Jones Very Poems

Day! I lament that none can hymn thy praise
In fitting strains, of all thy riches bless;
Though thousands sport them in thy golden rays,
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There is no change of time and place with Thee;
Where'er I go, with me 'tis still the same;
Within thy presence I rejoice to be,
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Father! I bless thy name that I do live,
And in each motion am made rich with thee,
That when a glance is all that I can give,
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Dark fossil flower! I see thy leaves unrolled,
With all thy lines of beauty freshly marked,
As when the eye of Morn beamed on thee first,
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I saw him forging link by link his chain,
Yet while he felt its length he thought him free,
And sighed for those borne o'er the barren main
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The seed has started,—who can stay it? see,
The leaves are sprouting high above the ground;
Already o'er the flowers, its head; the tree
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THE latter rain, it falls in anxious haste
Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare,
Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste
As if it would each root's lost strength repair;
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The clear bright morning, with its scented air
And gaily waving flowers, is here again;
Man's heart is lifted with the voice of prayer,
And peace descends, as falls the gentle rain;
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I thank thee, Father, that the night is near
When I this conscious being may resign;
Whose only task thy words of love to hear,
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Beneath these shades, beside yon winding stream,
Lies Hawthorne's manly form, the mortal part!
The soul, that loved to meditate and dream,
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