Project Gutenberg's The Home Book of Verse, Vol. 1 (of 4), by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Home Book of Verse, Vol. 1 (of 4) Author: Various Editor: Burton Egbert Stevenson Release Date: November 12, 2009 [EBook #2619] Last Updated: January 8, 2013 Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOME BOOK OF VERSE, V1 *** Produced by Dennis Schreiner, and David Widger
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; There are four seasons in the mind of man: He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously Spring's honeyed cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming high Is nearest unto Heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He furleth close; contented so to look On mists in idleness—to let fair things Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook:—
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
John Keats [1795-1821]
Only a baby small, Dropped from the skies, Only a laughing face, Two sunny eyes; Only two cherry lips, One chubby nose; Only two little hands, Ten little toes.
Only a golden head, Curly and soft; Only a tongue that wags Loudly and oft; Only a little brain, Empty of thought; Only a little heart, Troubled with naught.
Only a tender flower Sent us to rear; Only a life to love While we are here; Only a baby small, Never at rest; Small, but how dear to us, God knoweth best.
Matthias Barr [1831-?]
Something to live for came to the place, Something to die for maybe, Something to give even sorrow a grace, And yet it was only a baby!
Cooing, and laughter, and gurgles, and cries, Dimples for tenderest kisses, Chaos of hopes, and of raptures, and sighs, Chaos of fears and of blisses.
Last year, like all years, the rose and the thorn; This year a wilderness maybe; But heaven stooped under the roof on the morn That it brought them only a baby.
Harriet Prescott Spofford [1835-1921]
"I have no name; I am but two days old." What shall I call thee? "I happy am, Joy is my name." Sweet joy befall thee!
Pretty joy! Sweet joy, but two days old. Sweet joy I call thee; Thou dost smile, I sing the while; Sweet joy befall thee!
William Blake [1757-1827]
From "At the Back of the North Wind"
Where did you come from, baby dear? Out of the everywhere into the here.
Where did you get those eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through.
What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? Some of the starry spikes left in.
Where did you get that little tear? I found it waiting when I got here.
What makes your forehead so smooth and high? A soft hand stroked it as I went by.
What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? I saw something better than any one knows.
Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? Three angels gave me at once a kiss.
Where did you get this pearly ear? God spoke, and it came out to hear.
Where did you get those arms and hands? Love made itself into bonds and bands.
Feet, where did you come, you darling things? From the same box as the cherubs' wings.
How did they all just come to be you? God thought about me, and so I grew.
But how did you come to us, you dear? God thought about you, and so I am here.
George Macdonald [1824-1905]
And did thy sapphire shallop slip Its moorings suddenly, to dip Adown the clear, ethereal sea From star to star, all silently? What tenderness of archangels In silver, thrilling syllables Pursued thee, or what dulcet hymn Low-chanted by the cherubim? And thou departing must have heard The holy Mary's farewell word, Who with deep eyes and wistful smile Remembered Earth a little while.
Now from the coasts of morning pale Comes safe to port thy tiny sail. Now have we seen by early sun, Thy miracle of life begun. All breathing and aware thou art, With beauty templed in thy heart To let thee recognize the thrill Of wings along far azure hill, And hear within the hollow sky Thy friends the angels rushing by. These shall recall that thou hast known Their distant country as thine own, To spare thee word of vales and streams, And publish heaven through thy dreams. The human accents of the breeze Through swaying star-acquainted trees Shall seem a voice heard earlier, Her voice, the adoring sigh of her, When thou amid rosy cherub-play Didst hear her call thee, far away, And dream in very Paradise The worship of thy mother's eyes.
Grace Hazard Conkling [1878-
Who is she here that now I see, This dainty new divinity, Love's sister, Venus' child? She shows Her hues, white lily and pink rose, And in her laughing eyes the snares That hearts entangle unawares. Ah, woe to men if Love should yield His arrows to this girl to wield Even in play, for she would give Sore wounds that none might take and live. Yet no such wanton strain is hers, Nor Leda's child and Jupiter's Is she, though swans no softer are Than whom she fairer is by far. For she was born beside the rill That gushes from Parnassus' hill, And by the bright Pierian spring She shall receive an offering From every youth who pipes a strain Beside his flocks upon the plain. But I, the first, this very day, Will tune for her my humble lay, Invoking this new Muse to render My oaten reed more sweet and tender, Within its vibrant hollows wake Such dulcet voices for her sake As, curved hand at straining ear, I long have stood and sought to hear Borne with the warm midsummer breeze With scent of hay and hum of bees Faintly from far-off Sicily....
Ah, well I know that not for us Are Virgil and Theocritus, And that the golden age is past Whereof they sang, and thou, the last, Sweet Spenser, of their god-like line, Soar far too swift for verse of mine One strain to compass of your song. Yet there are poets that prolong Of your rare voice the ravishment In silver cadences; content Were I if I could but rehearse One stave of Wither's starry verse, Weave such wrought richness as recalls Britannia's lovely Pastorals, Or in some garden-spot suspire One breath of Marvell's magic fire When in the green and leafy shade He sees dissolving all that's made. Ah, little Muse still far too high On weak, clipped wings my wishes fly. Transform them then and make them doves, Soft-moaning birds that Venus loves, That they may circle ever low Above the abode where you shall grow Into your gracious womanhood. And you shall feed the gentle brood From out your hand—content they'll be Only to coo their songs to thee.
William Aspenwall Bradley [1878-
You sleep upon your mother's breast, Your race begun, A welcome, long a wished-for Guest, Whose age is One.
A Baby-Boy, you wonder why You cannot run; You try to talk—how hard you try!— You're only One.
Ere long you won't be such a dunce: You'll eat your bun, And fly your kite, like folk who once Were only One.
You'll rhyme and woo, and fight and joke, Perhaps you'll pun! Such feats are never done by folk Before they're One.
Some day, too, you may have your joy, And envy none; Yes, you, yourself, may own a Boy, Who isn't One.
He'll dance, and laugh, and crow; he'll do As you have done: (You crown a happy home, though you Are only One.)
But when he's grown shall you be here To share his fun, And talk of times when he (the Dear!) Was hardly One?
Dear Child, 'tis your poor lot to be My little Son; I'm glad, though I am old, you see,— While you are One.
Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]
Small traveler from an unseen shore, By mortal eye ne'er seen before, To you, good-morrow. You are as fair a little dame As ever from a glad world came To one of sorrow.
We smile above you, but you fret; We call you gentle names, and yet Your cries redouble. 'Tis hard for little babes to prize The tender love that underlies A life of trouble.
And have you come from Heaven to earth? That were a road of little mirth, A doleful travel. "Why did I come?" you seem to cry, But that's a riddle you and I Can scarce unravel.
Perhaps you really wished to come, But now you are so far from home Repent the trial. What! did you leave celestial bliss To bless us with a daughter's kiss? What self-denial!
Have patience for a little space, You might have come to a worse place, Fair Angel-rover. No wonder now you would have stayed, But hush your cries, my little maid, The journey's over.
For, utter stranger as you are, There yet are many hearts ajar For your arriving, And trusty friends and lovers true Are waiting, ready-made for you, Without your striving.
The earth is full of lovely things, And if at first you miss your wings, You'll soon forget them; And others, of a rarer kind Will grow upon your tender mind— If you will let them—
Until you find that your exchange Of Heaven for earth expands your range E'en as a flier, And that your mother, you and I, If we do what we should, may fly Than Angels higher.
Cosmo Monkhouse [1840-1901]
Cheeks as soft as July peaches, Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches Poppies paleness—round large eyes Ever great with new surprise, Minutes filled with shadeless gladness, Minutes just as brimmed with sadness, Happy smiles and wailing cries, Crows and laughs and tearful eyes, Lights and shadows swifter born Than on wind-swept Autumn corn, Ever some new tiny notion Making every limb all motion— Catching up of legs and arms, Throwings back and small alarms, Clutching fingers—straightening jerks, Twining feet whose each toe works, Kickings up and straining risings, Mother's ever new surprisings, Hands all wants and looks all wonder At all things the heavens under, Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings That have more of love than lovings, Mischiefs done with such a winning Archness, that we prize such sinning, Breakings dire of plates and glasses, Graspings small at all that passes, Pullings off of all that's able To be caught from tray or table; Silences—small meditations, Deep as thoughts of cares for nations, Breaking into wisest speeches In a tongue that nothing teaches, All the thoughts of whose possessing Must be wooed to light by guessing; Slumbers—such sweet angel-seemings, That we'd ever have such dreamings, Till from sleep we see thee breaking, And we'd always have thee waking; Wealth for which we know no measure, Pleasure high above all pleasure, Gladness brimming over gladness, Joy in care—delight in sadness, Loveliness beyond completeness, Sweetness distancing all sweetness, Beauty all that beauty may be— That's May Bennett, that's my baby.
William Cox Bennett [1820-1895]
Of deepest blue of summer skies Is wrought the heaven of her eyes.
Of that fine gold the autumns wear Is wrought the glory of her hair.
Of rose leaves fashioned in the south Is shaped the marvel of her mouth.
And from the honeyed lips of bliss Is drawn the sweetness of her kiss,
'Mid twilight thrushes that rejoice Is found the cadence of her voice,
Of winds that wave the western fir Is made the velvet touch of her.
Of all earth's songs God took the half To make the ripple of her laugh.
I hear you ask, "Pray who is she?"— This maid that is so dear to me.
"A reigning queen in Fashion's whirl?" Nay, nay! She is my baby girl.
Herbert Bashford [1871-1928]
Fragoletta, blessed one! What think you of the light of the sun? Do you think the dark was best, Lying snug in mother's breast? Ah! I knew that sweetness, too, Fragoletta, before you! But, Fragoletta, now you're born, You must learn to love the morn, Love the lovely working light, Love the miracle of sight, Love the thousand things to do— Little girl, I envy you!— Love the thousand things to see, Love your mother, and—love me! And some night, Fragoletta, soon, I'll take you out to see the moon; And for the first time, child of ours, You shall—think of it!—look on flowers, And smell them, too, if you are good, And hear the green leaves in the wood Talking, talking, all together In the happy windy weather; And if the journey's not too far For little limbs so lately made, Limb upon limb like petals laid, We'll go and picnic in a star.
II
Blue eyes, looking up at me, I wonder what you really see, Lying in your cradle there, Fragrant as a branch of myrrh? Helpless little hands and feet, O so helpless! O so sweet! Tiny tongue that cannot talk, Tiny feet that cannot walk, Nothing of you that can do Aught, except those eyes of blue. How they open, how they close!— Eyelids of the baby-rose. Open and shut—so blue, so wise, Baby-eyelids, baby-eyes.
III
That, Fragoletta, is the rain Beating upon the window-pane; But lo! The golden sun appears, To kiss away the window's tears. That, Fragoletta, is the wind, That rattles so the window-blind; And yonder shining thing's a star, Blue eyes—you seem ten times as far. That, Fragoletta, is a bird That speaks, yet never says a word; Upon a cherry tree it sings, Simple as all mysterious things; Its little life to peck and pipe, As long as cherries ripe and ripe, And minister unto the need Of baby-birds that feed and feed. This, Fragoletta, is a flower, Open and fragrant for an hour, A flower, a transitory thing, Each petal fleeting as a wing, All a May morning blows and blows, And then for everlasting goes.
IV
Blue eyes, against the whiteness pressed Of little mother's hallowed breast, The while your trembling lips are fed, Look up at mother's bended head, All benediction over you— O blue eyes looking into blue!
Fragoletta is so small, We wonder that she lives at all— Tiny alabaster girl, Hardly bigger than a pearl; That is why we take such care, Lest some one run away with her.
Richard Le Gallienne [1866-
I have got a new-born sister: I was nigh the first that kissed her. When the nursing-woman brought her To papa, his infant daughter, How papa's dear eyes did glisten! She will shortly be to christen; And papa has made the offer, I shall have the naming of her.
Now I wonder what would please her,— Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa? Ann and Mary, they're too common; Joan's too formal for a woman; Jane's a prettier name beside; But we had a Jane that died. They would say, if 'twas Rebecca, That she was a little Quaker. Edith's pretty, but that looks Better in old English books; Ellen's left off long ago; Blanche is out of fashion now. None that I have named as yet Is so good as Margaret. Emily is neat and fine; What do you think of Caroline? How I'm puzzled and perplexed What to choose or think of next! I am in a little fever Lest the name that I should give her Should disgrace her or defame her;— I will leave papa to name her.
Mary Lamb [1764-1847]
"How many pounds does the baby weigh— Baby who came but a month ago? How many pounds from the crowning curl To the rosy point of the restless toe?"
Grandfather ties the 'kerchief knot, Tenderly guides the swinging weight, And carefully over his glasses peers To read the record, "only eight."
Softly the echo goes around: The father laughs at the tiny girl; The fair young mother sings the words, While grandmother smooths the golden curl.
And stooping above the precious thing, Nestles a kiss within a prayer, Murmuring softly "Little one, Grandfather did not weigh you fair."
Nobody weighed the baby's smile, Or the love that came with the helpless one; Nobody weighed the threads of care, From which a woman's life is spun.
No index tells the mighty worth Of a little baby's quiet breath— A soft, unceasing metronome, Patient and faithful until death.
Nobody weighed the baby's soul, For here on earth no weights there be That could avail; God only knows Its value in eternity.
Only eight pounds to hold a soul That seeks no angel's silver wing, But shrines it in this human guise, Within so frail and small a thing!
Oh, mother! laugh your merry note, Be gay and glad, but don't forget From baby's eyes looks out a soul That claims a home in Eden yet.
Ethel Lynn Beers [1827-1879]
I
A baby's feet, like seashells pink, Might tempt, should heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss, we think, A baby's feet.
Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat They stretch and spread and wink Their ten soft buds that part and meet.
No flower-bells that expand and shrink Gleam half so heavenly sweet, As shine on life's untrodden brink A baby's feet.
II
A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled, Where yet no leaf expands, Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,— A baby's hands.
Then, even as warriors grip their brands When battle's bolt is hurled, They close, clenched hard like tightening bands.
No rosebuds yet by dawn impearled Match, even in loveliest lands, The sweetest flowers in all the world,— A baby's hands.
III
A baby's eyes, ere speech begin, Ere lips learn words or sighs, Bless all things bright enough to win A baby's eyes.
Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies, And sleep flows out and in, Sees perfect in them Paradise!
Their glance might cast out pain and sin, Their speech make dumb the wise, By mute glad godhead felt within A baby's eyes.
Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]
Two little feet, so small that both may nestle In one caressing hand,— Two tender feet upon the untried border Of life's mysterious land.
Dimpled, and soft, and pink as peach-tree blossoms, In April's fragrant days, How can they walk among the briery tangles, Edging the world's rough ways?
These rose-white feet, along the doubtful future, Must bear a mother's load; Alas! since Woman has the heavier burden, And walks the harder road.
Love, for a while, will make the path before them All dainty, smooth, and fair,— Will cull away the brambles, letting only The roses blossom there.
But when the mother's watchful eyes are shrouded Away from sight of men, And these dear feet are left without her guiding, Who shall direct them then?
How will they be allured, betrayed, deluded, Poor little untaught feet! Into what dreary mazes will they wander, What dangers will they meet?
Will they go stumbling blindly in the darkness Of Sorrow's tearful shades? Or find the upland slopes of Peace and Beauty, Whose sunlight never fades?
Will they go toiling up Ambition's summit, The common world above? Or in some nameless vale, securely sheltered, Walk side by side with Love?
Some feet there be which walk Life's track unwounded, Which find but pleasant ways: Some hearts there be to which this life is only A round of happy days.
But these are few. Far more there are who wander Without a hope or friend,— Who find their journey full of pains and losses, And long to reach the end.
How shall it be with her, the tender stranger, Fair-faced and gentle-eyed, Before whose unstained feet the world's rude highway Stretches so fair and wide?
Ah! who may read the future? For our darling We crave all blessings sweet, And pray that He who feeds the crying ravens Will guide the baby's feet.
Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]
Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, Nae stockin' on her feet; Her supple ankles white as snaw, Or early blossoms sweet.
Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink, Her double, dimplit chin, Her puckered lips, an' baumy mou', With na ane tooth within.
Her een sae like her mither's een, Twa gentle, liquid things; Her face is like an angel's face,— We're glad she has nae wings.
She is the buddin' of our luve, A giftie God gied us: We maun na luve the gift owre weel, 'Twad be nae blessin' thus.
We still maun luve the Giver mair, An' see Him in the given; An' sae she'll lead us up to Him, Our babie straight frae Heaven.
Jeremiah Eames Rankin [1828-1904]
Soft little hands that stray and clutch, Like fern fronds curl and uncurl bold, While baby faces lie in such Close sleep as flowers at night that fold, What is it you would, clasp and hold, Wandering outstretched with wilful touch? O fingers small of shell-tipped rose, How should you know you hold so much? Two full hearts beating you inclose, Hopes, fears, prayers, longings, joys and woes,— All yours to hold, O little hands! More, more than wisdom understands And love, love only knows.
Laurence Binyon [1869-
Bartholomew is very sweet, From sandy hair to rosy feet.
Bartholomew is six months old, And dearer far than pearls or gold.
Bartholomew has deep blue eyes, Round pieces dropped from out the skies.
Bartholomew is hugged and kissed: He loves a flower in either fist.
Bartholomew's my saucy son: No mother has a sweeter one!
Norman Gale [1862-
My child came to me with the equinox, The wild wind blew him to my swinging door, With flakes of tawny foam from off the shore, And shivering spindrift whirled across the rocks. Flung down the sky, the wheeling swallow-flocks Cried him a greeting, and the lordly woods, Waving lean arms of welcome one by one, Cast down their russet cloaks and golden hoods, And bid their dancing leaflets trip and run Before the tender feet of this my son.
Therefore the sea's swift fire is in his veins, And in his heart the glory of the sea; Therefore the storm-wind shall his comrade be, That strips the hills and sweeps the cowering plains. October, shot with flashing rays and rains, Inhabits all his pulses; he shall know The stress and splendor of the roaring gales, The creaking boughs shall croon him fairy tales, And the sea's kisses set his blood aglow, While in his ears the eternal bugles blow.
May Byron [1861-
On parent knees, a naked new-born child, Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled: So live, that, sinking to thy life's last sleep, Calm thou may'st smile, while all around thee weep.
William Jones [1746-1794]
"PHILIP, MY KING" "Who bears upon his baby brow the round and top of sovereignty."
Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my king! Round whom the enshadowing purple lies Of babyhood's royal dignities. Lay on my neck thy tiny hand With love's invisible scepter laden; I am thine Esther to command Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden, Philip, my king.
O the day when thou goest a-wooing, Philip, my king! When those beautiful lips are suing, And some gentle heart's bars undoing, Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there Sittest love-glorified. Rule kindly, Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair, For we that love, ah! we love so blindly, Philip, my king.
Up from thy sweet mouth,—up to thy brow, Philip, my king! The spirit that there lies sleeping now May rise like a giant and make men bow As to one heaven-chosen among his peers. My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer, Let me behold thee in future years!— Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my king.
—A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day, Philip, my king! Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny and cruel and cold and gray: Rebels within thee, and foes without, Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious, Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout, As thou sittest at the feet of God victorious, "Philip, the king!"
Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]
Draw back the cradle curtains, Kate, While watch and ward you're keeping, Let's see the monarch in his state, And view him while he's sleeping. He smiles and clasps his tiny hand, With sunbeams o'er him gleaming,— A world of baby fairyland He visits while he's dreaming.
Monarch of pearly powder-puff, Asleep in nest so cosy, Shielded from breath of breezes rough By curtains warm and rosy: He slumbers soundly in his cell, As weak as one decrepid, Though King of Coral, Lord of Bell, And Knight of Bath that's tepid.
Ah, lucky tyrant! Happy lot! Fair watchers without number, Who sweetly sing beside his cot, And hush him off to slumber; White hands in wait to smooth so neat His pillow when its rumpled— A couch of rose leaves soft and sweet, Not one of which is crumpled!
Will yonder dainty dimpled hand— Size, nothing and a quarter— E'er grasp a saber, lead a band To glory and to slaughter? Or, may I ask, will those blue eyes— In baby patois, "peepers"— E'er in the House of Commons rise, And try to catch the Speaker's?
Will that smooth brow o'er Hansard frown, Confused by lore statistic? Or will those lips e'er stir the town From pulpit ritualistic? Will e'er that tiny Sybarite Become an author noted? That little brain the world's delight, Its works by all men quoted?
Though rosy, dimpled, plump, and round Though fragile, soft, and tender, Sometimes, alas! it may be found The thread of life is slender! A little shoe, a little glove— Affection never waning— The shattered idol of our love Is all that is remaining!
Then does one chance, in fancy, hear, Small feet in childish patter, Tread soft as they a grave draw near, And voices hush their chatter; 'Tis small and new; they pause in fear, Beneath the gray church tower, To consecrate it with a tear, And deck it with a flower.
Who can predict the future, Kate— Your fondest aspiration! Who knows the solemn laws of fate, That govern all creation? Who knows what lot awaits your boy— Of happiness or sorrow? Sufficient for to-day is joy, Leave tears, Sweet, for to-morrow!
Joseph Ashby-Sterry [1838-1917]
So fair, so dear, so warm upon my bosom, And in my hands the little rosy feet. Sleep on, my little bird, my lamb, my blossom; Sleep on, sleep on, my sweet.
What is it God hath given me to cherish, This living, moving wonder which is mine— Mine only? Leave it with me or I perish, Dear Lord of love divine.
Dear Lord, 'tis wonderful beyond all wonder, This tender miracle vouchsafed to me, One with myself, yet just so far asunder That I myself may see.
