors, and dusted with gold,
I cannot but think of the wrath and the spite
She has in reserve, though they're now out of sight.
Ye two-footed, beautiful, passionate things,
If plumy or plumeless—without, or with wings,
Beware, lest ye break, in some hazardous hour,
Your vials of wrath, hot, or bitter, or sour!
And would ye but know how at times ye do seem
Transformed to bright furies, or frights in a dream,
Go, stand at the glass—to the painter go sit,
When anger is just at the height of its fit!
The Butterfly's Dream
A tulip, just opened, had offered to hold
A butterfly gaudy and gay;
And rocked in his cradle of crimson and gold,
The careless young slumberer lay.
For the butterfly slept;—as such thoughtless ones will,
At ease, and reclining on flowers;—
If ever they study, 'tis how they may kill
The best of their mid-summer hours!
And the butterfly dreamed, as is often the case
With indolent lovers of change,
Who, keeping the body at ease in its place,
Give fancy permission to range.
He dreamed that he saw, what he could but despise,
The swarm from a neighboring hive;
Which, having come out for their winter supplies,
Had made the whole garden alive.
He looked with disgust, as the proud often do,
On the diligent movements of those,
Who, keeping both present and future in view,
Improve every hour as it goes.
As the brisk little alchymists passed to and fro,
With anger the butterfly swelled;
And called them mechanics—a rabble too low
To come near the station he held.
"Away from my presence!" said he, in his sleep,
"Ye humble plebeians! nor dare
Come here with your colorless winglets to sweep
The king of this brilliant parterre!"
He thought, at these words, that together they flew,
And, facing about, made a stand;
And then, to a terrible army they grew,
And fenced him on every hand.
Like hosts of huge giants, his numberless foes
Seemed spreading to measureless size:
Their wings with a mighty expansion arose,
And stretched like a veil o'er the skies.
Their eyes seemed like little volcanoes, for fire,—
Their hum, to a cannon-peal grown,—
Farina to bullets was rolled in their ire,
And, he thought, hurled at him and his throne.
He tried to cry quarter! his voice would not sound,
His head ached—his throne reeled and fell;
His enemy cheered, as he came to the ground,
And cried, "King Papilio, farewell!"
His fall chased the vision—the sleeper awoke,
The wonderful dream to expound;
The lightning's bright flash from the thunder-cloud broke,
And hail-stones were rattling around.
He'd slumbered so long, that now, over his head,
The tempest's artillery rolled;
The tulip was shattered—the whirl-blast had fled,
And borne off its crimson and gold.
'Tis said, for the fall and the pelting, combined
With suppressed ebullitions of pride.
This vain son of summer no balsam could find,
But he crept under covert and died!