Flesh of my flesh, and yet so subtly linking New selfs with old, all things that I have been With present joys beyond my former thinking And future things unseen.
There life began, and here it links with heaven, The golden chain of years scarce dipped adown From birth, ere once again a hold is given And nearer to God's Throne.
Seen, held in arms and clasped around so tightly,— My love, my bird, I will not let thee go. Yet soon the little rosy feet must lightly Go pattering to and fro.
Mine, Lord, all mine Thy gift and loving token. Mine—yes or no, unseen its soul divine? Mine by the chain of love with links unbroken, Dear Saviour, Thine and mine.
John Arthur Goodchild [1851-
No baby in the house, I know, 'Tis far too nice and clean. No toys, by careless fingers strewn, Upon the floors are seen. No finger-marks are on the panes, No scratches on the chairs; No wooden men setup in rows, Or marshaled off in pairs; No little stockings to be darned, All ragged at the toes; No pile of mending to be done, Made up of baby-clothes; No little troubles to be soothed; No little hands to fold; No grimy fingers to be washed; No stories to be told; No tender kisses to be given; No nicknames, "Dove" and "Mouse"; No merry frolics after tea,— No baby in the house!
Clara Dolliver [18—
From "The Mother's Idol Broken"
All in our marriage garden Grew, smiling up to God, A bonnier flower than ever Sucked the green warmth of the sod; O, beautiful unfathomably Its little life unfurled; And crown of all things was our wee White Rose of all the world.
From out a balmy bosom Our bud of beauty grew; It fed on smiles for sunshine, On tears for daintier dew: Aye nestling warm and tenderly, Our leaves of love were curled So close and close about our wee White Rose of all the world.
With mystical faint fragrance Our house of life she filled; Revealed each hour some fairy tower Where winged hopes might build! We saw—though none like us might see— Such precious promise pearled Upon the petals of our wee White Rose of all the world.
But evermore the halo Of angel-light increased, Like the mystery of moonlight That folds some fairy feast. Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently Our darling bud uncurled, And dropped in the grave—God's lap—our wee White Rose of all the world.
Our Rose was but in blossom, Our life was but in spring, When down the solemn midnight We heard the spirits sing, "Another bud of infancy With holy dews impearled!" And in their hands they bore our wee White Rose of all the world.
You scarce could think so small a thing Could leave a loss so large; Her little light such shadow fling From dawn to sunset's marge. In other springs our life may be In bannered bloom unfurled, But never, never match our wee White Rose of all the world.
Gerald Massey [1828-1907]
Into the world he looked with sweet surprise; The children laughed so when they saw his eyes.
Into the world a rosy hand in doubt He reached—a pale hand took one rosebud out.
"And that was all—quite all!" No, surely! But The children cried so when his eyes were shut.
Sarah M. B. Piatt [1836-1919]
She is not dead, but sleepeth.—Luke viii. 52.
The baby wept; The mother took it from the nurse's arms, And hushed its fears, and soothed its vain alarms, And baby slept.
Again it weeps, And God doth take it from the mother's arms, From present griefs, and future unknown harms, And baby sleeps.
Samuel Hinds [1793-1872]
Have you not heard the poets tell How came the dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours? The gates of heaven were left ajar: With folded hands and dreamy eyes, Wandering out of Paradise, She saw this planet, like a star, Hung in the glistening depths of even— Its bridges, running to and fro, O'er which the white-winged Angels go, Bearing the holy Dead to heaven. She touched a bridge of flowers—those feet, So light they did not bend the bells Of the celestial asphodels, They fell like dew upon the flowers: Then all the air grew strangely sweet. And thus came dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours.
II
She came and brought delicious May; The swallows built beneath the eaves; Like sunlight, in and out the leaves The robins went, the livelong day; The lily swung its noiseless bell; And on the porch the slender vine Held out its cups of fairy wine. How tenderly the twilights fell! Oh, earth was full of singing-birds And opening springtide flowers, When the dainty Baby Bell Came to this world of ours.
III
O Baby, dainty Baby Bell, How fair she grew from day to day! What woman-nature filled her eyes, What poetry within them lay— Those deep and tender twilight eyes, So full of meaning, pure and bright As if she yet stood in the light Of those oped gates of Paradise. And so we loved her more and more: Ah, never in our hearts before Was love so lovely born: We felt we had a link between This real world and that unseen— The land beyond the morn; And for the love of those dear eyes, For love of her whom God led forth, (The mother's being ceased on earth When Baby came from Paradise,)— For love of Him who smote our lives, And woke the chords of joy and pain, We said, Dear Christ!—our hearts bowed down Like violets after rain.
IV
And now the orchards, which were white And pink with blossoms when she came, Were rich in autumn's mellow prime; The clustered apples burnt like flame, The folded chestnut burst its shell, The grapes hung purpling, range on range; And time wrought just as rich a change In little Baby Bell. Her lissome form more perfect grew, And in her features we could trace, In softened curves, her mother's face. Her angel-nature ripened too: We thought her lovely when she came, But she was holy, saintly now... Around her pale angelic brow We saw a slender ring of flame.
V
God's hand had taken away the seal That held the portals of her speech; And oft she said a few strange words Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. She never was a child to us, We never held her being's key; We could not teach her holy things Who was Christ's self in purity.
VI
It came upon us by degrees, We saw its shadow ere it fell— The knowledge that our God had sent His messenger for Baby Bell. We shuddered with unlanguaged pain, And all our hopes were changed to fears, And all our thoughts ran into tears Like sunshine into rain. We cried aloud in our belief, "Oh, smite us gently, gently, God! Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, And perfect grow through grief." Ah! how we loved her, God can tell; Her heart was folded deep in ours. Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell!
VII
At last he came, the messenger, The messenger from unseen lands: And what did dainty Baby Bell? She only crossed her little hands, She only looked more meek and fair! We parted back her silken hair, We wove the roses round her brow— White buds, the summer's drifted snow— Wrapped her from head to foot in flowers... And thus went dainty Baby Bell Out of this world of ours.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]
Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With cockle-shells, and silver bells, And pretty maids all in a row.
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There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, She had so many children she didn't know what to do; She gave them some broth without any bread; Then whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.
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Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, Had a wife and couldn't keep her; He put her in a pumpkin shell And there he kept her very well.
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Run-a-dub-dub, Three men in a tub, And who do you think they be? The butcher, the baker, The candlestick-maker; Turn 'em out, knaves all three!
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I'll tell you a story About Jack a Nory— And now my story's begun; I'll tell you another About Johnny, his brother— And now my story is done.
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Hickory, dickory, dock, The mouse ran up the clock; The clock struck one, The mouse ran down, Hickory, dickory, dock.
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A dillar, a dollar, A ten o'clock scholar, What makes you come so soon? You used to come at ten o'clock But now you come at noon.
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There was a little man, And he had a little gun, And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead; He shot Johnny Sprig Through the middle of his wig, And knocked it right off his head, head, head.
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There was an old woman, and what do you think? She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink: Victuals and drink were the chief of her diet: Yet this little old woman could never be quiet.
She went to a baker to buy her some bread, And when she came home, her husband was dead; She went to the clerk to toll the bell, And when she came back her husband was well.
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If I had as much money as I could spend, I never would cry old chairs to mend; Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend; I never would cry old chairs to mend.
If I had as much money as I could tell, I never would cry old clothes to sell; Old clothes to sell, old clothes to sell; I never would cry old clothes to sell.
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One misty, moisty morning, When cloudy was the weather, I met a little old man Clothed all in leather; He began to bow and scrape, And I began to grin,— How do you do, and how do you do, And how do you do again?
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If all the world were apple-pie, And all the sea were ink, And all the trees were bread and cheese, What should we have to drink?
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Pease-pudding hot, Pease-pudding cold, Pease-pudding in the pot, Nine days old. Some like it hot, Some like it cold, Some like it in the pot, Nine days old.
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Hey, diddle, diddle, The cat and the fiddle, The cow jumped over the moon; The little dog laughed To see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon.
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Little Jack Horner sat in the corner Eating a Christmas pie; He put in his thumb, and pulled out a plum, And said, "What a good boy am I!"
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Little Miss Muffet, Sat on a tuffet, Eating of curds and whey; There came a great spider That sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away.
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There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile. He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile: He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse, And they all lived together in a little crooked house.
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Little Polly Flinders, Sat among the cinders, Warming her pretty little toes; Her mother came and caught her, And whipped her little daughter For spoiling her nice new clothes.
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Barber, barber, shave a pig, How many hairs will make a wig? "Four-and-twenty, that's enough." Give the barber a pinch of snuff.
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Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn, The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn; But where is the boy that looks after the sheep? He's under a hay-cock, fast asleep. Will you awake him? No, not I; For if I do, he'll be sure to cry.
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There was a man of our town, And he was wondrous wise, He jumped into a bramble bush, And scratched out both his eyes:
But when he saw his eyes were out, With all his might and main, He jumped into another bush, And scratched 'em in again.
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The north wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will poor Robin do then, Poor thing?
He'll sit in a barn, And to keep himself warm, Will hide his head under his wing, Poor thing!
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Higgleby, piggleby, my black hen, She lays eggs for gentlemen; Sometimes nine, and sometimes ten, Higgleby, piggleby, my black hen.
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Three wise men of Gotham Went to sea in a bowl; If the bowl had been stronger, My song had been longer.
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There was an old woman lived under a hill, And if she's not gone, she lives there still.
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Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you been? I've been to London to look at the Queen. Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, what did you there? I frightened a little mouse under the chair.
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There were two blackbirds sitting on a hill, The one named Jack, the other named Jill; Fly away, Jack! Fly away, Jill! Come again, Jack! Come again, Jill!
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Goosey, goosey, gander, Whither shall I wander, Up stairs, down stairs, And in my lady's chamber. There I met an old man Who would not say his prayers; I took him by his left leg And threw him down the stairs.
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Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool? Yes, sir; yes, sir, three, bags full. One for my master, one for my dame, And one for the little boy that lives in the lane.
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Bye, baby bunting, Daddy's gone a-hunting To get a little rabbit-skin To wrap the baby bunting in.
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Old King Cole was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he; He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three. Every fiddler, he had a fiddle, and a very fine fiddle had he; Twee tweedle dee, tweedle dee, went the fiddlers. Oh, there's none so rare, as can compare With King Cole and his fiddlers three!
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Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross, To see a fine lady ride on a white horse, Rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes, She shall have music wherever she goes.
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Hector Protector was dressed all in green; Hector Protector was sent to the Queen. The Queen did not like him, no more did the King; So Hector Protector was sent back again.
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Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers; A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked; If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, Where's the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?
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Jack Sprat could eat no fat, His wife could eat no lean, And so, betwixt them both, you see, They licked the platter clean.
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The lion and the unicorn Were fighting for the crown; The lion beat the unicorn All round about the town. Some gave them white bread, And some gave them brown; Some gave them plum cake, And sent them out of town.
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As Tommy Snooks and Bessy Brooks Were walking out one Sunday, Says Tommy Snooks to Bessy Brooks, "To-morrow will be Monday."
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Curly locks! Curly locks! Wilt thou be mine? Thou shalt not wash dishes Nor yet feed the swine; But sit on a cushion And sew a fine seam, And feed upon strawberries, Sugar and cream.
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Blow, wind, blow! and go, mill, go! That the miller may grind his corn; That the baker may take it and into rolls make it, And send us some hot in the morn.
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Six little mice sat down to spin, Pussy passed by, and she peeped in. "What are you at, my little men?" "Making coats for gentlemen." "Shall I come in and bite off your threads?" "No, no, Miss Pussy, you'll snip off our heads." "Oh, no, I'll not, I'll help you to spin." "That may be so, but you don't come in!"
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Bobby Shaftoe's gone to sea, Silver buckles at his knee; When he comes back, he'll marry me, Bonny Bobby Shaftoe.
Bobby Shaftoe's fat and fair, Combing down his yellow hair; He's my love for evermair, Bonny Bobby Shaftoe.
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Rock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green; Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen; And Betty's a lady, and wears a gold ring; And Johnny's a drummer, and drums for the King.
Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree-top, When the wind blows the cradle will rock; When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, Down will come baby, bough, cradle, and all.
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To market, to market, to buy a fat pig, Home again, home again, jiggety-jig; To market, to market, to buy a fat hog, Home again, home again, jiggety-jog; To market, to market, to buy a plum bun, Home again, home again, market is done.
—————- JACK AND JILL
Jack and Jill went up the hill, To fetch a pail of water; Jack fell down and broke his crown And Jill came tumbling after.
Up Jack got and home did trot As fast as he could caper, And went to bed to mend his head With vinegar and brown paper.
The Queen of Hearts She made some tarts, All on a summer's day; The Knave of Hearts He stole those tarts, And with them ran away.
The King of Hearts Called for the tarts, And beat the Knave full sore; The Knave of Hearts Brought back the tarts, And vowed he'd steal no more!
Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, And can't tell where to find them; Leave them alone, and they'll come home, And bring their tails behind them.
Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep, And dreamed she heard them bleating; But when she awoke, she found it a joke, For they were still a-fleeting.
Then up she took her little crook, Determined for to find them; She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed, For they'd left their tails behind them!
It happened one day, as Bo-peep did stray, Unto a meadow hard by, There she espied their tails side by side, All hung on a tree to dry.
She heaved a sigh, and wiped her eye, And over the hillocks she raced; And tried what she could, as a shepherdess should, That each tail should be properly placed.
Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And every where that Mary went The lamb was sure to go; He followed her to school one day— That was against the rule, It made the children laugh and play, To see a lamb at school.
And so the Teacher turned him out, But still he lingered near, And waited patiently about, Till Mary did appear; And then he ran to her, and laid His head upon her arm, As if he said—"I'm not afraid— You'll keep me from all harm."
"What makes the lamb love Mary so?" The eager children cry— "O, Mary loves the lamb, you know," The Teacher did reply;— "And you each gentle animal In confidence may bind, And make them follow at your call, If you are always kind."
Sarah Josepha Hale [1788-1879]
Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are, Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky.
When the blazing sun is set, And the grass with dew is wet, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
Then the traveler in the dark Thanks you for your tiny spark, He could not see where to go If you did not twinkle so.
In the dark blue sky you keep, And often through my curtains peep, For you never shut your eye Till the sun is in the sky.
As your bright and tiny spark Lights the traveler in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
Jane Taylor [1783-1824)
Sing a song of sixpence, A pocket full of rye; Four-and-twenty blackbirds Baked in a pie;
When the pie was opened The birds began to sing; Wasn't that a dainty dish To set before the King?
The King was in his counting-house, Counting out his money; The Queen was in the parlor, Eating bread and honey;
The maid was in the garden Hanging out the clothes; When down came a blackbird, And nipped off her nose.
Simple Simon met a pieman Going to the fair; Says Simple Simon to the pieman, "Let me taste your ware."
Says the pieman to Simple Simon, "Show me first your penny"; Says Simple Simon to the pieman, "Indeed I have not any."
Simple Simon went a-fishing For to catch a whale; All the water he had got Was in his mother's pail.
Simple Simon went to look If plums grew on a thistle; He pricked his fingers very much, Which made poor Simon whistle.
I saw a ship a-sailing, A-sailing on the sea, And oh! it was all laden With pretty things for thee!
There were comfits in the cabin, And apples in the hold; The sails were made of silk, And the masts were made of gold.
The four-and-twenty sailors That stood between the decks Were four-and-twenty white mice, With chains about their necks.
The captain was a duck, With a packet on his back, And when the ship began to move, The captain said "Quack! Quack!"
I had a little husband No bigger than my thumb; I put him in a pint pot, And there I bade him drum.
I bought a little horse, That galloped up and down; I bridled him and saddled him, And sent him out of town.
I gave him some garters, To garter up his hose, And a little handkerchief, To wipe his pretty nose.
When I was a bachelor I lived by myself; And all the bread and cheese I got I put upon the shelf.
The rats and the mice They made such a strife, I was forced to go to London To buy me a wife.
The streets were so bad, And the lanes were so narrow, I was forced to bring my wife home In a wheelbarrow.
The wheelbarrow broke, And my wife had a fall, Down came wheelbarrow, Little wife and all.
Johnny shall have a new bonnet, And Johnny shall go to the fair, And Johnny shall have a blue ribbon To tie up his bonny brown hair.
And why may not I love Johnny, And why may not Johnny love me? And why may not I love Johnny As well as another body?
And here's a leg for a stocking, And here's a foot for a shoe; And he has a kiss for his daddy, And one for his mammy, too.
And why may not I love Johnny, And why may not Johnny love me? And why may not I love Johnny, As well as another body?
The city mouse lives in a house;— The garden mouse lives in a bower, He's friendly with the frogs and toads, And sees the pretty plants in flower.
The city mouse eats bread and cheese;— The garden mouse eats what he can; We will not grudge him seeds and stocks, Poor little timid furry man.
Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]
Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree, Up went pussy-cat, and down went he; Down came pussy-cat, and away Robin ran; Said little Robin Redbreast, "Catch me if you can."
Little Robin Redbreast jumped upon a wall, Pussy-cat jumped after him, and almost got a fall; Little Robin chirped and sang, and what did pussy say? Pussy-cat said naught but "Mew," and Robin flew away.
Solomon Grundy, Born on a Monday, Christened on Tuesday, Married on Wednesday, Took ill on Thursday, Worse on Friday, Died on Saturday, Buried on Sunday, This is the end of Solomon Grundy.
Merry are the bells, and merry would they ring, Merry was myself, and merry could I sing; With a merry ding-dong, happy, gay, and free, And a merry sing-song, happy let us be!
Waddle goes your gait, and hollow are your hose: Noddle goes your pate, and purple is your nose: Merry is your sing-song, happy, gay, and free; With a merry ding-dong, happy let us be!
Merry have we met, and merry have we been; Merry let us part, and merry meet again; With our merry sing-song, happy, gay, and free, With a merry ding-dong, happy let us be!
When good King Arthur ruled this land, He was a goodly king; He stole three pecks of barley meal, To make a bag-pudding.
A bag-pudding the queen did make, And stuffed it well with plums: And in it put great lumps of fat, As big as my two thumbs.
The king and queen did eat thereof, And noblemen beside; And what they could not eat that night, The queen next morning fried.
Gay go up, and gay go down, To ring the bells of London town.
Bull's eyes and targets, Say the bells of Saint Marg'ret's.
Brickbats and tiles, Say the bells of Saint Giles'.
Half-pence and farthings, Say the bells of Saint Martin's.
Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of Saint Clement's.
Pancakes and fritters, Say the bells of Saint Peter's.
Two sticks and an apple, Say the bells of Whitechapel.
Old Father Baldpate, Say the slow bells at Aldgate.
Pokers and tongs, Say the bells of Saint John's.
Kettles and pans, Say the bells of Saint Ann's.
You owe me ten shillings, Say the bells of Saint Helen's.
When will you pay me? Say the bells at Old Bailey.
When I grow rich, Say the bells at Shoreditch.
Pray, when will that be? Say the bells of Stepney.
I am sure I don't know, Says the great bell at Bow.
The owl and the eel and the warming-pan, They went to call on the soap-fat man. The soap-fat man he was not within: He'd gone for a ride on his rolling-pin. So they all came back by the way of the town, And turned the meeting-house upside down.
Laura E. Richards [1850-
Thank you, pretty cow, that made Pleasant milk to soak my bread, Every day, and every night, Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white.
Do not chew the hemlock rank, Growing on the weedy bank; But the yellow cowslips eat, They will make it very sweet.
Where the purple violet grows, Where the bubbling water flows, Where the grass is fresh and fine, Pretty cow, go there and dine.
Ann Taylor [1782-1866]
Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life, and bade thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee, Little Lamb, I'll tell thee; He is called by thy name, For He calls Himself a Lamb. He is meek, and He is mild; He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little Lamb, God bless thee! Little Lamb, God bless thee.
William Blake [1757-1827]
Oh, where do you come from, You little drops of rain, Pitter patter, pitter patter, Down the window-pane?
They won't let me walk, And they won't let me play, And they won't let me go Out of doors at all to-day.
They put away my playthings Because I broke them all, And then they locked up all my bricks, And took away my ball.
Tell me, little raindrops, Is that the way you play, Pitter patter, pitter patter, All the rainy day?
They say I'm very naughty, But I've nothing else to do But sit here at the window; I should like to play with you.
The little raindrops cannot speak, But "pitter, patter pat" Means, "We can play on this side: Why can't you play on that?"
Moon, so round and yellow, Looking from on high, How I love to see you Shining in the sky. Oft and oft I wonder, When I see you there, How they get to light you, Hanging in the air:
Where you go at morning, When the night is past, And the sun comes peeping O'er the hills at last. Sometime I will watch you Slyly overhead, When you think I'm sleeping Snugly in my bed.
Matthias Barr [1831-?]
This is the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the man all tattered and torn That kissed the maiden That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the priest all shaven and shorn That married the man all tattered and torn That kissed the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the cock that crowed in the morn That waked the priest all shaven and shorn That married the man all tattered and torn That kissed the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the farmer sowing his corn That kept the cock that crowed in the morn That waked the priest all shaven and shorn That married the man all tattered and torn That kissed the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.
Old Mother Hubbard Went to the cupboard, To get her poor dog a bone: But when she got there The cupboard was bare, And so the poor dog had none.
She went to the baker's To buy him some bread, But when she came back The poor dog was dead.
She went to the joiner's To buy him a coffin, But when she came back The poor dog was laughing.
She took a clean dish To get him some tripe, But when she came back He was smoking a pipe.
She went to the fishmonger's To buy him some fish, But when she came back He was licking the dish.
She went to the tavern For white wine and red, But when she came back The dog stood on his head.
She went to the hatter's To buy him a hat, But when she came back He was feeding the cat.
She went to the barber's To buy him a wig, But when she came back He was dancing a jig.
She went to the fruiterer's To buy him some fruit, But when she came back He was playing the flute.
She went to the tailor's To buy him a coat, But when she came back He was riding a goat.
She went to the cobbler's To buy him some shoes, But when she came back He was reading the news.
She went to the seamstress To buy him some linen, But when she came back The dog was spinning.
She went to the hosier's To buy him some hose, But when she came back He was dressed in his clothes.
The dame made a curtesy, The dog made a bow, The dame said, "Your servant," The dog said, "Bow-wow."
This wonderful dog Was Dame Hubbard's delight; He could sing, he could dance, He could read, he could write.
She gave him rich dainties Whenever he fed, And built him a monument When he was dead.
Who killed Cock Robin? "I," said the Sparrow, "With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin."
Who saw him die? "I'" said the Fly, "With my little eye, I saw him die."
Who caught his blood? "I," said the Fish, "With my little dish, I caught his blood."
Who'll make his shroud? "I," said the Beetle, "With my thread and needle, I'll make his shroud."
Who'll dig his grave? "I," said the Owl, "With my spade and trowel, I'll dig his grave."
Who'll be the parson? "I," said the Rook, "With my little book. I'll be the parson."
Who'll be the clerk? "I," said the Lark, "I'll say Amen in the dark; I'll be the clerk."
Who'll be chief mourner? "I," said the Dove, "I mourn for my love; I'll be chief mourner."
Who'll bear the torch? "I," said the Linnet, "I'll come in a minute, I'll bear the torch."
Who'll sing his dirge? "I," said the thrush. "As I sing in the bush I'll sing his dirge."
Who'll bear the pall? "We," said the Wren, Both the Cock and the Hen; "We'll bear the pall."
Who'll carry his coffin? "I," said the Kite, "If it be in the night, I'll carry his coffin."
Who'll toll the bell? "I," said the Bull, "Because I can pull, I'll toll the bell."
All the birds of the air Fell to sighing and sobbing When they heard the bell toll For poor Cock Robin.
"Which is the way to Baby-land?" "Any one can tell; Up one flight, To your right; Please to ring the bell."
"What can you see in Baby-land?" "Little folks in white— Downy heads, Cradle-beds, Faces pure and bright!"
"What do they do in Baby-land?" "Dream and wake and play, Laugh and crow, Shout and grow; Jolly times have they!"
"What do they say in Baby-land?" "Why, the oddest things; Might as well Try to tell What a birdie sings!"
"Who is the Queen of Baby-land?" "Mother, kind and sweet; And her love, Born above, Guides the little feet."
George Cooper [1840-1927]
There once was a wood, and a very thick wood, So thick that to walk was as much as you could; But a sunbeam got in, and the trees understood.
I went to this wood, at the end of the snows, And as I was walking I saw a primrose; Only one! Shall I show you the place where it grows?
There once was a house, and a very dark house, As dark, I believe, as the hole of a mouse, Or a tree in my wood, at the thick of the boughs.
I went to this house, and I searched it aright, I opened the chambers, and I found a light; Only one! Shall I show you this little lamp bright?
There once was a cave, and this very dark cave One day took a gift from an incoming wave; And I made up my mind to know what the sea gave.
I took a lit torch, I walked round the ness When the water was lowest; and in a recess In my cave was a jewel. Will nobody guess?
O there was a baby, he sat on my knee, With a pearl in his mouth that was precious to me, His little dark mouth like my cave of the sea!
I said to my heart, "And my jewel is bright! He blooms like a primrose! He shines like a light!" Put your hand in his mouth! Do you feel? He can bite!
William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]
Baby wants his breakfast, Oh! what shall I do? Said the cow, "I'll give him Nice fresh milk—moo-oo!"
Said the hen, "Cut-dah cut! I have laid an egg For the Baby's breakfast— Take it now, I beg!"
And the buzzing bee said, "Here is honey sweet. Don't you think the Baby Would like that to eat?"
Then the baker kindly Brought the Baby's bread. "Breakfast is all ready," Baby's mother said;
"But before the Baby Eats his dainty food, Will he not say 'Thank you!' To his friends so good?"
Then the bonny Baby Laughed and laughed away. That was all the "Thank you" He knew how to say.
Emilie Poulsson [1853-
O, look at the moon! She is shining up there; O mother, she looks Like a lamp in the air.
Last week she was smaller, And shaped like a bow; But now she's grown bigger, And round as an O.
Pretty moon, pretty moon, How you shine on the door, And make it all bright On my nursery floor!
You shine on my playthings, And show me their place, And I love to look up At your pretty bright face.
And there is a star Close by you, and maybe That small twinkling star Is your little baby.
Eliza Lee Fallen [1787-1859]
Brow bender, Eye peeper, Nose smeller, Mouth eater, Chin chopper, Knock at the door—peep in, Lift up the latch—walk in.
Here sits the Lord Mayor, here sit his two men, Here sits the cock, and here sits the hen; Here sit the chickens, and here they go in, Chippety, chippety, chippety, chin.
This little pig went to market; This little pig stayed at home; This little pig got roast beef; This little pig got none; This little pig cried wee, wee, all the way home.
One, two, Buckle my shoe; Three, four, Shut the door; Five, six, Pick up sticks; Seven, eight, Lay them straight; Nine, ten, A good fat hen; Eleven, twelve, Who will delve? Thirteen, fourteen, Maids a-courting; Fifteen, sixteen, Maids a-kissing; Seventeen, eighteen, Maids a-waiting; Nineteen, twenty, My stomach's empty.
Eight fingers, Ten toes, Two eyes, And one nose. Baby said When she smelt the rose, "Oh! what a pity I've only one nose!"
Ten teeth In even rows, Three dimples, And one nose. Baby said When she smelt the snuff, "Deary me! One nose is enough."
Laura E. Richards [1850-
'Tis all the way to Toe-town, Beyond the Knee-high hill, That Baby has to travel down To see the soldiers drill.
One, two, three, four, five, a-row— A captain and his men— And on the other side, you know, Are six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
John Banister Tabb [1845-1909]
A was an Archer, who shot at a frog; B was a Butcher, who had a great dog; C was a Captain, all covered with lace; D was a Drunkard, and had a red face; E was an Esquire, with pride on his brow; F was a Farmer, and followed the plow; G was a Gamester, who had but ill luck; H was a Hunter, who hunted a buck; I was an Innkeeper, who loved to bouse; J was a Joiner, who built up a house; K was a King, so mighty and grand; L was a Lady, who had a white hand; M was a Miser, and hoarded his gold; N was a Nobleman, gallant and bold; O was an Oysterman, who went about town; P was a Parson, and wore a black gown; Q was a Quack, with a wonderful pill; R was a Robber, who wanted to kill; S was a Sailor, who spent all he got; T was a Tinker, and mended a pot; U was an Usurer, a miserable elf; V was a Vintner, who drank all himself; W was a Watchman, who guarded the door; X was Expensive, and so became poor; Y was a Youth, that did not love school; Z was a Zany, a poor harmless fool.
Three little words, you often see, Are articles A, An, and The. A Noun is the name of anything, As School, or Garden, Hoop, or Swing. Adjectives tell the kind of Noun, As Great, Small, Pretty, White, or Brown. Instead of Nouns the Pronouns stand, Her head, His face, Your arm, My hand. Verbs tell something being done— To Read, Count, Laugh, Sing, Jump, or Run. How things are done the Adverbs tell, As Slowly, Quickly, Ill, or Well. Conjunctions join the words together— As men And women, wind Or weather. The Preposition stands before A noun, as In or Through a door, The Interjection shows surprise, As Oh! how pretty! Ah! how wise! The Whole are called nine parts of speech, Which reading, writing, speaking teach.
Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November; All the rest have thirty-one; February twenty-eight alone,— Except in leap year, at which time February's days are twenty-nine.
January brings the snow, Makes our feet and fingers glow.
February brings the rain, Thaws the frozen lake again.
March brings breezes, loud and shrill, To stir the dancing daffodil.
April brings the primrose sweet, Scatters daisies at our feet.
May brings flocks of pretty lambs Skipping by their fleecy dams.
June brings tulips, lilies, roses, Fills the children's hands with posies.
Hot July brings cooling showers, Apricots, and gillyflowers.
August brings the sheaves of corn, Then the harvest home is borne.
Warm September brings the fruit; Sportsmen then begin to shoot.
Fresh October brings the pheasant; Then to gather nuts is pleasant.
Dull November brings the blast; Then the leaves are whirling fast.
Chill December brings the sleet, Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.
Sara Coleridge [1802-1852]
There was a girl in our town, Silk an' satin was her gown, Silk an' satin, gold an' velvet, Guess her name, three times I've telled it. (Ann.)
As soft as silk, as white as milk, As bitter as gall, a thick green wall, And a green coat covers me all. (A walnut.)
Make three fourths of a cross, And a circle complete; And let two semicircles On a perpendicular meet; Next add a triangle That stands on two feet; Next two semicircles, And a circle complete. (TOBACCO.)
Flour of England, fruit of Spain, Met together in a shower of rain; Put in a bag tied round with a string, If you'll tell me this riddle, I'll give you a ring. (A plum-pudding.)
In marble walls as white as milk, Lined with a skin as soft as silk, Within a fountain crystal clear, A golden apple doth appear. No doors there are to this stronghold, Yet thieves break in and steal the gold. (An egg.)
Little Nanny Etticoat, In a white petticoat, And a red nose; The longer she stands, The shorter she grows. (A candle.)
Long legs, crooked thighs, Little head and no eyes. (A pair of tongs.)
Thirty white horses upon a red hill, Now they tramp, now they champ, now they stand still. (The teeth.)
Formed long ago, yet made to-day, Employed while others sleep; What few would like to give away, Nor any wish to keep. (A bed.)
Lives in winter, Dies in summer, And grows with its root upwards. (An icicle.)
Elizabeth, Lizzy, Betsy and Bess, All went together to seek a bird's nest; They found a nest with five eggs in it; They each took one and left four in it.
Thomas a Tattamus took two T's, To tie two tups to two tall trees, To frighten the terrible Thomas a Tattamus! Tell me how many T's there are in all THAT!
Old Mother Twitchett had but one eye, And a long tail which she let fly; And every time she went over a gap, She left a bit of her tail in a trap. (A needle and thread.)
As I went through a garden gap, Who should I meet but Dick Red-Cap! A stick in his hand, a stone in his throat, If you'll tell me this riddle, I'll give you a groat. (A cherry.)
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall; All the king's horses and all the king's men Cannot put Humpty Dumpty together again. (An egg.)
As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives, Every wife had seven sacks, Every sack had seven cats, Every cat had seven kits— Kits, cats, sacks, and wives, How many were going to St. Ives? (One.)
Two legs sat upon three legs, With one leg in his lap; In comes four legs And runs away with one leg; Up jumps two legs, Catches up three legs, Throws it after four legs, And makes him drop one leg. (A man, a stool, a leg of mutton, and a dog.)
If wishes were horses, Beggars would ride; If turnips were watches, I'd wear one by my side.
A man of words, and not of deeds, Is like a garden full of weeds; For when the weeds begin to grow, Then doth the garden overflow.
He that would thrive Must rise at five; He that hath thriven May lie till seven; And he that by the plough would thrive, Himself must either hold or drive.
A swarm of bees in May Is worth a load of hay; A swarm of bees in June Is worth a silver spoon; A swarm of bees in July Is not worth a fly.
They that wash on Monday Have all the week to dry; They that wash on Tuesday Are not so much awry; They that wash on Wednesday Are not so much to blame; They that wash on Thursday, Wash for shame; They that wash on Friday, Wash in need; And they that wash on Saturday, Oh, they are slovens, indeed.
Needles and pins, needles and pins, When a man marries, his trouble begins.
For every evil under the sun, There is a remedy, or there is none. If there be one, try and find it; If there be none, never mind it.
Tommy's tears, and Mary's fears, Will make them old before their years.
If "ifs" and "ands" Were pots and pans, There would be no need for tinkers!
For want of a nail, the shoe was lost; For want of the shoe, the horse was lost; For want of the horse, the rider was lost; For want of the rider, the battle was lost; For want of the battle, the kingdom was lost; And all from the want of a horseshoe nail.
Kind hearts are the gardens, Kind thoughts are the roots, Kind words are the blossoms, Kind deeds are the fruits; Love is the sweet sunshine That warms into life, For only in darkness Grow hatred and strife.
A sunshiny shower Won't last half an hour.
Rain before seven, Fair by eleven.
The South wind brings wet weather, The North wind wet and cold together; The West wind always brings us rain, The East wind blows it back again.
March winds and April showers Bring forth May flowers.
Evening red and morning gray Set the traveller on his way, But evening gray and morning red, Bring the rain upon his head.
Rainbow at night Is the sailor's delight; Rainbow at morning, Sailors, take warning.
See a pin and pick it up, All the day you'll have good luck; See a pin and let it lay, Bad luck you will have all day.
Cut your nails on Monday, cut them for news; Cut them on Tuesday, a pair of new shoes; Cut them on Wednesday, cut them for health; Cut them on Thursday, cut them for wealth; Cut them on Friday, cut them for woe; Cut them on Saturday, a journey you'll go; Cut them on Sunday, you'll cut them for evil, For all the next week you'll be ruled by the devil.
Marry Monday, marry for wealth; Marry Tuesday, marry for health; Marry Wednesday, the best day of all; Marry Thursday, marry for crosses; Marry Friday, marry for losses; Marry Saturday, no luck at all.
Sneeze on a Monday, you sneeze for danger; Sneeze on a Tuesday, you'll kiss a stranger; Sneeze on a Wednesday, you sneeze for a letter; Sneeze on a Thursday, for something better; Sneeze on a Friday, you sneeze for sorrow; Sneeze on a Saturday, your sweetheart to-morrow; Sneeze on a Sunday, your safety seek— The devil will have you the whole of the week.
Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace, Wednesday's child is full of woe, Thursday's child has far to go, Friday's child is loving and giving, Saturday's child works hard for its living, And a child that's born on the Sabbath day Is fair and wise and good and gay.
Dutch Lullaby
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe,— Sailed on a river of crystal light Into a sea of dew. "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" The old moon asked the three. "We have come to fish for the herring fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we!" Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe; And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew. The little stars were the herring fish That lived in that beautiful sea— "Now cast your nets wherever you wish,— Never afeard are we!" So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw To the stars in the twinkling foam,— Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home: 'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed As if it could not be; And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea; But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed; So shut your eyes while Mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock in the misty sea Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:— Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.
Eugene Field [1850-1895]
Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree? 'Tis a marvel of great renown! It blooms on the shore of the Lollypop sea In the garden of Shut-Eye Town; The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet (As those who have tasted it say) That good little children have only to eat Of that fruit to be happy next day.
When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard time To capture the fruit which I sing; The tree is so tall that no person could climb To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing! But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat, And a gingerbread dog prowls below— And this is the way you contrive to get at Those sugar-plums tempting you so:
You say but the word to that gingerbread dog And he barks with such terrible zest That the chocolate cat is at once all agog, As her swelling proportions attest. And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around From this leafy limb unto that, And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground— Hurrah for that chocolate cat!
There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes, With stripings of scarlet or gold, And you carry away of the treasure that rains, As much as your apron can hold! So come, little child, cuddle closer to me In your dainty white nightcap and gown, And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.
Eugene Field [1850-1895]
When the Sleepy Man comes with the dust on his eyes, (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) He shuts up the earth, and he opens the skies. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)
He smiles through his fingers, and shuts up the sun; (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) The stars that he loves he lets out one by one. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)
He comes from the castles of Drowsy-boy Town; (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) At the touch of his hand the tired eyelids fall down. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)
He comes with a murmur of dream in his wings; (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) And whispers of mermaids and wonderful things. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)
Then the top is a burden, the bugle a bane; (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) When one would be faring down Dream-a-way Lane. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)
When one would be wending in Lullaby Wherry, (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) To Sleepy Man's Castle, by Comforting Ferry. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)
Charles G. D. Roberts [1860-
Auld Daddy Darkness creeps frae his hole, Black as a blackamoor, blin' as a mole: Stir the fire till it lowes, let the bairnie sit, Auld Daddy Darkness is no wantit yit.
See him in the corners hidin' frae the licht, See him at the window gloomin' at the nicht; Turn up the gas licht, close the shutters a', An' Auld Daddy Darkness will flee far awa'.
Awa' to hide the birdie within its cosy nest, Awa' to lap the wee flooers on their mither's breast, Awa' to loosen Gaffer Toil frae his daily ca', For Auld Daddy Darkness is kindly to a'.
He comes when we're weary to wean's frae oor waes, He comes when the bairnies are getting aff their claes; To cover them sae cosy, an' bring bonnie dreams, So Auld Daddy Darkness is better than he seems.
Steek yer een, my wee tot, ye'll see Daddy then; He's in below the bed claes, to cuddle ye he's fain; Noo nestle to his bosie, sleep and dream yer fill, Till Wee Davie Daylicht comes keekin' owre the hill.
James Ferguson [18—?]
Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, Upstairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed?—for it's noo ten o'clock."
Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben? The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep; But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep.
Onything but sleep, ye rogue!—glowrin' like the moon, Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock, Skirlin' like a kenna-what—wauknin' sleepin' folk!
Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel! Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums: Hey, Willie Winkie!—See, there he comes!
William Miller [1810-1872]
The rosy clouds float overhead, The sun is going down; And now the sandman's gentle tread Comes stealing through the town. "White sand, white sand," he softly cries, And as he shakes his hand, Straightway there lies on babies' eyes His gift of shining sand. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.
From sunny beaches far away— Yes, in another land— He gathers up at break of day His stone of shining sand. No tempests beat that shore remote, No ships may sail that way; His little boat alone may float Within that lovely bay. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.
He smiles to see the eyelids close Above the happy eyes; And every child right well he knows,— Oh, he is very wise! But if, as he goes through the land, A naughty baby cries, His other hand takes dull gray sand To close the wakeful eyes. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.
So when you hear the sandman's song Sound through the twilight sweet, Be sure you do not keep him long A-waiting in the street. Lie softly down, dear little head, Rest quiet, busy hands, Till, by your bed his good-night said, He strews the shining sands. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.
Margaret Thomson Janvier [1845-1913]
When the toys are growing weary, And the twilight gathers in; When the nursery still echoes With the children's merry din; Then unseen, unheard, unnoticed Comes an old man up the stair, Lightly to the children passes, Lays his hand upon their hair.
Softly smiles the good old Dustman; In their eyes the dust he throws, Till their little heads are falling, And their weary eyes must close. Then the Dustman very gently Takes each little dimpled hand Leads them through the sweet green shadows, Far away in slumberland.
Frederic Edward Weatherly [1848-1929]
From "Menaphon"
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee; When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. Mother's wag, pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy; When thy father first did see Such a boy by him and me, He was glad, I was woe; Fortune changed made him so, When he left his pretty boy, Last his sorrow, first his joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee; When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. Streaming tears that never stint, Like pearl-drops from a flint, Fell by course from his eyes, That one another's place supplies; Thus he grieved in every part, Tears of blood fell from his heart, When he left his pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee; When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. The wanton smiled, father wept, Mother cried, baby leapt; More he crowed, more we cried, Nature could not sorrow hide: He must go, he must kiss Child and mother, baby bliss, For he left his pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
Robert Greene [1560?-1592]
From "Patient Grissel"
Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, Smiles awake you when you rise. Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby. Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
Care is heavy, therefore sleep you, You are care, and care must keep you. Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby. Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
Thomas Dekker [1570?-1641?]
Sleep, baby, sleep! what ails my dear, What ails my darling thus to cry? Be still, my child, and lend thine ear, To hear me sing thy lullaby. My pretty lamb, forbear to weep; Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear? What thing to thee can mischief do? Thy God is now thy father dear, His holy Spouse thy mother too. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Though thy conception was in sin, A sacred bathing thou hast had; And though thy birth unclean hath been, A blameless babe thou art now made. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
While thus thy lullaby I sing, For thee great blessings ripening be; Thine Eldest Brother is a king, And hath a kingdom bought for thee. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear; For whosoever thee offends By thy protector threatened are, And God and angels are thy friends. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
When God with us was dwelling here, In little babes He took delight; Such innocents as thou, my dear, Are ever precious in His sight. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
A little infant once was He; And strength in weakness then was laid Upon His Virgin Mother's knee, That power to thee might be conveyed. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
In this thy frailty and thy need He friends and helpers doth prepare, Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed, For of thy weal they tender are. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The King of Kings when He was born, Had not so much for outward ease; By Him such dressings were not worn, Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby sleep.
Within a manger lodged thy Lord, Where oxen lay and asses fed: Warm rooms we do to thee afford, An easy cradle for a bed. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The wants that He did then sustain Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee, And by His torments and His pain Thy rest and ease secured be. My baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou hast, yet more, to perfect this A promise and an earnest got Of gaining everlasting bliss, Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
George Wither [1588-1667]
My heart is like a fountain true That flows and flows with love to you. As chirps the lark unto the tree So chirps my pretty babe to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
There's not a rose where'er I seek, As comely as my baby's cheek. There's not a comb of honey-bee, So full of sweets as babe to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
There's not a star that shines on high, Is brighter than my baby's eye. There's not a boat upon the sea, Can dance as baby does to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
No silk was ever spun so fine As is the hair of baby mine. My baby smells more sweet to me Than smells in spring the elder tree. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
A little fish swims in the well, So in my heart does baby dwell. A little flower blows on the tree, My baby is the flower to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
The Queen has sceptre, crown and ball, You are my sceptre, crown and all. For all her robes of royal silk, More fair your skin, as white as milk. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
Ten thousand parks where deer do run, Ten thousand roses in the sun, Ten thousand pearls beneath the sea, My babe more precious is to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
Unknown
Upon my lap my sovereign sits And sucks upon my breast; Meanwhile his love sustains my life And gives my body rest. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
When thou hast taken thy repast, Repose, my babe, on me; So may thy mother and thy nurse Thy cradle also be. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
I grieve that duty doth not work All that my wishing would, Because I would not be to thee But in the best I should. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
Yet as I am, and as I may, I must and will be thine, Though all too little for thy self Vouchsafing to be mine. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
Richard Rowlands [fl. 1565-1620]
Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed! Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head.
Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide; All without thy care or payment: All thy wants are well supplied.
How much better thou'rt attended Than the Son of God could be, When from heaven He descended And became a child like thee!
Soft and easy is thy cradle: Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When His birthplace was a stable And His softest bed was hay.
Blessed babe! what glorious features— Spotless fair, divinely bright! Must He dwell with brutal creatures? How could angels bear the sight?
Was there nothing but a manger Cursed sinners could afford To receive the heavenly stranger? Did they thus affront their Lord?
Soft, my child: I did not chide thee, Though my song might sound too hard; 'Tis thy mother sits beside thee, And her arms shall be thy guard.
Yet to read the shameful story How the Jews abused their King, How they served the Lord of Glory, Makes me angry while I sing.
See the kinder shepherds round Him, Telling wonders from the sky! Where they sought Him, there they found Him, With His Virgin mother by.
See the lovely babe a-dressing; Lovely infant, how He smiled! When He wept, the mother's blessing Soothed and hushed the holy child.
Lo, He slumbers in His manger, Where the horned oxen fed; Peace, my darling; here's no danger, Here's no ox anear thy bed.
'Twas to save thee, child, from dying, Save my dear from burning flame, Bitter groans and endless crying, That thy blest Redeemer came.
May'st thou live to know and fear Him, Trust and love Him all thy days; Then go dwell forever near Him, See His face, and sing His praise!
Isaac Watts [1674-1748]
Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, Dreaming in the joys of night; Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep Little sorrows sit and weep.
Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace, Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles.
As thy softest limbs I feel Smiles as of the morning steal O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast Where thy little heart doth rest.
O the cunning wiles that creep In thy little heart asleep! When thy little heart doth wake, Then the dreadful night shall break.
William Blake [1757-1827]
Baloo, loo, lammy, now baloo, my dear, Does wee lammy ken that its daddy's no here? Ye're rocking full sweetly on mammy's warm knee, But daddy's a-rocking upon the salt sea.
Now hushaby, lammy, now hushaby, dear; Now hushaby, lammy, for mother is near. The wild wind is raving, and mammy's heart's sair; The wild wind is raving, and ye dinna care.
Sing baloo, loo, lammy, sing baloo, my dear; Sing baloo, loo, lammy, for mother is here. My wee bairnie's dozing, it's dozing now fine, And O may its wakening be blither than mine!
Carolina Nairne [1763-1845]
O, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight, Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright; The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see, They are all belonging, dear babie, to thee. O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.
O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, It calls but the warders that guard thy repose; Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed. O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.
O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come, When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day. O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.
Walter Scott [1771-1832]
Little baby, lay your head On your pretty cradle-bed; Shut your eye-peeps, now the day And the light are gone away; All the clothes are tucked in tight; Little baby dear, good-night.
Yes, my darling, well I know How the bitter wind doth blow; And the winter's snow and rain Patter on the window-pane: But they cannot come in here, To my little baby dear;
For the window shutteth fast, Till the stormy night is past; And the curtains warm are spread Round about her cradle bed: So till morning shineth bright, Little baby dear, good-night.
Jane Taylor [1783-1824]
Lullaby! O lullaby! Baby, hush that little cry! Light is dying, Bats are flying, Bees to-day with work have done; So, till comes the morrow's sun, Let sleep kiss those bright eyes dry! Lullaby! O lullaby.
Lullaby! O lullaby! Hushed are all things far and nigh; Flowers are closing, Birds reposing, All sweet things with life are done. Sweet, till dawns the morning sun, Sleep, then kiss those blue eyes dry. Lullaby! O lullaby!
William Cox Bennett [1820-1895]
From "The Princess"
Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]
The days are cold, the nights are long, The north-wind sings a doleful song; Then hush again upon my breast; All merry things are now at rest, Save thee, my pretty love!
The kitten sleeps upon the hearth; The crickets long have ceased their mirth; There's nothing stirring in the house Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse; Then why so busy thou?
Nay! start not at that sparkling light; 'Tis but the moon that shines so bright On the window-pane bedropped with rain: There, little darling! sleep again, And wake when it is day!
Dorothy Wordsworth [1804-1847]
Every evening Baby goes Trot, trot, to town, Across the river, through the fields, Up hill and down.
Trot, trot, the Baby goes, Up hill and down, To buy a feather for her hat, To buy a woolen gown.
Trot, trot, the Baby goes; The birds fly down, alack! "You cannot have our feathers, dear," They say, "so please trot back."
Trot, trot, the Baby goes; The lambs come bleating near. "You cannot have our wool," they say, "But we are sorry, dear."
Trot, trot, the Baby goes, Trot, trot, to town; She buys a red rose for her hat, She buys a cotton gown.
Mary F. Butts [1836-1902]
Sleep, little Baby, sleep; The holy Angels love thee, And guard thy bed, and keep A blessed watch above thee. No spirit can come near Nor evil beast to harm thee: Sleep, Sweet, devoid of fear Where nothing need alarm thee.
The Love which doth not sleep, The eternal Arms surround thee: The Shepherd of the sheep In perfect love hath found thee. Sleep through the holy night, Christ-kept from snare and sorrow, Until thou wake to light And love and warmth to-morrow.
Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]
From "The Mistress of the Manse"
Rockaby, lullaby, bees in the clover! Crooning so drowsily, crying so low, Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover! Down into wonderland, Down to the under-land Go, oh go! Down into wonderland go!
Rockaby, lullaby, rain on the clover! (Tears on the eyelids that waver and weep!) Rockaby, lullaby—bending it over! Down on the mother-world, Down on the other world, Sleep, oh sleep! Down on the mother-world sleep!
Rockaby, lullaby, dew on the clover! Dew on the eyes that will sparkle at dawn! Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover! Into the stilly world, Into the lily world, Gone! oh gone! Into the lily world gone!
Josiah Gilbert Holland [1819-1881]
From "Bitter-Sweet"
What is the little one thinking about? Very wonderful things, no doubt! Unwritten history! Unfathomed mystery! Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks, As if his head were as full of kinks And curious riddles as any sphinx! Warped by colic, and wet by tears, Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, Our little nephew will lose two years; And he'll never know Where the summers go;— He need not laugh, for he'll find it so!
Who can tell what a baby thinks? Who can follow the gossamer links By which the mannikin feels his way Out from the shore of the great unknown, Blind, and wailing, and alone, Into the light of day?— Out from the shore of the unknown sea, Tossing in pitiful agony;— Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, Specked with the barks of little souls,— Barks that were launched on the other side, And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide! What does he think of his mother's eyes? What does he think of his mother's hair? What of the cradle-roof, that flies Forward and backward through the air? What does he think of his mother's breast, Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, Seeking it ever with fresh delight,— Cup of his life, and couch of his rest? What does he think when her quick embrace Presses his hand and buries his face Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell With a tenderness she can never tell, Though she murmur the words Of all the birds,— Words she has learned to murmur well? Now he thinks he'll go to sleep! I can see the shadow creep Over his eyes, in soft eclipse, Over his brow, and over his lips, Out to his little finger-tips! Softly sinking, down he goes! Down he goes! down he goes! See! he is hushed in sweet repose!
Josiah Gilbert Holland [1819-1881]
I've found my bonny babe a nest On Slumber Tree, I'll rock you there to rosy rest, Asthore Machree! Oh, lulla lo! sing all the leaves On Slumber Tree, Till everything that hurts or grieves Afar must flee.
I've put my pretty child to float Away from me, Within the new moon's silver boat On Slumber Sea. And when your starry sail is o'er From Slumber Sea, My precious one, you'll step to shore On Mother's knee.
Alfred Perceval Graves [1846-1931]
Lord Gabriel, wilt thou not rejoice When at last a little boy's Cheek lies heavy as a rose, And his eyelids close?
Gabriel, when that hush may be, This sweet hand all heedfully I'll undo, for thee alone, From his mother's own.
Then the far blue highways paven With the burning stars of heaven, He shall gladden with the sweet Hasting of his feet—
Feet so brightly bare and cool, Leaping, as from pool to pool; From a little laughing boy Splashing rainbow joy!
Gabriel, wilt thou understand How to keep his hovering hand— Never shut, as in a bond, From the bright beyond?—
Nay, but though it cling and close Tightly as a climbing rose, Clasp it only so—aright, Lest his heart take fright.
(Dormi, dormi tu: The dusk is hung with blue.)
II
Lord Michael, wilt not thou rejoice When at last a little boy's Heart, a shut-in murmuring bee, Turns him unto thee?
Wilt thou heed thine armor well— To take his hand from Gabriel, So his radiant cup of dream May not spill a gleam?
He will take thy heart in thrall, Telling o'er thy breastplate, all Colors, in his bubbling speech, With his hand to each.
(Dormi, dormi tu. Sapphire is the blue: Pearl and beryl, they are called, Chrysoprase and emerald, Sard and amethyst. Numbered so, and kissed.)
Ah, but find some angel word For thy sharp, subduing sword! Yea, Lord Michael, make no doubt He will find it out:
(Dormi, dormi tu! His eyes will look at you.)
III
Last, a little morning space, Lead him to that leafy place Where Our Lady sits awake, For all mothers' sake.
Bosomed with the Blessed One, He shall mind her of her Son, Once so folded from all harms, In her shrining arms.
(In her veil of blue, Dormi, dormi tu.)
So;—and fare thee well. Softly,—Gabriel... When the first faint red shall come, Bid the Day-star lead him home, For the bright world's sake— To my heart, awake.
Josephine Preston Peabody [1874-1922]
White little hands! Pink little feet! Dimpled all over, Sweet, sweet, sweet! What dost thou wail for? The unknown? the unseen? The ills that are coming, The joys that have been?
Cling to me closer, Closer and closer, Till the pain that is purer Hath banished the grosser. Drain, drain at the stream, love, Thy hunger is freeing, That was born in a dream, love, Along with thy being!
Little fingers that feel For their home on my breast, Little lips that appeal For their nurture, their rest! Why, why dost thou weep, dear? Nay, stifle thy cries, Till the dew of thy sleep, dear, Lies soft on thine eyes.
Alfred Austin [1835-1913]
'Skeeters am a hummin' on de honeysuckle vine,— Sleep, Kentucky Babe! Sandman am a comin' to dis little coon of mine,— Sleep, Kentucky Babe! Silv'ry moon am shinin' in de heabens up above, Bobolink am pinin' fo' his little lady love: Yo' is mighty lucky, Babe of old Kentucky,— Close yo' eyes in sleep.
Fly away, Fly away, Kentucky Babe, fly away to rest, Fly away, Lay yo' kinky, woolly head on yo' mammy's breast,— Um—Um—, Close yo' eyes in sleep.
Daddy's in de cane-brake wid his little dog and gun,— Sleep, Kentucky Babe! 'Possum fo' yo' breakfast when yo' sleepin' time is done,— Sleep, Kentucky Babe! Bogie man'll catch yo' sure unless yo' close yo' eyes, Waitin' jes outside de doo' to take yo' by surprise: Bes' be keepin' shady, Little colored lady,— Close yo' eyes in sleep.
Richard Henry Buck [1869-
Minnie and Winnie slept in a shell. Sleep, little ladies! And they slept well.
Pink was the shell within, silver without; Sounds of the great sea wandered about.
Sleep, little ladies! Wake not soon! Echo on echo dies to the moon.
Two bright stars peeped into the shell. "What are they dreaming of? Who can tell?"
Started a green linnet out of the croft; Wake, little ladies! The sun is aloft.
Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]
Sleep, my baby, while I sing Bed-time news of everything. Chickens run to mother hen; Piggy curls up in the pen. In the field, all tired with play, Quiet now the lambkins stay. Kittens cuddle in a heap— Baby, too, must go to sleep!
Sleep, my baby, while I sing Bed-time news of everything. Now the cows from pasture come; Bees fly home with drowsy hum. Little birds are in the nest, Under mother-bird's soft breast. Over all soft shadows creep— Baby now must go to sleep.
Sleep, my baby, while I sing Bed-time news of everything. Sleepy flowers seem to nod, Drooping toward the dewy sod; While the big sun's fading light Bids my baby dear good-night. Mother loving watch will keep; Baby now must go to sleep.
Emilie Poulsson [1853-
The dark-fringed eyelids slowly close On eyes serene and deep; Upon my breast my own sweet child Has gently dropped to sleep; I kiss his soft and dimpled cheek, I kiss his rounded chin, Then lay him on his little bed, And tuck my baby in.
How fair and innocent he lies; Like some small angel strayed, His face still warmed by God's own smile, That slumbers unafraid; Or like some new embodied soul, Still pure from taint of sin— My thoughts are reverent as I stoop To tuck my baby in.
What toil must stain these tiny hands That now lie still and white? What shadows creep across the face That shines with morning light? These wee pink shoeless feet—how far Shall go their lengthening tread, When they no longer cuddled close May rest upon this bed?
O what am I that I should train An angel for the skies; Or mix the potent draught that feeds The soul within these eyes? I reach him up to the sinless Hands Before his cares begin,— Great Father, with Thy folds of love, O tuck my baby in.
Curtis May [18 —
What a plague is this o' mine, Winna steek an e'e; Though I hap him o'er the heid, As cosy as can be. Sleep an' let me to my wark— A' thae claes to airn— Jenny wi' the airn teeth, Come an' tak' the bairn!
Tak' him to your ain den, Whaur the bogie bides, But first put baith your big teeth In his wee plump sides; Gie your auld gray pow a shake, Rive him frae my grup, Tak' him whaur nae kiss is gaun When he waukens up.
Whatna noise is that I hear Coomin' doon the street? Weel I ken the dump, dump, O' her beetle feet; Mercy me! she's at the door! Hear her lift the sneck; Wheesht, an' cuddle mammy noo, Closer roun' the neck.
Jenny wi' the airn teeth, The bairn has aff his claes; Sleepin' safe an' soun', I think— Dinna touch his taes.
Sleepin' bairns are no for you, Ye may turn aboot, An' tak' awa' wee Tam next door— I hear him screichin' oot.
Dump, dump, awa' she gangs Back the road she cam', I hear her at the ither door, Speirin' after Tam; He's a crabbit, greetin' thing— The warst in a' the toon, Little like my ain wee wean— Losh, he's sleepin' soun'!
Mithers hae an awfu' wark Wi' their bairns at nicht, Chappin' on the chair wi' tangs, To gie the rogues a fricht; Aulder bairns are fleyed wi' less, Weel eneuch we ken, Bigger bogies, bigger Jennies, Frichten muckle men.
Alexander Anderson [1845-1909]
The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi' muckie faucht an' din, "O, try an' sleep, ye waukrife rogues, Your father's comin' in." They never heed a word I speak; I try to gie a froon, But aye I hap them up, an' cry, "O bairnies, cuddle doon."
Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid— He aye sleeps next the wa'— Bangs up an' cries, "I want a piece;" The rascal starts them a'. I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks, They stop awee the soun'; Then draw the blankets up an' cry, "Noo, weanies, cuddle doon."
But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab Cries oot, frae 'neath the claes, "Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at once— He's kittlin' wi' his taes." The mischief's in that Tam for tricks, He'd bother half the toon; But aye I hap them up an' cry, "O bairnies, cuddle doon."
At length they hear their father's fit, An', as he steeks the door, They turn their faces to the wa', While Tam pretends to snore. "Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks, As he pits aff his shoon; "The bairnies, John, are in their beds, An' lang since cuddled doon."
An' just afore we bed oorsel's, We look at oor wee lambs; Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck, An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's. I lift wee Jamie up the bed, An' as I straik each croon, I whisper, till my heart fills up, "O bairnies, cuddle doon."
The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi' mirth that's dear to me; But sune the big warl's cark an' care Will quaten doon their glee. Yet, come what will to ilka ane, May He who sits aboon Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld, "O bairnies, cuddle doon."
Alexander Anderson [1845-1909]
'Tis bedtime; say your hymn, and bid "Good-night; God bless Mamma, Papa, and dear ones all." Your half-shut eyes beneath your eyelids fall, Another minute, you will shut them quite. Yes, I will carry you, put out the light, And tuck you up, although you are so tall! What will you give me, sleepy one, and call My wages, if I settle you all right?
I laid her golden curls upon my arm, I drew her little feet within my hand, Her rosy palms were joined in trustful bliss, Her heart next mine beat gently, soft and warm She nestled to me, and, by Love's command, Paid me my precious wages—"Baby's Kiss."
Francis Robert St. Clair Erskine [1833-1890]
The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
A child should always say what's true And speak when he is spoken to, And behave mannerly at table; At least as far as he is able.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
Good little boys should never say "I will," and "Give me these"; O, no! that never is the way, But "Mother, if you please."
And "If you please," to Sister Ann Good boys to say are ready; And, "Yes, sir," to a Gentleman, And, "Yes, ma'am," to a Lady.
Elizabeth Turner [?—1846]
Hearts, like doors, will ope with ease To very, very little keys, And don't forget that two of these Are "I thank you" and "If you please."
Come when you're called, Do what you're bid, Close the door after you, Never be chid.
Seldom "can't," Seldom "don't;" Never "shan't," Never "won't."
When little Fred Was called to bed, He always acted right; He kissed Mama, And then Papa, And wished them all good-night.
He made no noise, Like naughty boys, But gently up the stairs Directly went, When he was sent, And always said his prayers.
Frisky as a lambkin, Busy as a bee— That's the kind of little girl People like to see.
Modest as a violet, As a rosebud sweet— That's the kind of little girl People like to meet.
Bright as is a diamond, Pure as any pearl— Everyone rejoices in Such a little girl.
Happy as a robin, Gentle as a dove— That's the kind of little girl Everyone will love.
Fly away and seek her, Little song of mine, For I choose that very girl As my Valentine.
Emilie Poulsson [1853-
Children, you are very little, And your bones are very brittle; If you would grow great and stately, You must try to walk sedately.
You must still be bright and quiet, And content with simple diet; And remain, through all bewild'ring, Innocent and honest children.
Happy hearts and happy faces, Happy play in grassy places— That was how, in ancient ages, Children grew to kings and sages.
But the unkind and the unruly, And the sort who eat unduly, They must never hope for glory— Theirs is quite a different story!
Cruel children, crying babies, All grow up as geese and gabies, Hated, as their age increases, By their nephews and their nieces.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
Yesterday, Rebecca Mason, In the parlor by herself, Broke a handsome china basin, Placed upon the mantel-shelf.
Quite alarmed, she thought of going Very quietly away, Not a single person knowing, Of her being there that day.
But Rebecca recollected She was taught deceit to shun; And the moment she reflected, Told her mother what was done;
Who commended her behavior, Loved her better, and forgave her.
Elizabeth Turner [?—1846]
Little children, never give Pain to things that feel and live; Let the gentle robin come For the crumbs you save at home,— As his meat you throw along He'll repay you with a song; Never hurt the timid hare Peeping from her green grass lair, Let her come and sport and play On the lawn at close of day; The little lark goes soaring high To the bright windows of the sky, Singing as if 'twere always spring, And fluttering on an untired wing,— Oh! let him sing his happy song, Nor do these gentle creatures wrong.
The robin and the red-breast, The sparrow and the wren; If ye take out o' their nest, Ye'll never thrive again!
The robin and the red-breast, The martin and the swallow; If ye touch one o' their eggs, Bad luck will surely follow!
I've plucked the berry from the bush, the brown nut from the tree, But heart of happy little bird ne'er broken was by me. I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, slyly peer With their wild eyes, like glittering beads, to note if harm were near; I passed them by, and blessed them all; I felt that it was good To leave unmoved the creatures small whose home was in the wood.
And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue doth sing; He pecks his swelling breast and neck, and trims his little wing. He will not fly; he knows full well, while chirping on that spray, I would not harm him for the world, or interrupt his lay. Sing on, sing on, blithe bird! and fill my heart with summer gladness; It has been aching many a day with measures full of sadness!
William Motherwell [1797-1835]
I like little Pussy, her coat is so warm; And if I don't hurt her she'll do me no harm. So I'll not pull her tail, nor drive her away, But Pussy and I very gently will play.
She shall sit by my side, and I'll give her some food; And she'll love me because I am gentle and good. I'll pat little Pussy and then she will purr, And thus show her thanks for my kindness to her.
I'll not pinch her ears, nor tread on her paw, Lest I should provoke her to use her sharp claw; I never will vex her, nor make her displeased, For Pussy can't bear to be worried or teased.
Jane Taylor [1783-1824]
Little drops of water, Little grains of sand, Make the mighty ocean And the pleasant land.
So the little moments, Humble though they be, Make the mighty ages Of eternity.
So our little errors Lead the soul away From the path of virtue, Far in sin to stray.
Little deeds of kindness, Little words of love, Help to make earth happy Like the heaven above.
Julia Fletcher Carney [1823-1908]
From "Little Derwent's Breakfast"
Take your meals, my little man, Always like a gentleman; Wash your face and hands with care, Change your shoes, and brush your hair; Then so fresh, and clean, and neat, Come and take your proper seat: Do not loiter and be late, Making other people wait; Do not rudely point or touch: Do not eat and drink too much: Finish what you have, before You even ask, or send for more: Never crumble or destroy Food that others might enjoy; They who idly crumbs will waste Often want a loaf to taste! Never spill your milk or tea, Never rude or noisy be; Never choose the daintiest food, Be content with what is good: Seek in all things that you can To be a little gentleman.
I must not throw upon the floor The crust I cannot eat; For many little hungry ones Would think it quite a treat.
My parents labor very hard To get me wholesome food; Then I must never waste a bit That would do others good.
For wilful waste makes woeful want, And I may live to say, Oh! how I wish I had the bread That once I threw away!
How doth the little busy bee Improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day From every opening flower!
How skilfully she builds her cell! How neat she spreads the wax! And labors hard to store it well With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labor or of skill, I would be busy too; For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do.
In books, or work, or healthful play, Let my first years be passed, That I may give for every day Some good account at last.
Isaac Watts [1674-1748]
There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree. "He's singing to me! He's singing to me!" And what does he say, little girl, little boy? "Oh, the world's running over with joy! Don't you hear? Don't you see? Hush! Look! In my tree, I'm as happy as happy can be!"
And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see, And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper-tree? Don't meddle! Don't touch! little girl, little boy, Or the world will lose some of its joy! Now I'm glad! Now I'm free! And I always shall be, If you never bring sorrow to me."
So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, To you and to me, to you and to me; And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, "Oh, the world's running over with joy! But long it won't be, Don't you know? Don't you see? Unless we're as good as can be."
Lucy Larcom [1824-1893]
'Tis the voice of a sluggard; I heard him complain, "You have waked me too soon; I must slumber again"; As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.
"A little more sleep, and a little more slumber"; Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number; And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands Or walks about saunt'ring, or trifling he stands.
I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher; The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags; And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.
I made him a visit, still hoping to find That he took better care for improving his mind; He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking. But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.
Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me; That man's but a picture of what I might be; But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, Who taught me betimes to love working and reading."
Isaac Watts [1674-1748]
Down in a green and shady bed A modest violet grew; Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, As if to hide from view.
And yet it was a lovely flower, Its colors bright and fair; It might have graced a rosy bower, Instead of hiding there.
Yet there it was content to bloom, In modest tints arrayed; And there diffused a sweet perfume, Within the silent shade.
Then let me to the valley go, This pretty flower to see; That I may also learn to grow In sweet humility.
Jane Taylor [1783-1824]
There was one little Jim, 'Tis reported of him, And must be to his lasting disgrace, That he never was seen With hands at all clean, Nor yet ever clean was his face.
His friends were much hurt To see so much dirt, And often they made him quite clean; But all was in vain, He got dirty again, And not at all fit to be seen.
It gave him no pain To hear them complain, Nor his own dirty clothes to survey; His indolent mind No pleasure could find In tidy and wholesome array.
The idle and bad, Like this little lad, May love dirty ways, to be sure; But good boys are seen, To be decent and clean, Although they are ever so poor.
Jane Taylor [1783-1824]
"Dear me! what signifies a pin, Wedged in a rotten board? I'm certain that I won't begin, At ten years old, to hoard; I never will be called a miser, That I'm determined," said Eliza.
So onward tripped the little maid, And left the pin behind, Which very snug and quiet lay, To its hard fate resigned; Nor did she think (a careless chit) 'Twas worth her while to stoop for it.
Next day a party was to ride, To see an air balloon; And all the company beside Were dressed and ready soon; But she a woeful case was in, For want of just a single pin.
In vain her eager eyes she brings, To every darksome crack; There was not one, and yet her things Were dropping off her back. She cut her pincushion in two, But no, not one had fallen through.
At last, as hunting on the floor, Over a crack she lay, The carriage rattled to the door, Then rattled fast away; But poor Eliza was not in, For want of just—a single pin!
There's hardly anything so small, So trifling or so mean, That we may never want at all, For service unforeseen; And wilful waste, depend upon't, Brings, almost always, woeful want!
Ann Taylor [1782-1866]
There were two little girls, neither handsome nor plain, One's name was Eliza, the other's was Jane; They were both of one height, as I've heard people say, And both of one age, I believe, to a day.
'Twas fancied by some, who but slightly had seen them, There was not a pin to be chosen between them; But no one for long in this notion persisted, So great a distinction there really existed.
Eliza knew well that she could not be pleasing, While fretting and fuming, while sulking or teasing; And therefore in company artfully tried, Not to break her bad habits, but only to hide.
So, when she was out, with much labor and pain, She contrived to look almost as pleasant as Jane; But then you might see that, in forcing a smile, Her mouth was uneasy, and ached all the while.
And in spite of her care it would sometimes befall That some cross event happened to ruin it all; And because it might chance that her share was the worst, Her temper broke loose, and her dimples dispersed.
But Jane, who had nothing she wanted to hide, And therefore these troublesome arts never tried, Had none of the care and fatigue of concealing, But her face always showed what her bosom was feeling.
At home or abroad there was peace in her smile, A cheerful good nature that needed no guile. And Eliza worked hard, but could never obtain The affection that freely was given to Jane.
Ann Taylor [1782-1866]
One ugly trick has often spoiled The sweetest and the best; Matilda, though a pleasant child, One ugly trick possessed, Which, like a cloud before the skies, Hid all her better qualities.
Sometimes she'd lift the tea-pot lid, To peep at what was in it; Or tilt the kettle, if you did But turn your back a minute. In vain you told her not to touch, Her trick of meddling grew so much.
Her grandmamma went out one day, And by mistake she laid Her spectacles and snuff-box gay Too near the little maid; "Ah! well," thought she, "I'll try them on, As soon as grandmamma is gone."
Forthwith she placed upon her nose The glasses large and wide; And looking round, as I suppose, The snuff-box too she spied: "Oh! what a pretty box is that; I'll open it," said little Matt.
"I know that grandmamma would say, 'Don't meddle with it, dear'; But then, she's far enough away, And no one else is near: Besides, what can there be amiss In opening such a box as this?"
So thumb and finger went to work To move the stubborn lid, And presently a mighty jerk The mighty mischief did; For all at once, ah! woeful case, The snuff came puffing in her face.
Poor eyes, and nose, and mouth, beside, A dismal sight presented; In vain, as bitterly she cried, Her folly she repented. In vain she ran about for ease; She could do nothing now but sneeze.
She dashed the spectacles away, To wipe her tingling eyes, And as in twenty bits they lay, Her grandmamma she spies. "Heydey! and what's the matter now?" Cried grandmamma, with lifted brow.
Matilda, smarting with the pain, And tingling still, and sore, Made many a promise to refrain From meddling evermore. And 'tis a fact, as I have heard, She ever since has kept her word.
Ann Taylor [1782-1866]
One honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher, Although he was poor, did not want to be richer; For all such vain wishes in him were prevented By a fortunate habit of being contented.
Though cold were the weather, or dear were the food, John never was found in a murmuring mood; For this he was constantly heard to declare,— What he could not prevent he would cheerfully bear.
"For why should I grumble and murmur?" he said; "If I cannot get meat, I'll be thankful for bread; And, though fretting may make my calamities deeper, It can never cause bread and cheese to be cheaper."
If John was afflicted with sickness or pain, He wished himself better, but did not complain, Nor lie down to fret in despondence and sorrow, But said that he hoped to be better to-morrow.
If any one wronged him or treated him ill, Why, John was good-natured and sociable still; For he said that revenging the injury done Would be making two rogues when there need be but one.
And thus honest John, though his station was humble, Passed through this sad world without even a grumble; And I wish that some folks, who are greater and richer, Would copy John Tomkins, the hedger and ditcher.
Jane Taylor [1783-1824]
How good to lie a little while And look up through the tree! The Sky is like a kind big smile Bent sweetly over me.
The Sunshine flickers through the lace Of leaves above my head, And kisses me upon the face Like Mother, before bed.
The Wind comes stealing o'er the grass To whisper pretty things; And though I cannot see him pass, I feel his careful wings.
So many gentle Friends are near Whom one can scarcely see, A child should never feel a fear, Wherever he may be.
Abbie Farwell Brown [1875-1927]
Anger in its time and place May assume a kind of grace. It must have some reason in it, And not last beyond a minute. If to further lengths it go, It does into malice grow. 'Tis the difference that we see 'Twixt the serpent and the bee. If the latter you provoke, It inflicts a hasty stroke, Puts you to some little pain, But it never stings again. Close in tufted bush or brake Lurks the poison-swelled snake Nursing up his cherished wrath; In the purlieus of his path, In the cold, or in the warm, Mean him good, or mean him harm, Wheresoever fate may bring you, The vile snake will always sting you.
Charles and Mary Lamb
There was a little girl, who had a little curl Right in the middle of her forehead, And when she was good she was very, very good, But when she was bad she was horrid.
She stood on her head, on her little trundle-bed, With nobody by for to hinder; She screamed and she squalled, she yelled and she bawled, And drummed her little heels against the winder.
Her mother heard the noise, and thought it was the boys Playing in the empty attic, She rushed upstairs, and caught her unawares, And spanked her, most emphatic.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]
Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore— No doubt you have heard the name before— Was a boy who never would shut a door!
The wind might whistle, the wind might roar, And teeth be aching and throats be sore, But still he never would shut the door.
His father would beg, his mother implore, "Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore, We really do wish you would shut the door!"
Their hands they wrung, their hair they tore; But Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore Was deaf as the buoy out at the Nore.
When he walked forth the folks would roar, "Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore, Why don't you think to shut the door?"
They rigged out a Shutter with sail and oar, And threatened to pack off Gustavus Gore On a voyage of penance to Singapore.
But he begged for mercy, and said, "No more! Pray do not send me to Singapore On a Shutter, and then I will shut the door!"
"You will?" said his parents; "then keep on shore! But mind you do! For the plague is sore Of a fellow that never will shut the door, Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore!"
William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]
A pretty good firm is "Watch & Waite," And another is "Attit, Early & Layte;" And still another is "Doo & Dairet;" But the best is probably "Grinn & Barrett."
Walter G. Doty [1876-
(13th Century)
God's lark at morning I would be! I'd set my heart within a tree Close to His bed and sing to Him Right merrily A sunrise hymn.
At night I'd be God's troubadour! Beneath His starry walls I'd pour Across the moat such roundelays He'd love me sure— And maybe praise!
William Alexander Percy [1885-
"I never can do it," the little kite said, As he looked at the others high over his head; "I know I should fall if I tried to fly." "Try," said the big kite; "only try! Or I fear you never will learn at all." But the little kite said, "I'm afraid I'll fall."
The big kite nodded: "Ah well, goodby; I'm off;" and he rose toward the tranquil sky. Then the little kite's paper stirred at the sight, And trembling he shook himself free for flight. First whirling and frightened, then braver grown, Up, up he rose through the air alone, Till the big kite looking down could see The little one rising steadily.
Then how the little kite thrilled with pride, As he sailed with the big kite side by side! While far below he could see the ground, And the boys like small spots moving round. They rested high in the quiet air, And only the birds and the clouds were there. "Oh, how happy I am!" the little kite cried, "And all because I was brave, and tried."
Unknown
Methought I heard a butterfly Say to a laboring bee; "Thou hast no colors of the sky On painted wings like me."
"Poor child of vanity! those dyes, And colors bright and rare," With mild reproof, the bee replies, "Are all beneath my care."
"Content I toil from morn till eve, And, scorning idleness, To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave The vanity of dress."
William Lisle Bowles [1762-1850]
The butterfly, an idle thing, Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing, As do the bee and bird; Nor does it, like the prudent ant, Lay up the grain for times of want, A wise and cautious hoard.
My youth is but a summer's day: Then like the bee and ant I'll lay A store of learning by; And though from flower to flower I rove, My stock of wisdom I'll improve, Nor be a butterfly.
Adelaide O'Keefe [1776-1855]
The lark is up to meet the sun, The bee is on the wing, The ant her labor has begun, The woods with music ring.
Shall birds and bees and ants be wise, While I my moments waste? Oh, let me with the morning rise, And to my duties haste.
Why should I sleep till beams of morn Their light and glory shed? Immortal beings were not born To waste their time in bed.
Jane Taylor [1783-1824]
Buttercups and daisies, Oh, the pretty flowers; Coming ere the spring time, To tell of sunny hours, While the trees are leafless, While the fields are bare, Buttercups and daisies Spring up here and there.
Ere the snow-drop peepeth, Ere the crocus bold, Ere the early primrose Opes its paly gold,— Somewhere on the sunny bank Buttercups are bright; Somewhere midst the frozen grass Peeps the daisy white.
Little hardy flowers, Like to children poor, Playing in their sturdy health By their mother's door. Purple with the north-wind, Yet alert and bold; Fearing not, and caring not, Though they be a-cold!
What to them is winter! What are stormy showers! Buttercups and daisies Are these human flowers! He who gave them hardships And a life of care, Gave them likewise hardy strength And patient hearts to bear.
Mary Howitt [1799-1888]
A silly young cricket, accustomed to sing Through the warm, sunny months of gay summer and spring, Began to complain, when he found that at home His cupboard was empty and winter was come. Not a crumb to be found On the snow-covered ground; Not a flower could he see, Not a leaf on a tree: "Oh, what will become," says the cricket, "of me?"
At last by starvation and famine made bold, All dripping with wet and all trembling with cold, Away he set off to a miserly ant, To see if, to keep him alive, he would grant Him shelter from rain: A mouthful of grain He wished only to borrow, He'd repay it to-morrow: If not, he must die of starvation and sorrow.
Says the ant to the cricket, "I'm your servant and friend, But we ants never borrow, we ants never lend; But tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing by When the weather was warm?" Said the cricket, "Not I. My heart was so light That I sang day and night, For all nature looked gay." "You sang, sir, you say? Go then," said the ant, "and dance winter away." Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicket And out of the door turned the poor little cricket. Though this is a fable, the moral is good: If you live without work, you must live without food.
Unknown
This was your butterfly, you see,— His fine wings made him vain: The caterpillars crawl, but he Passed them in rich disdain.— My pretty boy says, "Let him be Only a worm again!"
O child, when things have learned to wear Wings once, they must be fain To keep them always high and fair: Think of the creeping pain Which even a butterfly must bear To be a worm again!
Sarah M. B. Piatt [1836-1919]
Suppose the little Cowslip Should hang its golden cup And say, "I'm such a little flower I'd better not grow up!" How many a weary traveller Would miss its fragrant smell, How many a little child would grieve To lose it from the dell!
Suppose the glistening Dewdrop Upon the grass should say, "What can a little dewdrop do? I'd better roll away!" The blade on which it rested, Before the day was done, Without a drop to moisten it, Would wither in the sun.
Suppose the little Breezes, Upon a summer's day, Should think themselves too small to cool The traveller on his way: Who would not miss the smallest And softest ones that blow, And think they made a great mistake If they were acting so?
How many deed of kindness A little child can do, Although it has but little strength And little wisdom too! It wants a loving spirit Much more than strength, to prove How many things a child may do For others by its love.
Epes Sargent [1813-1880]
A lion with the heat oppressed, One day composed himself to rest: But while he dozed as he intended, A mouse, his royal back ascended; Nor thought of harm, as Aesop tells, Mistaking him for someone else; And travelled over him, and round him, And might have left him as she found him Had she not—tremble when you hear— Tried to explore the monarch's ear! Who straightway woke, with wrath immense, And shook his head to cast her thence. "You rascal, what are you about?" Said he, when he had turned her out, "I'll teach you soon," the lion said, "To make a mouse-hole in my head!" So saying, he prepared his foot To crush the trembling tiny brute; But she (the mouse) with tearful eye, Implored the lion's clemency, Who thought it best at last to give His little prisoner a reprieve.
'Twas nearly twelve months after this, The lion chanced his way to miss; When pressing forward, heedless yet, He got entangled in a net. With dreadful rage, he stamped and tore, And straight commenced a lordly roar; When the poor mouse, who heard the noise, Attended, for she knew his voice. Then what the lion's utmost strength Could not effect, she did at length; With patient labor she applied Her teeth, the network to divide; And so at last forth issued he, A lion, by a mouse set free.
Few are so small or weak, I guess, But may assist us in distress, Nor shall we ever, if we're wise, The meanest, or the least despise.
Jeffreys Taylor [1792-1853]
A little Boy was set to keep A little flock of goats or sheep; He thought the task too solitary, And took a strange perverse vagary: To call the people out of fun, To see them leave their work and run, He cried and screamed with all his might,— "Wolf! wolf!" in a pretended fright. Some people, working at a distance, Came running in to his assistance. They searched the fields and bushes round, The Wolf was nowhere to be found. The Boy, delighted with his game, A few days after did the same, And once again the people came. The trick was many times repeated, At last they found that they were cheated. One day the Wolf appeared in sight, The Boy was in a real fright, He cried, "Wolf! wolf!"—the neighbors heard, But not a single creature stirred. "We need not go from our employ,— 'Tis nothing but that idle boy." The little Boy cried out again, "Help, help! the Wolf!" he cried in vain. At last his master came to beat him. He came too late, the Wolf had eat him.
This shows the bad effect of lying, And likewise of continual crying. If I had heard you scream and roar, For nothing, twenty times before, Although you might have broke your arm, Or met with any serious harm, Your cries could give me no alarm; They would not make me move the faster, Nor apprehend the least disaster; I should be sorry when I came, But you yourself would be to blame.
John Hookham Frere [1769-1846]
Augustus was a chubby lad; Fat, ruddy cheeks Augustus had; And everybody saw with joy The plump and hearty, healthy boy. He ate and drank as he was told, And never let his soup get cold.
But one day, one cold winter's day, He screamed out—"Take the soup away! O take the nasty soup away! I won't have any soup to-day."
Next day begins his tale of woes; Quite lank and lean Augustus grows. Yet, though he feels so weak and ill, The naughty fellow cries out still— "Not any soup for me, I say: O take the nasty soup away! I won't have any soup to-day."
The third day comes; O what a sin! To make himself so pale and thin. Yet, when the soup is put on table, He screams, as loud as he is able,— "Not any soup for me, I say: O take the nasty soup away! I won't have any soup to-day."
Look at him, now the fourth day's come! He scarcely weighs a sugar-plum; He's like a little bit of thread, And on the fifth day, he was—dead!
From the German of Heinrich Hoffman [1798-1874]
One day, mamma said: "Conrad dear, I must go out and leave you here. But mind now, Conrad, what I say, Don't suck your thumb while I'm away. The great tall tailor always comes To little boys that suck their thumbs; And ere they dream what he's about, He takes his great sharp scissors out And cuts their thumbs clean off,—and then, You know, they never grow again."
Mamma had scarcely turned her back, The thumb was in, alack! alack! The door flew open, in he ran, The great, long, red-legged scissors-man. Oh, children, see! the tailor's come And caught our little Suck-a-Thumb. Snip! snap! snip! the scissors go; And Conrad cries out—"Oh! oh! oh!"
Snip! snap! Snip! They go so fast, That both his thumbs are off at last. Mamma comes home; there Conrad stands, And looks quite sad, and shows his hands;— "Ah!" said mamma, "I knew he'd come To naughty little Suck-a-Thumb."
From the German of Heinrich Hoffman [1798-1874]
Hearts good and true Have wishes few In narrow circles bounded, And hope that lives On what God gives Is Christian hope well founded.
Small things are best; Grief and unrest To rank and wealth are given; But little things On little wings Bear little souls to heaven.
Frederick William Faber [1814-1863]
My Lady Wind, my Lady Wind, Went round about the house to find A chink to set her foot in; She tried the keyhole in the door, She tried the crevice in the floor, And drove the chimney soot in.
And then one night when it was dark She blew up such a tiny spark That all the town was bothered; From it she raised such flame and smoke That many in great terror woke, And many more were smothered.
And thus when once, my little dears, A whisper reaches itching ears— The same will come, you'll find: Take my advice, restrain the tongue, Remember what old nurse has sung Of busy Lady Wind.
Unknown
Small service is true service while it lasts: Of humblest friends, bright creature! scorn not one: The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray: Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I'll leave you For every day.
I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol Than lark who hails the dawn on breezy down; To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel Than Shakespeare's crown.
Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever One grand sweet song.
Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]
Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me:
"Pipe a song about a lamb!" So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again;" So I piped: he wept to hear.
"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer!" So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear.
"Piper, sit thee down and write In a book that all may read." So he vanished from my sight; And I plucked a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.
William Blake [1757-1827]
Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, With the wonderful water round you curled, And the wonderful grass upon your breast, World, you are beautifully dressed.
The wonderful air is over me, And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree— It walks on the water, and whirls the mills, And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.
You friendly Earth, how far do you go, With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow, With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles, And people upon you for thousands of miles?
Ah! you are so great, and I am so small, I tremble to think of you, World, at all; And yet, when I said my prayers to-day, A whisper inside me seemed to say, "You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot: You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"
William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]
The world's a very happy place, Where every child should dance and sing, And always have a smiling face, And never sulk for anything.
I waken when the morning's come, And feel the air and light alive With strange sweet music like the hum Of bees about their busy hive.
The linnets play among the leaves At hide-and-seek, and chirp and sing; While, flashing to and from the eaves, The swallows twitter on the wing.
The twigs that shake, and boughs that sway; And tall old trees you could not climb; And winds that come, but cannot stay, Are gaily singing all the time.
From dawn to dark the old mill-wheel Makes music, going round and round; And dusty-white with flour and meal, The miller whistles to its sound.
And if you listen to the rain When leaves and birds and bees are dumb, You hear it pattering on the pane Like Andrew beating on his drum.
The coals beneath the kettle croon, And clap their hands and dance in glee; And even the kettle hums a tune To tell you when it's time for tea.
The world is such a happy place, That children, whether big or small, Should always have a smiling face, And never, never sulk at all.
Gabriel Setoun [1861-
Where the pools are bright and deep, Where the gray trout lies asleep, Up the river and over the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee, That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest, There to track the homeward bee, That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the clustering nuts fall free, That's the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away Little sweet maidens from the play, Or love to banter and fight so well, That's the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play Through the meadow, among the hay; Up the water and over the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.
James Hogg [1770-1835]
A Boy's Song
With lifted feet, hands still, I am poised, and down the hill Dart, with heedful mind; The air goes by in a wind.
Swifter and yet more swift, Till the heart with a mighty lift Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:— "O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.
"Is this, is this your joy? O bird, then I, though a boy, For a golden moment share Your feathery life in air!"
Say, heart, is there aught like this In a world that is full of bliss? 'Tis more than skating, bound Steel-shod to the level ground.
Speed slackens now, I float Awhile in my airy boat; Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, My feet to the treadles fall.
Alas, that the longest hill Must end in a vale; but still, Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er, Shall find wings waiting there.
Henry Charles Beeching [1859-1919]
In summer I am very glad We children are so small, For we can see a thousand things That men can't see at all.
They don't know much about the moss And all the stones they pass: They never lie and play among The forests in the grass:
They walk about a long way off; And, when we're at the sea, Let father stoop as best he can He can't find things like me.
But, when the snow is on the ground And all the puddles freeze, I wish that I were very tall, High up above the trees.
Laurence Alma-Tadema [18—
Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor you: But when the leaves hang trembling, The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I: But when the trees bow down their heads, The wind is passing by.
Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]
O winds that blow across the sea, What is the story that you bring? Leaves clap their hands on every tree And birds about their branches sing.
You sing to flowers and trees and birds Your sea-songs over all the land. Could you not stay and whisper words A little child might understand?
The roses nod to hear you sing; But though I listen all the day, You never tell me anything Of father's ship so far away.
Its masts are taller than the trees; Its sails are silver in the sun; There's not a ship upon the seas So beautiful as father's one.
With wings spread out it flies so fast It leaves the waves all white with foam. Just whisper to me, blowing past, If you have seen it sailing home.
I feel your breath upon my cheek, And in my hair, and on my brow. Dear winds, if you could only speak, I know that you would tell me now.
My father's coming home, you'd say, With precious presents, one, two, three; A shawl for mother, beads for May, And eggs and shells for Rob and me.
The winds sing songs where'er they roam; The leaves all clap their little hands; For father's ship is coming home With wondrous things from foreign lands.
Gabriel Setoun [1861-
A Child's Song
There sits a piper on the hill Who pipes the livelong day, And when he pipes both loud and shrill, The frightened people say: "The wind, the wind is blowing up 'Tis rising to a gale." The women hurry to the shore To watch some distant sail. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, Is blowing to a gale.
But when he pipes all sweet and low, The piper on the hill, I hear the merry women go With laughter, loud and shrill: "The wind, the wind is coming south 'Twill blow a gentle day." They gather on the meadow-land To toss the yellow hay. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, Is blowing south to-day.
And in the morn, when winter comes, To keep the piper warm, The little Angels shake their wings To make a feather storm: "The snow, the snow has come at last!" The happy children call, And "ring around" they dance in glee, And watch the snowflakes fall. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, Has spread a snowy pall.
But when at night the piper plays, I have not any fear, Because God's windows open wide The pretty tune to hear; And when each crowding spirit looks, From its star window-pane, A watching mother may behold Her little child again. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, May blow her home again.
Dora Sigerson Shorter [1862-1918]
Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out; You stare In the air Like a ghost in a chair, Always looking what I am about— I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out."
The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. So, deep On a heap Of clouds to sleep, Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon, Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."
He turned in his bed; she was there again! On high In the sky, With her one ghost eye, The Moon shone white and alive and plain. Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."
The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. "With my sledge, And my wedge, I have knocked off her edge! If only I blow right fierce and grim, The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."
He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. "One puff More's enough To blow her to snuff! One good puff more where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread."
He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone. In the air Nowhere Was a moonbeam bare; Far off and harmless the shy stars shone— Sure and certain the Moon was gone!
The Wind he took to his revels once more; On down, In town, Like a merry-mad clown, He leaped and halloed with whistle and roar— "What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!
He flew in a rage—he danced and blew; But in vain Was the pain Of his bursting brain; For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew, The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.
Slowly she grew—till she filled the night, And shone On her throne In the sky alone, A matchless, wonderful silvery light, Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.
Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I! With my breath, Good faith! I blew her to death— First blew her away right out of the sky— Then blew her in; what strength have I!
But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair; For high In the sky, With her one white eye, Motionless, miles above the air, She had never heard the great Wind blare.
George Macdonald [1824-1905]
The silver birch is a dainty lady, She wears a satin gown; The elm tree makes the old churchyard shady, She will not live in town.
The English oak is a sturdy fellow, He gets his green coat late; The willow is smart in a suit of yellow, While brown the beech trees wait.
Such a gay green gown God gives the larches— As green as He is good! The hazels hold up their arms for arches When Spring rides through the wood.
The chestnut's proud, and the lilac's pretty, The poplar's gentle and tall, But the plane tree's kind to the poor dull city— I love him best of all!
Edith Nesbit [1858-1924]
Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, Are you awake in the dark? Here we lie cosily, close to each other: Hark to the song of the lark— "Waken!" the lark says, "waken and dress you; Put on your green coats and gay, Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you— Waken! 'tis morning—'tis May!"
Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, What kind of flower will you be? I'll be a poppy—all white, like my mother; Do be a poppy like me. What! you're a sun-flower? How I shall miss you When you're grown golden and high! But I shall send all the bees up to kiss you; Little brown brother, good-bye.
Edith Nesbit [1858-1924]
Gay little Dandelion Lights up the meads, Swings on her slender foot, Telleth her beads, Lists to the robin's note Poured from above; Wise little Dandelion Asks not for love.
Cold lie the daisy banks Clothed but in green, Where, in the days agone, Bright hues were seen. Wild pinks are slumbering, Violets delay; True little Dandelion Greeteth the May.
Brave little Dandelion! Fast falls the snow, Bending the daffodil's Haughty head low. Under that fleecy tent, Careless of cold, Blithe little Dandelion Counteth her gold.
Meek little Dandelion Groweth more fair, Till dies the amber dew Out from her hair. High rides the thirsty sun, Fiercely and high; Faint little Dandelion Closeth her eye.
Pale little Dandelion, In her white shroud, Heareth the angel-breeze Call from the cloud; Tiny plumes fluttering Make no delay; Little winged Dandelion Soareth away.
Helen Barron Bostwick [1826-? ]
From "Within and Without"
Little White Lily sat by a stone, Drooping and waiting till the sun shone. Little White Lily sunshine has fed; Little White Lily is lifting her head.
Little White Lily said: "It is good, Little White Lily's clothing and food." Little White Lily dressed like a bride! Shining with whiteness, and crowned beside!
Little White Lily drooping with pain, Waiting and waiting for the wet rain, Little White Lily holdeth her cup; Rain is fast falling and filling it up.
Little White Lily said: "Good again, When I am thirsty to have the nice rain. Now I am stronger, now I am cool; Heat cannot burn me, my veins are so full."
Little White Lily smells very sweet; On her head sunshine, rain at her feet. Thanks to the sunshine, thanks to the rain, Little White Lily is happy again.
George Macdonald [1824-1905]
Ring-ting! I wish I were a Primrose, A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the Spring! The stooping bough above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to creep across, And the Elm-tree for our King!
Nay,—stay! I wish I were an Elm-tree, A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay! The winds would set them dancing, The sun and moonshine glance in, The Birds would house among the boughs, And sweetly sing!
O—no! I wish I were a Robin, A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go; Through forest, field, or garden, And ask no leave or pardon, Till Winter comes with icy thumbs To ruffle up our wing.
Well—tell! Where should I fly to, Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell? Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For Mother's kiss,—sweeter this Than any other thing!
William Allingham [1824-1889]
I spied beside the garden bed A tiny lass of ours, Who stopped and bent her sunny head Above the red June flowers.
Pushing the leaves and thorns apart, She singled out a rose, And in its inmost crimson heart, Enraptured, plunged her nose.
"O dear, dear rose, come, tell me true— Come, tell me true," said she, "If I smell just as sweet to you As you smell sweet to me!"
Ernest Crosby [1856-1907]
Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, When our mother Nature laughs around; When even the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?
There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den, And the wilding bee hums merrily by.
The clouds are at play in the azure space And their shadows at play on the bright-green vale, And here they stretch to the frolic chase, And there they roll on the easy gale.
There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.
And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, On the leaping waters and gay young isles; Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.
William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]
Here's another day, dear, Here's the sun again Peeping in his pleasant way Through the window pane. Rise and let him in, dear, Hail him "hip hurray!" Now the fun will all begin. Here's another day!
Down the coppice path, dear, Through the dewy glade, (When the Morning took her bath What a splash she made!) Up the wet wood-way, dear, Under dripping green Run to meet another day, Brightest ever seen.
Mushrooms in the field, dear, Show their silver gleam. What a dainty crop they yield Firm as clouted cream, Cool as balls of snow, dear, Sweet and fresh and round! Ere the early dew can go We must clear the ground.
Such a lot to do, dear, Such a lot to see! How we ever can get through Fairly puzzles me. Hurry up and out, dear, Then—away! away! In and out and round about, Here's another day!
W. Graham Robertson [1867-
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the Lamb, make thee?
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake [1757-1827]
Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove, The Linnet and Thrush say, "I love and I love!" In the winter they're silent—the wind is so strong; What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing, and loving—all come back together. But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and for ever sings he— "I love my Love, and my Love loves me!"
Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]
I'll tell you how the leaves came down. The great Tree to his children said: "You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown, Yes, very sleepy, little Red. It is quite time to go to bed."
"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf, "Let us a little longer stay; Dear Father Tree, behold our grief! 'Tis such a very pleasant day, We do not want to go away."
So, just for one more merry day To the great Tree the leaflets clung, Frolicked and danced, and had their way, Upon the autumn breezes swung, Whispering all their sports among—
"Perhaps the great Tree will forget, And let us stay until the spring, If we all beg, and coax, and fret." But the great Tree did no such thing; He smiled to hear them whispering.
"Come, children, all to bed," he cried; And ere the leaves could urge their prayer, He shook his head, and far and wide, Fluttering and rustling everywhere, Down sped the leaflets through the air.
I saw them; on the ground they lay, Golden and red, a huddled swarm, Waiting till one from far away, White bedclothes heaped upon her arm, Should come to wrap them safe and warm.
The great bare Tree looked down and smiled. "Goodnight dear little leaves," he said. And from below each sleepy child Replied, "Goodnight," and murmured, "It is so nice to go to bed!"
Susan Coolidge [1835-1905]
Away, away in the Northland, Where the hours of the day are few, And the nights are so long in winter That they cannot sleep them through;
Where they harness the swift reindeer To the sledges, when it snows; And the children look like bear's cubs In their funny, furry clothes:
They tell them a curious story— I don't believe 'tis true; And yet you may learn a lesson If I tell the tale to you.
Once, when the good Saint Peter Lived in the world below, And walked about it, preaching, Just as he did, you know,
He came to the door of a cottage, In traveling round the earth, Where a little woman was making cakes, And baking them on the hearth;
And being faint with fasting, For the day was almost done, He asked her, from her store of cakes, To give him a single one.
So she made a very little cake, But as it baking lay, She looked at it, and thought it seemed Too large to give away.
Therefore she kneaded another, And still a smaller one; But it looked, when she turned it over, As large as the first had done.
Then she took a tiny scrap of dough, And rolled and rolled it flat; And baked it thin as a wafer— But she couldn't part with that.
For she said, "My cakes that seem too small When I eat of them myself, Are yet too large to give away." So she put them on the shelf.
Then good Saint Peter grew angry, For he was hungry and faint; And surely such a woman Was enough to provoke a saint.
And he said, "You are far too selfish To dwell in a human form, To have both food and shelter, And fire to keep you warm.
"Now, you shall build as the birds do, And shall get your scanty food By boring, and boring, and boring, All day in the hard, dry wood."
Then up she went through the chimney, Never speaking a word, And out of the top flew a woodpecker, For she was changed to a bird.
She had a scarlet cap on her head, And that was left the same, But all the rest of her clothes were burned Black as a coal in the flame.
And every country school-boy Has seen her in the wood, Where she lives in the trees till this very day, Boring and boring for food.
And this is the lesson she teaches: Live not for yourself alone, Lest the needs you will not pity Shall one day be your own.
Give plenty of what is given to you, Listen to pity's call; Don't think the little you give is great, And the much you get is small.
Now, my little boy, remember that, And try to be kind and good, When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress, And see her scarlet hood.
You mayn't be changed to a bird though you live As selfishly as you can; But you will be changed to a smaller thing— A mean and selfish man.
Phoebe Cary [1824-1871]
The high and mighty lord of Glendare, The owner of acres both broad and fair, Searched, once on a time, his vast domains, His deep, green forest, and yellow plains, For some rare singer, to make complete The studied charms of his country-seat; But found, for all his pains and labors, No sweeter songster than had his neighbors.
Ah, what shall my lord of the manor do? He pondered the day and the whole night through. He called on the gentry of hill-top and dale; And at last on Madame the Nightingale,— Inviting, in his majestical way, Her pupils to sing at his grand soiree, That perchance among them my lord might find Some singer to whom his heart inclined. What wonder, then, when the evening came, And the castle gardens were all aflame With the many curious lights that hung O'er the ivied porches, and flared among The grand old trees and the banners proud, That many a heart beat high and loud, While the famous choir of Glendare Bog, Established and led by the Brothers Frog, Sat thrumming as hoarsely as they were able, In front of the manager's mushroom table!
The overture closed with a crash—then, hark! Across the stage comes the sweet-voiced Lark. She daintily sways, with an airy grace, And flutters a bit of gossamer lace, While the leafy alcove echoes and thrills With her liquid runs and lingering trills. Miss Goldfinch came next, in her satin gown, And shaking her feathery flounces down, With much expression and feeling sung Some "Oh's" and "Ah's" in a foreign tongue; While to give the affair a classic tone, Miss Katydid rendered a song of her own, In which each line closed as it had begun, With some wonderful deed which she had done. Then the Misses Sparrow, so prim and set, Twittered and chirped through a long duet; And poor little Wren, who tried with a will, But who couldn't tell "Heber" from "Ortonville," Unconscious of sarcasm, piped away And courtesied low o'er a huge bouquet Of crimson clover-heads, culled by the dozen, By some brown-coated, plebeian cousin.
But you should have heard the red Robin sing His English ballad, "Come, beautiful Spring!" And Master Owlet's melodious tune, "O, meet me under the silvery moon!" Then, as flighty Miss Humming-bird didn't care To sing for the high and mighty Glendare, The close of the evening's performance fell To the fair young Nightingale, Mademoiselle. Ah! the wealth of each wonderful note That came from the depths of her tiny throat! She carolled, she trilled, and she held her breath, Till she seemed to hang at the point of death: She ran the chromatics through every key, And ended triumphant on upper C; Airing the graces her mother had taught her In a manner quite worthy of Madame's daughter.
But his lordship glared down the leafy aisle With never so much as a nod or smile, Till, out in the shade of a blackberry thicket, He all of a sudden spied little Miss Cricket; And, roused from his gloom, like an angry bat, He sternly demanded, "Who is that?" "Miss Cricket, my lord, may it please you so, A charity scholar—ahem!—you know— Quite worthy, of course, but we couldn't bring"— Thundered His Mightiness, "Let her sing!" The Nightingale opened her little eyes Extremely wide in her blank surprise; But catching a glimpse of his lordship's rage, Led little Miss Cricket upon the stage, Where she modestly sang, in her simple measures, Of "Home, sweet Home," and its humble pleasures. And the lord of Glendare cried out in his glee, "This little Miss Cricket shall sing for me!"
Of course, of comment there was no need; But the world said, "Really!" and "Ah, indeed!" Yet, notwithstanding, we find it true As his lordship does will the neighbors do; So this is the way, as the legends tell, In the very beginning it befell That the Crickets came, in the evening's gloom, To sing at our hearths of "Home, sweet Home."
Emma Huntington Nason [1845-1921]
A nightingale made a mistake; She sang a few notes out of tune; Her heart was ready to break, And she hid away from the moon. She wrung her claws, poor thing! But was far too proud to weep; She tucked her head under her wing, And pretended to be asleep.
A lark, arm in arm with a thrush, Came sauntering up to the place; The nightingale felt herself blush, Though feathers hid her face. She knew they had heard her song, She felt them snicker and sneer; She thought that life was too long, And wished she could skip a year.
"Oh, Nightingale," cooed a dove— "Oh, Nightingale, what's the use? You bird of beauty and love, Why behave like a goose? Don't skulk away from our sight, Like a common, contemptible fowl; You bird of joy and delight, Why behave like an owl?
"Only think of all you have done, Only think of all you can do; A false note is really fun From such a bird as you! Lift up your proud little crest, Open your musical beak; Other birds have to do their best— You need only to speak."
The nightingale shyly took Her head from under her wing, And, giving the dove a look, Straightway began to sing. There was never a bird could pass; The night was divinely calm, And the people stood on the grass To hear that wonderful psalm.
The nightingale did not care; She only sang to the skies; Her song ascended there, And there she fixed her eyes. The people that stood below She knew but little about; And this tale has a moral, I know, If you'll try to find it out.
Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]
Of all the birds from East to West That tuneful are and dear, I love that farmyard bird the best, They call him Chanticleer.
Gold plume and copper plume, Comb of scarlet gay; 'Tis he that scatters night and gloom, And whistles back the day!
He is the sun's brave herald That, ringing his blithe horn, Calls round a world dew-pearled The heavenly airs of morn.
O clear gold, shrill and bold! He calls through creeping mist The mountains from the night and cold To rose and amethyst.
He sets the birds to singing, And calls the flowers to rise; The morning cometh, bringing Sweet sleep to heavy eyes.
Gold plume and silver plume, Comb of coral gay; 'Tis he packs off the night and gloom, And summons home the day!
Black fear he sends it flying, Black care he drives afar; And creeping shadows sighing Before the morning star.
The birds of all the forest Have dear and pleasant cheer, But yet I hold the rarest The farmyard Chanticleer.
Red cock or black cock, Gold cock or white, The flower of all the feathered flock, He whistles back the light!
Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931]
From "Sea Dreams"
What does little birdie say In her nest at peep of day? Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother, let me fly away. Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger. So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away.
What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day? Baby says, like little birdie, Let me rise and fly away. Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger, If she sleeps a little longer, Baby too shall fly away.
Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]
When the voices of children are heard on the green And laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast, And everything else is still.
"Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, And the dews of the night arise; Come, come, leave off play, and let us away Till the morning appears in the skies."
"No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, And we cannot go to sleep; Besides in the sky the little birds fly, And the hills are all covered with sheep."
"Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed." The little ones leaped and shouted and laughed; And all the hills echoed.
William Blake [1757-1827]
The door was shut, as doors should be, Before you went to bed last night; Yet Jack Frost has got in, you see, And left your window silver white.
He must have waited till you slept; And not a single word he spoke, But pencilled o'er the panes and crept Away again before you woke.
And now you cannot see the hills Nor fields that stretch beyond the lane; But there are fairer things than these His fingers traced on every pane.
Rocks and castles towering high; Hills and dales, and streams and fields; And knights in armor riding by, With nodding plumes and shining shields.
And here are little boats, and there Big ships with sails spread to the breeze; And yonder, palm trees waving fair On islands set in silver seas.
And butterflies with gauzy wings; And herds of cows and flocks of sheep; And fruit and flowers and all the things You see when you are sound asleep.
For creeping softly underneath The door when all the lights are out, Jack Frost takes every breath you breathe, And knows the things you think about.
He paints them on the window pane In fairy lines with frozen steam; And when you wake you see again The lovely things you saw in dream.
Gabriel Setoun [1861-
October gave a party; The leaves by hundreds came— The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples, And leaves of every name. The Sunshine spread a carpet, And everything was grand, Miss Weather led the dancing, Professor Wind the band.
The Chestnuts came in yellow, The Oaks in crimson dressed; The lovely Misses Maple In scarlet looked their best; All balanced to their partners, And gaily fluttered by; The sight was like a rainbow New fallen from the sky.
Then, in the rustic hollow, At hide-and-seek they played, The party closed at sundown, And everybody stayed. Professor Wind played louder; They flew along the ground; And then the party ended In jolly "hands around."
George Cooper [1840-1927]
How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot! From the morn to the evening he strays; He shall follow his sheep all the day, And his tongue shall be filled with praise. For he hears the lamb's innocent call, And he hears the ewe's tender reply; He is watchful, while they are in peace, For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.
William Blake [1757-1827]
O tell me, little children, have you seen her— The tiny maid from Norway, Nikolina? O, her eyes are blue as cornflowers, mid the corn, And her cheeks are rosy red as skies of morn!
Nikolina! swift she turns if any call her, As she stands among the poppies, hardly taller, Breaking off their scarlet cups for you, With spikes of slender larkspur, burning blue.
In her little garden many a flower is growing— Red, gold, and purple in the soft wind blowing, But the child that stands amid the blossoms gay Is sweeter, quainter, brighter e'en than they.
Celia Thaxter [1835-1894]
Little Gustava sits in the sun, Safe in the porch, and the little drops run From the icicles under the eaves so fast, For the bright spring sun shines warm at last, And glad is little Gustava.
She wears a quaint little scarlet cap, And a little green bowl she holds in her lap, Filled with bread and milk to the brim, And a wreath of marigolds round the rim: "Ha! ha!" laughs little Gustava.
Up comes her little gray coaxing cat With her little pink nose, and she mews, "What's that?" Gustava feeds her,—she begs for more; And a little brown hen walks in at the door: "Good day!" cries little Gustava.
She scatters crumbs for the little brown hen. There comes a rush and a flutter, and then Down fly her little white doves so sweet, With their snowy wings and crimson feet: "Welcome!" cries little Gustava.
So dainty and eager they pick up the crumbs. But who is this through the doorway comes? Little Scotch terrier, little dog Rags, Looks in her face, and his funny tail wags: "Ha! ha!" laughs little Gustava.
"You want some breakfast too?" and down She sets her bowl on the brick floor brown; And little dog Rags drinks up her milk, While she strokes his shaggy locks like silk: "Dear Rags!" says little Gustava.
Waiting without stood sparrow and crow, Cooling their feet in the melting snow: "Won't you come in, good folk?" she cried. But they were too bashful, and stood outside Though "Pray come in!" cried Gustava.
So the last she threw them, and knelt on the mat With doves and biddy and dog and cat. And her mother came to the open house-door: "Dear little daughter, I bring you some more. My merry little Gustava!"
Kitty and terrier, biddy and doves, All things harmless Gustava loves. The shy, kind creatures 'tis joy to feed, And oh, her breakfast is sweet indeed To happy little Gustava!
Celia Thaxter [1835-1894]
Little Prince Tatters has lost his cap! Over the hedge he threw it; Into the river it fell "kerslap!" Stupid old thing to do it! Now Mother may sigh and Nurse may fume For the gay little cap with its eagle plume. "One cannot be thinking all day of such matters! Trifles are trifles!" says little Prince Tatters.
Little Prince Tatters has lost his coat! Playing, he did not need it; "Left it right there, by the nanny-goat, And nobody never seed it!" Now Mother and Nurse may search till night For the little new coat with its buttons bright; But—"Coat-sleeves or shirt-sleeves, how little it matters! Trifles are trifles!" says little Prince Tatters.
Little Prince Tatters has LOST HIS BALL! Rolled away down the street! Somebody'll have to find it, that's all, Before he can sleep or eat. Now raise the neighborhood, quickly, do! And send for the crier and constable too! "Trifles are trifles; but serious matters, They must be seen to," says little Prince Tatters.
Laura E. Richards [1850-
My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but oh, my soul is white! White as an angel is the English child, But I am black, as if bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree, And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissed me, And, pointing to the East, began to say:
"Look on the rising sun,—there God does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat away; And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.
"And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
"For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice, Saying: 'Come out from the grove, My love and care, And round My golden tent like lambs rejoice.'"
Thus did my mother say, and kissed me; And thus I say to little English boy. When I from black, and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,
I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me.
William Blake [1757-1827]
O say what is that thing called Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy; What are the blessings of the sight, O tell your poor blind boy!
You talk of wondrous things you see, You say the sun shines bright; I feel him warm, but how can he, Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make Whene'er I sleep or play; And could I ever keep awake With me 'twere always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy: Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy.
Colley Cibber [1671-1757]
"Bunches of grapes," says Timothy, "Pomegranates pink," says Elaine; "A junket of cream and a cranberry tart For me," says Jane.
"Love-in-a-mist," says Timothy, "Primroses pale," says Elaine; "A nosegay of pinks and mignonette For me," says Jane.
"Chariots of gold," says Timothy, "Silvery wings," says Elaine; "A bumpety ride in a wagon of hay For me," says Jane.
Walter de la Mare [1873-
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow— Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball, And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.
He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see; I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!
One morning, very early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
When I was sick and lay a-bed, I had two pillows at my head, And all my toys beside me lay To keep me happy all the day.
And sometimes for an hour or so I watched my leaden soldiers go, With different uniforms and drills, Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;
And sometimes sent my ships in fleets All up and down among the sheets; Or brought my trees and houses out, And planted cities all about.
I was the giant great and still That sits upon the pillow-hill, And sees before him, dale and plain, The pleasant land of counterpane.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
At evening when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit; They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything.
Now, with my little gun, I crawl All in the dark along the wall, And follow round the forest track Away behind the sofa back.
There, in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed.
These are the hills, these are the woods, These are my starry solitudes; And there the river by whose brink The roaring lions come to drink.
I see the others far away As if in firelit camp they lay, And I, like to an Indian scout, Around their party prowled about.
So, when my nurse comes in for me, Home I return across the sea, And go to bed with backward looks At my dear land of Story-books.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
The gardener does not love to talk, He makes me keep the gravel walk; And when he puts his tools away, He locks the door and takes the key.
Away behind the currant row Where no one else but cook may go, Far in the plots, I see him dig, Old and serious, brown and big.
He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue, Nor wishes to be spoken to. He digs the flowers and cuts the hay, And never seems to want to play.
Silly gardener! summer goes, And winter comes with pinching toes, When in the garden bare and brown You must lay your barrow down.
Well now, and while the summer stays, To profit by these garden days O how much wiser you would be To play at Indian wars with me!
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
Up into the cherry tree Who should climb but little me? I held the trunk with both my hands And looked abroad on foreign lands.
I saw the next door garden lie, Adorned with flowers, before my eye, And many pleasant places more That I had never seen before.
I saw the dimpling river pass And be the sky's blue looking-glass; The dusty roads go up and down With people tramping in to town.
If I could find a higher tree, Farther and farther I should see, To where the grown-up river slips Into the sea among the ships;
To where the roads on either hand Lead onward into fairy land, Where all the children dine at five, And all the playthings come alive.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
My bed is like a little boat; Nurse helps me in when I embark; She girds me in my sailor's coat And starts me in the dark.
At night, I go on board and say Good night to all my friends on shore; I shut my eyes and sail away And see and hear no more.
And sometimes things to bed I take, As prudent sailors have to do; Perhaps a slice of wedding-cake, Perhaps a toy or two.
All night across the dark we steer; But when the day returns at last, Safe in my room, beside the pier, I find my vessel fast.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
I wish I lived in a caravan, With a horse to drive, like a peddler-man! Where he comes from nobody knows, Or where he goes to, but on he goes!
His caravan has windows two, And a chimney of tin, that the smoke comes through; He has a wife, with a baby brown, And they go riding from town to town.
Chairs to mend, and delf to sell! He clashes the basins like a bell; Tea-trays, baskets ranged in order, Plates, with alphabets round the border!
The roads are brown, and the sea is green, But his house is like a bathing-machine; The world is round, and he can ride, Rumble and slash, to the other side!
With the peddler-man I should like to roam, And write a book when I came home; All the people would read my book, Just like the Travels of Captain Cook!
William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]
A watch will tell the time of day, Or tell it nearly, any way, Excepting when it's overwound, Or when you drop it on the ground.
If any of our watches stop, We haste to Mr. Coggs's shop; For though to scold us he pretends, He's quite among our special friends.
He fits a dice-box in his eye, And takes a long and thoughtful spy, And prods the wheels, and says, "Dear, dear! More carelessness, I greatly fear."
And then he lays the dice-box down And frowns a most prodigious frown; But if we ask him what's the time, He'll make his gold repeater chime.
Edward Verrall Lucas [1868-
They'll come again to the apple tree— Robin and all the rest— When the orchard branches are fair to see, In the snow of the blossoms dressed; And the prettiest thing in the world will be The building of the nest.
Weaving it well, so round and trim, Hollowing it with care,— Nothing too far away for him, Nothing for her too fair,— Hanging it safe on the topmost limb, Their castle in the air.
Ah! mother bird, you'll have weary days When the eggs are under your breast, And shadow may darken the dancing rays When the wee ones leave the nest; But they'll find their wings in a glad amaze. And God will see to the rest.
So come to the trees with all your train When the apple blossoms blow; Through the April shimmer of sun and rain, Go flying to and fro; And sing to our hearts as we watch again Your fairy building grow.
Margaret Sangster [1838-1912]
From "Love in a Village"
There was a jolly miller once lived on the river Dee; He danced and sang from morn till night, no lark so blithe as he; And this the burden of his song forever used to be:— "I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for me.
"I live by my mill, God bless her! she's kindred, child, and wife; I would not change my station for any other in life; No lawyer, surgeon, or doctor e'er had a groat from me; I care for nobody, no not I if nobody cares for me."
When spring begins his merry career, oh, how his heart grows gay; No summer's drought alarms his fear, nor winter's cold decay; No foresight mars the miller's joy, who's wont to sing and say, "Let others toil from year to year, I live from day to day."
Thus, like the miller, bold and free, let us rejoice and sing; The days of youth are made for glee, and time is on the wing; This song shall pass from me to thee, along the jovial ring; Let heart and voice and all agree to say, "Long live the king."
Isaac Bickerstaff [?—1812?]
Two little girls are better than one, Two little boys can double the fun, Two little birds can build a fine nest, Two little arms can love mother best. Two little ponies must go to a span; Two little pockets has my little man; Two little eyes to open and close, Two little ears and one little nose, Two little elbows, dimpled and sweet, Two little shoes on two little feet, Two little lips and one little chin, Two little cheeks with a rose shut in; Two little shoulders, chubby and strong, Two little legs running all day long. Two little prayers does my darling say, Twice does he kneel by my side each day, Two little folded hands, soft and brown, Two little eyelids cast meekly down, And two little angels guard him in bed, "One at the foot, and one at the head."
Mary Mapes Dodge [1831-1905]
Oh, Peterkin Pout and Gregory Grout Are two little goblins black. Full oft from my house I've driven them out, But somehow they still come back.
They clamber up to the baby's mouth, And pull the corners down; They perch aloft on the baby's brow, And twist it into a frown.
Chorus: And one says "Must!" and t'other says "Can't!" And one says "Shall!" and t'other says "Shan't!" Oh, Peterkin Pout and Gregory Grout, I pray you now from my house keep out!
But Samuel Smile and Lemuel Laugh Are two little fairies bright; They're always ready for fun and chaff, And sunshine is their delight.
And when they creep into Baby's eyes, Why, there the sunbeams are; And when they peep through her rosy lips, Her laughter rings near and far.
Chorus: And one says "Please!" and t'other says "Do!" And both together say "I love you!" So, Lemuel Laugh and Samuel Smile, Come in, my dears, and tarry awhile!
Laura E. Richards [1850-
I studied my tables over and over, and backward and forward, too; But I couldn't remember six times nine, and I didn't know what to do, Till sister told me to play with my doll, and not to bother my head. "If you call her 'Fifty-four' for a while, you'll learn it by heart," she said.
So I took my favorite, Mary Ann (though I thought 'twas a dreadful shame To give such a perfectly lovely child such a perfectly horrid name), And I called her my dear little "Fifty-four" a hundred times, till I knew The answer of six times nine as well as the answer of two times two.
Next day Elizabeth Wigglesworth, who always acts so proud, Said, "Six times nine is fifty-two," and I nearly laughed aloud! But I wished I hadn't when teacher said, "Now, Dorothy, tell if you can." For I thought of my doll and—sakes alive!—I answered, "Mary Ann!"
Anna Maria Pratt [18—-
THE RAGGEDY MAN
O the Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa; An' he's the goodest man ever you saw! He comes to our house every day, An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay; An' he opens the shed—an' we all ist laugh When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf; An' nen—ef our hired girl says he can— He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann.— Ain't he a' awful good Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
W'y, the Raggedy Man—he's ist so good He splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood; An' nen he spades in our garden, too, An' does most things 'at boys can't do.— He clumbed clean up in our big tree An' shooked a' apple down fer me— An' nother'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann— An' nother'n', too, fer the Raggedy Man.— Ain't he a' awful kind Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
An' the Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes An' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes: Knows 'bout Giunts, an' Griffuns, an' Elves, An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers therselves! An', wite by the pump in our pasture-lot, He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got, 'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an' can Turn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann! Er Ma, er Pa, er the Raggedy Man! Ain't he a funny old Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
The Raggedy Man—one time when he Was makin' a little bow-n'-orry fer me, Says, "When you're big like your Pa is, Air you go' to keep a fine store like his— An' be a rich merchunt—an' wear fine clothes?— Er what air you go' to be, goodness knows?" An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann, An' I says "'M go' to be a Raggedy Man!— I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man!" Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]
Said the Raggedy Man, on a hot afternoon, "My! Sakes! What a lot o' mistakes Some little folks makes on The Man in the Moon! But people that's b'en up to see him, like me, And calls on him frequent and intimately, Might drop a few facts that would interest you Clean! Through!— If you wanted 'em to— Some actual facts that might interest you!
"O The Man in the Moon has a crick in his back; Whee! Whimm! Ain't you sorry for him? And a mole on his nose that is purple and black; And his eyes are so weak that they water and run If he dares to dream even he looks at the sun.— So he jes' dreams of stars, as the doctors advise— My! Eyes! But isn't he wise— To jes' dream of stars, as the doctors advise?
"And The Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear,— Whee! Whing! What a singular thing! I know! but these facts are authentic, my dear,— There's a boil on his ear; and a corn on his chin,— He calls it a dimple—but dimples stick in— Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know! Whang! Ho! Why, certainly so!— It might be a dimple turned over, you know!
"And The Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee,— Gee! Whizz! What a pity that is! And his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be. So whenever he wants to go North he goes South, And comes back with porridge crumbs all round his mouth, And he brushes them off with a Japanese fan. Whing! Whann! What a marvelous man! What a very remarkably marvelous man!
"And The Man in the Moon," sighed the Raggedy Man, "Gits! So! Sullonesome, you know,— Up there by hisse'f sence creation began!— That when I call on him and then come away, He grabs me and holds me and begs me to stay,— Till—Well! if it wasn't fer Jimmy-cum-Jim, Dadd! Limb! I'd go pardners with him— Jes' jump my job here and be pardners with him!"
James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]
Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board an'-keep; An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef you Don't Watch Out!
Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers— An' when he went to bed at night, away up stairs, His Mammy heered him holler, an' his Daddy heered him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all! An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess; But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout: An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!
An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin; An' onc't when they was "company," an' ole folks was there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about! An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!
An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,— You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond and dear, An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!
James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]
Our hired girl, she's 'Lizabuth Ann; An' she can cook best things to eat! She ist puts dough in our pie-pan, An' pours in somepin' 'at's good an' sweet; An' nen she salts it all on top With cinnamon; an' nen she'll stop An' stoop an' slide it, ist as slow, In th' old cook-stove, so's 'twon't slop An' git all spilled; nen bakes it, so It's custard-pie, first thing you know! An' nen she'll say, "Clear out o' my way! They's time fer work, an' time fer play! Take yer dough, an' run, child, run! Er I cain't git no cookin' done!"
When our hired girl 'tends like she's mad, An' says folks got to walk the chalk When she's around, er wisht they had! I play out on our porch an' talk To Th' Raggedy Man 'at mows our lawn; An' he says, "Whew!" an' nen leans on His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes, An' sniffs all 'round an' says, "I swawn! Ef my old nose don't tell me lies, It 'pears like I smell custard-pies!" An' nen he'll say, "Clear out o' my way! They's time fer work, an' time for play! Take yer dough, an' run, child, run! Er she cain't git no cookin' done!"
Wunst our hired girl, when she Got the supper, an' we all et, An' it wuz night, an' Ma an' me An' Pa went wher' the "Social" met,— An' nen when we come home, an' see A light in the kitchen door, an' we Heerd a maccordeun, Pa says, "Lan'— O'-Gracious, who can her beau be?" An' I marched in, an' 'Lizabuth Ann Wuz parchin' corn fer The Raggedy Man! Better say, "Clear out o' the way! They's time fer work, an' time fer play! Take the hint, an' run, child, run! Er we cain't git no courtin' done!"
James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]
I ain't afeard uv snakes, or toads, or bugs, or worms, or mice, An' things 'at girls are skeered uv I think are awful nice! I'm pretty brave, I guess; an' yet I hate to go to bed, For, when I'm tucked up warm an' snug an' when my prayers are said, Mother tells me "Happy Dreams!" an' takes away the light, An' leaves me lyin' all alone an' seein' things at night!
Sometimes they're in the corner, sometimes they're by the door, Sometimes they're all a-standin' in the middle uv the floor; Sometimes they are a-sittin' down, sometimes they're walkin' round So softly and so creepylike they never make a sound! Sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other times they're white— But the color ain't no difference when you see things at night!
Once, when I licked a feller 'at had just moved on our street, An' father sent me up to bed without a bite to eat, I woke up in the dark an' saw things standin' in a row, A-lookin' at me cross-eyed an' p'intin' at me—so! Oh, my! I wuz so skeered that time I never slep' a mite— It's almost alluz when I'm bad I see things at night!
Lucky thing I ain't a girl, or I'd be skeered to death! Bein' I'm a boy, I duck my head an' hold my breath; An' I am, oh, so sorry I'm a naughty boy, an' then I promise to be better an' I say my prayers again! Gran'ma tells me that's the only way to make it right When a feller has been wicked an' sees things at night!
An' so, when other naughty boys would coax me into sin, I try to skwush the Tempter's voice 'at urges me within; An' when they's pie for supper, or cakes 'at's big an' nice, I want to—but I do not pass my plate f'r them things twice! No, ruther let Starvation wipe me slowly out o' sight Than I should keep a-livin' on an' seein' things at night!
Eugene Field [1850-1895]
The gingham dog and the calico cat Side by side on the table sat; 'Twas half past twelve, and (what do you think!) Nor one nor t'other had slept a wink! The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate Appeared to know as sure as fate There was going to be a terrible spat. (I wasn't there: I simply state What was told to me by the Chinese plate!)
The gingham dog went, "Bow-wow-wow!" And the calico cat replied, "Mee-ow!" The air was littered, an hour or so, With bits of gingham and calico, While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place Up with its hands before its face, For it always dreaded a family row! (Now mind; I'm only telling you What the old Dutch clock declares is true!)
The Chinese plate looked very blue, And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!" But the gingham dog and the calico cat Wallowed this way and tumbled that, Employing every tooth and claw In the awfullest way you ever saw— And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew! (Don't fancy I exaggerate— I got my news from the Chinese plate!)
Next morning, where the two had sat They found no trace of dog or cat: And some folks think unto this day That burglars stole that pair away! But the truth about the cat and pup Is this: they ate each other up! Now what do you really think of that! (The old Dutch clock it told me so, And that is how I came to know.)
Eugene Field [1850-1895]
'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green; Gray-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow.
Oh what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own. The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.
Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
William Blake [1757-1827]
Little one, come to my knee! Hark, how the rain is pouring Over the roof, in the pitch-black night, And the wind in the woods a-roaring!
Hush, my darling, and listen, Then pay for the story with kisses; Father was lost in the pitch-black night, In just such a storm as this is!
High up on the lonely mountains, Where the wild men watched and waited; Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush, And I on my path belated.
The rain and the night together Came down and the wind came after, Bending the props of the pine-tree roof, And snapping many a rafter.
I crept along in the darkness, Stunned, and bruised, and blinded,— Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs, And a sheltering rock behind it.
There, from the blowing and raining, Crouching, I sought to hide me: Something rustled, two green eyes shone, And a wolf lay down beside me.
Little one, be not frightened; I and the wolf together, Side by side, through the long, long night, Hid from the awful weather.
His wet fur pressed against me; Each of us warmed the other; Each of us felt, in the stormy dark, That beast and man was brother.
And when the falling forest No longer crashed in warning, Each of us went from our hiding-place Forth in the wild, wet morning.
Darling, kiss me payment! Hark, how the wind is roaring; Father's house is a better place When the stormy rain is pouring!
Bayard Taylor [1825-1878]
"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the Spider to the Fly. "'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy; The way into my parlor is up a winding stair, And I have many curious things to show when you are there." "Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain; For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."
"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high; Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly. "There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin; And if you like to rest a while, I'll snugly tuck you in!" "Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said, They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"
Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, "Dear friend, what can I do To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you? I have, within my pantry, good store of all that's nice; I'm sure you're very welcome—will you please to take a slice?" "Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "kind sir, that cannot be, I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"
"Sweet creature," said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise; How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes! I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf; If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself." "I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say, And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."
The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den, For well he knew the silly Fly would soon be back again; So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly, And set his table ready to dine upon the Fly. Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,— "Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing; Your robes are green and purple, there's a crest upon your head; Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead."
Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by: With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,— Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue; Thinking only of her crested head—poor foolish thing! At last, Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast. He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den Within his little parlor—but she ne'er came out again!
And now, dear little children, who may this story read, To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed; Unto an evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and eye, And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.
Mary Howitt [1799-1888]
We were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul would dare to sleep,— It was midnight on the waters, And a storm was on the deep.
'Tis a fearful thing in winter To be shattered by the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"
So we shuddered there in silence,— For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring And the breakers talked with death.
As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy with his prayers, "We are lost!" the captain shouted, As he staggered down the stairs.
But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, "Isn't God upon the ocean, Just the same as on the land?"
Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spake in better cheer, And we anchored safe in harbor When the morn was shining clear.
James Thomas Fields [1816-1881]
A nightingale, that all day long Had cheered the village with his song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when eventide was ended, Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appetite; When, looking eagerly around, He spied far off, upon the ground, A something shining in the dark, And knew the glow-worm by his spark; So, stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop. The worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus, right eloquent: "Did you admire my lamp," quoth he, "As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to do me wrong, As much as I to spoil your song; For 'twas the self-same Power Divine Taught you to sing, and me to shine; That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night." The songster heard his short oration, And warbling out his approbation, Released him, as my story tells, And found a supper somewhere else. Hence jarring sectaries may learn Their real interest to discern; That brother should not war with brother, And worry and devour each other; But sing and shine by sweet consent, Till life's poor transient night is spent, Respecting in each other's case The gifts of nature and of grace. Those Christians best deserve the name Who studiously make peace their aim; Peace both the duty and the prize Of him that creeps and him that flies.
William Cowper [1731-1808]
From "Adela Cathcart"
"Good morrow, my lord!" in the sky alone, Sang the lark, as the sun ascended his throne. "Shine on me, my lord; I only am come, Of all your servants, to welcome you home. I have flown right up, a whole hour, I swear, To catch the first shine of your golden hair."
"Must I thank you, then," said the king, "Sir Lark, For flying so high and hating the dark? You ask a full cup for half a thirst: Half was love of me, and half love to be first. There's many a bird makes no such haste, But waits till I come: that's as much to my taste."
And King Sun hid his head in a turban of cloud, And Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed; But he flew up higher, and thought, "Anon The wrath of the king will be over and gone; And his crown, shining out of its cloudy fold, Will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold."
So he flew—with the strength of a lark he flew; But, as he rose, the cloud rose too; And not one gleam of the golden hair Came through the depths of the misty air; Till, weary with flying, with sighing sore, The strong sun-seeker could do no more.
His wings had had no chrism of gold: And his feathers felt withered and worn and old; He faltered, and sank, and dropped like a stone. And there on her nest, where he left her, alone Sat his little wife on her little eggs, Keeping them warm with wings and legs.
Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing! Full in her face was shining the king. "Welcome, Sir Lark! You look tired," said he; "Up is not always the best way to me. While you have been singing so high and away, I've been shining to your little wife all day."
He had set his crown all about the nest, And out of the midst shone her little brown breast; And so glorious was she in russet gold, That for wonder and awe Sir Lark grew cold. He popped his head under her wing, and lay As still as a stone, till King Sun was away.
George Macdonald [1824-1905]
THE COURTSHIP, MERRY MARRIAGE, AND PICNIC DINNER OF COCK ROBIN AND JENNY WREN
It was a merry time When Jenny Wren was young, So neatly as she danced, And so sweetly as she sung, Robin Redbreast lost his heart: He was a gallant bird; He doffed his hat to Jenny, And thus to her he said:—
"My dearest Jenny Wren, If you will but be mine, You shall dine on cherry pie, And drink nice currant wine. I'll dress you like a Goldfinch, Or like a Peacock gay; So if you'll have me, Jenny, Let us appoint the day."
Jenny blushed behind her fan, And thus declared her mind: "Then let it be to-morrow, Bob, I take your offer kind— Cherry pie is very good! So is currant wine! But I will wear my brown gown, And never dress too fine."
Robin rose up early At the break of day; He flew to Jenny Wren's house, To sing a roundelay. He met the Cock and Hen, And bid the Cock declare, This was his wedding-day With Jenny Wren, the fair.
The Cock then blew his horn, To let the neighbors know, This was Robin's wedding-day, And they might see the show. And first came Parson Rook, With his spectacles and band, And one of Mother Hubbard's books He held within his hand.
Then followed him the Lark, For he could sweetly sing, And he was to be clerk At Cock Robin's wedding. He sang of Robin's love For little Jenny Wren; And when he came unto the end, Then he began again.
Then came the bride and bridegroom; Quite plainly was she dressed, And blushed so much, her cheeks were As red as Robin's breast. But Robin cheered her up; "My pretty Jen," said he, "We're going to be married And happy we shall be."
The Goldfinch came on next, To give away the bride; The Linnet, being bride's maid, Walked by Jenny's side; And, as she was a-walking, She said, "Upon my word, I think that your Cock Robin Is a very pretty bird."
The Bulfinch walked by Robin, And thus to him did say, "Pray, mark, friend Robin Redbreast, That Goldfinch, dressed so gay; What though her gay apparel Becomes her very well, Yet Jenny's modest dress and look Must bear away the bell."
The Blackbird and the Thrush, And charming Nightingale, Whose sweet jug sweetly echoes Through every grove and dale; The Sparrow and Tom Tit, And many more, were there: All came to see the wedding Of Jenny Wren, the fair.
"O then," says Parson Rook, "Who gives this maid away?" "I do," says the Goldfinch, "And her fortune I will pay: Here's a bag of grain of many sorts, And other things beside; Now happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride!"
"And will you have her, Robin, To be your wedded wife?" "Yes, I will," says Robin, "And love her all my life." "And will you have him, Jenny, Your husband now to be?" "Yes, I will," says Jenny, "And love him heartily."
Then on her finger fair Cock Robin put the ring; "You're married now," says Parson Rook, While the Lark aloud did sing: "Happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride! And may not man, nor bird, nor beast, This happy pair divide."
The birds were asked to dine; Not Jenny's friends alone, But every pretty songster That had Cock Robin known. They had a cherry pie, Beside some currant wine, And every guest brought something, That sumptuous they might dine.
Now they all sat or stood To eat and to drink; And every one said what He happened to think: They each took a bumper, And drank to the pair: Cock Robin, the bridegroom, And Jenny Wren, the fair.
The dinner-things removed, They all began to sing; And soon they made the place Near a mile round to ring. The concert it was fine; And every bird tried Who best could sing for Robin And Jenny Wren, the bride.
Then in came the Cuckoo and made a great rout; He caught hold of Jenny and pulled her about. Cock Robin was angry, and so was the Sparrow, Who fetched in a hurry his bow and his arrow.
His aim then he took, but he took it not right; His skill was not good, or he shot in a fright; For the Cuckoo he missed, but Cock Robin killed!— And all the birds mourned that his blood was so spilled.
Unknown
Now ponder well, you parents dear, These words, which I shall write; A doleful story you shall hear, In time brought forth to light. A gentleman of good account In Norfolk dwelt of late, Who did in honor far surmount Most men of his estate.
Sore sick was he, and like to die, No help his life could save; His wife by him as sick did lie, And both possessed one grave. No love between these two was lost, Each was to other kind; In love they lived, in loved they died, And left two babes behind:
The one a fine and pretty boy, Not passing three years old; The other a girl more young than he, And framed in beauty's mold. The father left his little son, As plainly does appear, When he to perfect age should come, Three hundred pounds a year.
And to his little daughter Jane Five hundred pounds in gold, To be paid down on marriage-day, Which might not be controlled: But if the children chance to die, Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possess their wealth; For so the will did run.
"Now, brother," said the dying man, "Look to my children dear; Be good unto my boy and girl, No friends else have they here: To God and you I recommend My children dear this day; But little while be sure we have Within this world to stay.
"You must be father and mother both, And uncle all in one; God knows what will become of them, When I am dead and gone." With that bespake their mother dear, "O brother kind," quoth she, "You are the man must bring our babes To wealth or misery.
"And if you keep them carefully Then God will you reward; But if you otherwise should deal, God will your deeds regard." With lips as cold as any stone, They kissed their children small: "God bless you both, my children dear;" With that the tears did fall.
These speeches then their brother spake To this sick couple there, "The keeping of your little ones, Sweet sister, do not fear; God never prosper me nor mine, Nor aught else that I have, If I do wrong your children dear, When you are laid in grave."
The parents being dead and gone, The children home he takes, And brings them straight into his house, Where much of them he makes. He had not kept these pretty babes A twelvemonth and a day, But, for their wealth, he did devise To make them both away.
He bargained with two ruffians strong, Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children young, And slay them in a wood. He told his wife an artful tale, He would the children send To be brought up in fair London, With one that was his friend.
Away then went these pretty babes, Rejoicing at that tide, Rejoicing with a merry mind, They should on cock-horse ride. They prate and prattle pleasantly, As they rode on the way, To those that should their butchers be, And work their lives' decay:
So that the pretty speech they had, Made Murder's heart relent; And they that undertook the deed, Full sore did now repent. Yet one of them more hard of heart, Did vow to do his charge, Because the wretch that hired him, Had paid him very large.
The other won't agree thereto, So here they fall to strife; With one another they did fight, About the children's life: And he that was of mildest mood, Did slay the other there, Within an unfrequented wood; The babes did quake for fear!
He took the children by the hand, Tears standing in their eye, And bade them straightway follow him, And look they did not cry: And two long miles he led them on, While they for food complain: "Stay here," quoth he, "I'll bring you bread, When I come back again."
These pretty babes, with hand in hand, Went wandering up and down, But never more could see the man Approaching from the town; Their pretty lips with black-berries Were all besmeared and dyed, And, when they saw the darksome night, They sat them down and cried.
Thus wandered these poor innocents, Till death did end their grief; In one another's arms they died, As wanting due relief: No burial this pretty pair Of any man receives, Till Robin-red-breast piously Did cover them with leaves.
And now the heavy wrath of God Upon their uncle fell; Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, His conscience felt an hell: His barns were fired, his goods consumed, His lands were barren made, His cattle died within the field, And nothing with him stayed.
And in a voyage to Portugal Two of his sons did die; And, to conclude, himself was brought To want and misery: He pawned and mortgaged all his land Ere seven years came about, And now at length his wicked act Did by this means come out:
The fellow, that did take in hand These children for to kill, Was for a robbery judged to die, Such was God's blessed will: Who did confess the very truth As here hath been displayed: Their uncle having died in jail, Where he for debt was laid.
You that executors be made, And overseers eke Of children that be fatherless, And infants mild and meek; Take you example by this thing, And yield to each his right, Lest God with such like misery Your wicked minds requite.
Unknown
The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet: 'Twas a piteous sight to see, all around, The grain lie rotting on the ground.
Every day the starving poor Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door; For he had a plentiful last-year's store, And all the neighborhood could tell His granaries were furnished well.
At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day To quiet the poor without delay; He bade them to his great barn repair, And they should have food for the winter there.
Rejoiced such tidings good to hear, The poor folk flocked from far and near; The great barn was full as it could hold Of women and children, and young and old.
Then, when he saw it could hold no more, Bishop Hatto he made fast the door; And, while for mercy on Christ they call, He set fire to the barn, and burnt them all.
"I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he; "And the country is greatly obliged to me For ridding it, in these times forlorn, Of rats that only consume the corn."
So then to his palace returned he, And he sat down to supper merrily, And he slept that night like an innocent man; But Bishop Hatto never slept again.
In the morning, as he entered the hall, Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat like death all over him came, For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.
As he looked, there came a man from his farm,— He had a countenance white with alarm: "My Lord, I opened your granaries this morn, And the rats had eaten all your corn."
Another came running presently, And he was pale as pale could be. "Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly!" quoth he, "Ten thousand rats are coming this way,— The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"
"I'll go to my tower in the Rhine," replied he; "'Tis the safest place in Germany,— The walls are high, and the shores are steep, And the tide is strong, and the water deep."
Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away, And he crossed the Rhine without delay, And reached his tower, and barred with care All the windows, and doors, and loop-holes there.
He laid him down and closed his eyes, But soon a scream made him arise; He started, and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.
He listened and looked,—it was only the cat; But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that, For she sat screaming, mad with fear, At the army of rats that were drawing near.
For they have swum over the river so deep, And they have climbed the shores so steep, And now by thousands up they crawl To the holes and the windows in the wall.
Down on his knees the Bishop fell, And faster and faster his beads did he tell, As louder and louder, drawing near, The saw of their teeth without he could hear.
And in at the windows, and in at the door, And through the walls by thousands they pour; And down from the ceiling and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below,— And all at once to the Bishop they go.
They have whetted their teeth against the stones, And now they pick the Bishop's bones; They gnawed the flesh from every limb, For they were sent to do judgment on him!
Robert Southey [1774-1843]
A Child's Story
I Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin was a pity.
II Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats.
III At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: "'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation,—shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking, To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation.
IV An hour they sat in council,— At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell; I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain,— I'm sure my poor head aches again, I've scratched it so, and all in vain. Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber-door but a gentle tap? "Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?" (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"
V "Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red, And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in; There was no guessing his kith and kin: And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as my great-grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"
VI He advanced to the council-table: And, "Please your honors," said he, I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self-same check, And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) "Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats; And as for what your brain bewilders,— If I can rid your town of rats, Will you give me a thousand guilders?" "One? fifty thousand!" was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.
VII Into the street the Piper stepped, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers; Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives,— Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser, Wherein all plunged and perished! —Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he, the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary, Which was: "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press's gripe,— And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks; And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, 'Oh rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!' And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, Already staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!'— I found the Weser rolling o'er me."
VIII You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple; "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles! Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!"—when suddenly, up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"
IX A thousand guilders! the Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation too. For council-dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Via-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! "Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something to drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty; A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"
X The Piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling! I can't wait! beside, I've promised to visit by dinner time Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the Head Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: With him I proved no bargain-driver; With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe after another fashion."
XI "How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brook Being worse treated than a Cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!"
XII Once more he stepped into the street; And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering; And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running: All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
XIII The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by,— And could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However, he turned from south to west, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. "He never can cross that mighty top! He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop!" When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed; And when all were in, to the very last, The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say, all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say,— "It's dull in our town since my playmates left! I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me; For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed, and fruit-trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings; And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!
XIV Alas, alas for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says that heaven's gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The Mayor sent East, West, North and South, To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, And piper and dancers were gone forever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, "And so long after what happened here On the Twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:" And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it, the Pied Piper's Street— Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labor. Nor suffered they hostlery or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people who ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbors lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why, they don't understand.
XV So, Willy, let me and you be wipers Of scores out with all men—especially pipers! And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
He came all so still Where His mother was, As dew in April That falleth on the grass.
He came all so still Where His mother lay, As dew in April That falleth on the spray.
He came all so still To His mother's bower, As dew in April That falleth on the flower.
Mother and maiden Was never none but she! Well might such a lady God's mother be.
Unknown
God rest you merry, gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay, For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, Was born upon this day, To save us all from Satan's power When we were gone astray. O tidings of comfort and joy! For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, Was born on Christmas Day.
In Bethlehem, in Jewry, This blessed babe was born, And laid within a manger, Upon this blessed morn; The which His mother, Mary, Nothing did take in scorn.
From God our Heavenly Father, A blessed angel came; And unto certain shepherds Brought tidings of the same: How that in Bethlehem was born The Son of God by name.
"Fear not," then said the angel, "Let nothing you affright, This day is born a Saviour Of virtue, power, and might, So frequently to vanquish all The friends of Satan quite."
The shepherds at these tidings Rejoiced much in mind, And left their flocks a-feeding In tempest, storm, and wind, And went to Bethlehem straightway, This blessed babe to find.
But when to Bethlehem they came, Whereat this infant lay, They found Him in a manger, Where oxen feed on hay, His mother Mary kneeling, Unto the Lord did pray.
Now to the Lord sing praises, All you within this place, And with true love and brotherhood Each other now embrace; This holy tide of Christmas All others doth deface.
O tidings of comfort and joy! For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, Was born in Christmas Day.
Unknown
O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie! Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by; Yet in thy dark streets shineth The everlasting Light; The hopes and fears of all the years Are met in thee to-night.
For Christ is born of Mary, And, gathered all above, While mortals sleep, the angels keep Their watch of wondering love. O morning stars, together Proclaim the holy birth! And praises sing to God the King, And peace to men on earth.
How silently, how silently, The wondrous gift is given! So God imparts to human hearts The blessings of His heaven. No ear may hear His coming, But in this world of sin, Where meek souls will receive Him still, The dear Christ enters in.
O holy Child of Bethlehem! Descend to us, we pray; Cast out our sin, and enter in, Be born in us to-day. We hear the Christmas angels The great glad tidings tell; Oh come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel!
Phillips Brooks [1835-1893]
Old Style: 1837
It was the calm and silent night! Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might, And now was Queen of land and sea. No sound was heard of clashing wars; Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain; Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars, Held undisturbed their ancient reign, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago.
'Twas in the calm and silent night! The senator of haughty Rome Impatient urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home. Triumphal arches gleaming swell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago!
Within that province far away Went plodding home a weary boor: A streak of light before him lay, Fall'n through a half-shut stable door Across his path. He passed—for naught Told what was going on within; How keen the stars! his only thought; The air how calm and cold and thin, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago!
O strange indifference!—low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares: The earth was still—but knew not why; The world was listening—unawares. How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world for ever! To that still moment none would heed, Man's doom was linked, no more to sever, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago.
It is the calm and solemn night! A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness, charmed and holy now. The night that erst no name had worn, To it a happy name is given; For in that stable lay new-born The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago.
Alfred Domett [1811-1887]
While shepherds watched their flocks by night, All seated on the ground, The angel of the Lord came down, And glory shone around.
"Fear not," said he, for mighty dread Had seized their troubled mind; "Glad tidings of great joy I bring To you and all mankind.
"To you, in David's town, this day Is born, of David's line, The Saviour, who is Christ the Lord, And this shall be the sign:
"The heavenly babe you there shall find To human view displayed, All meanly wrapped in swaddling bands, And in a manger laid."
Thus spake the seraph; and forthwith Appeared a shining throng Of angels, praising God, who thus Addressed their joyful song:
"All glory be to God on high, And to the earth be peace; Good will henceforth from Heaven to men Begin and never cease."
Nahum Tate [1652-1715]
It came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old, From angels bending near the earth To touch their harps of gold: "Peace on the earth, good will to men From heaven's all-gracious King"— The world in solemn stillness lay To hear the angels sing.
Still through the cloven skies they come With peaceful wings unfurled, And still their heavenly music floats O'er all the weary world; Above its sad and lowly plains They bend on hovering wing, And ever o'er its Babel-sounds The blessed angels sing.
But with the woes of sin and strife The world has suffered long; Beneath the angel-strain have rolled Two thousand years of wrong; And man, at war with man, hears not The love-song which they bring;— Oh, hush the noise, ye men of strife, And hear the angels sing!
And ye, beneath life's crushing load, Whose forms are bending low, Who toil along the climbing way With painful steps and slow, Look now! for glad and golden hours Come swiftly on the wing;— Oh, rest beside the weary road And hear the angels sing!
For lo! the days are hastening on By prophet bards foretold, When with the ever circling years Comes round the age of gold; When Peace shall over all the earth Its ancient splendors fling, And the whole world give back the song Which now the angels sing.
Edmund Hamilton Sears [1810-1876]
From "Flowers of Sion"
Run, shepherds, run where Bethlehem blest appears. We bring the best of news; be not dismayed: A Saviour there is born more old than years, Amidst heaven's rolling heights this earth who stayed. In a poor cottage inned, a virgin maid, A weakling did him bear, who all upbears; There is he poorly swaddled, in manger laid, To whom too narrow swaddlings are our spheres: Run, shepherds, run, and solemnize his birth. This is that night—no, day, grown great with bliss, In which the power of Satan broken is: In heaven be glory, peace unto the earth! Thus singing, through the air the angels swarm, And cope of stars re-echoed the same.
William Drummond [1585-1649]
As I in hoary winter's night Stood shivering in the snow, Surprised I was with sudden heat Which made my heart to glow; And lifting up a fearful eye To view what fire was near, A pretty babe all burning bright Did in the air appear; Who, scorched with excessive heat, Such floods of tears did shed, As though His floods should quench His flames, Which with His tears were bred: "Alas!" quoth He, "but newly born In fiery heats I fry, Yet none approach to warm their hearts Or feel my fire but I!
"My faultless breast the furnace is; The fuel, wounding thorns; Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke; The ashes, shames and scorns; The fuel Justice layeth on, And Mercy blows the coals, The metal in this furnace wrought Are men's defiled souls: For which, as now on fire I am To work them to their good, So will I melt into a bath, To wash them in my blood." With this He vanished out of sight And swiftly shrunk away, And straight I called unto mind That it was Christmas Day.
Robert Southwell [1561?-1595]
The Ox he openeth wide the Doore, And from the Snowe he calls her inne, And he hath seen her Smile therefor, Our Ladye without Sinne. Now soone from Sleep A Starre shall leap, And soone arrive both King and Hinde: Amen, Amen: But O, the Place co'd I but finde!
The Ox hath hushed his voyce and bent Trewe eyes of Pitty ore the Mow, And on his lovelie Neck, forspent, The Blessed layes her Browe. Around her feet Full Warme and Sweete His bowerie Breath doth meeklie dwell: Amen, Amen: But sore am I with Vaine Travel!
The Ox is host in Judah stall And Host of more than onelie one, For close she gathereth withal Our Lorde her littel Sonne. Glad Hinde and King Their Gyfte may bring, But wo'd to-night my Teares were there, Amen, Amen: Between her Bosom and His hayre!
Louise Imogen Guiney [1861-1920]
As Joseph was a-waukin', He heard an angel sing, "This night shall be the birthnight Of Christ our heavenly King.
"His birth-bed shall be neither In housen nor in hall, Nor in the place of paradise, But in the oxen's stall.
"He neither shall be rocked In silver nor in gold, But in the wooden manger That lieth in the mould.
"He neither shall be washen With white wine nor with red, But with the fair spring water That on you shall be shed.
"He neither shall be clothed In purple nor in pall, But in the fair, white linen That usen babies all."
As Joseph was a-waukin', Thus did the angel sing, And Mary's son at midnight Was born to be our King.
Then be you glad, good people, At this time of the year; And light you up your candles, For His star it shineth clear.
Unknown
Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!
Cold on His cradle the dewdrops are shining, Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall; Angels adore Him in slumber reclining, Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all!
Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, Odors of Edom and offerings divine? Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean, Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine?
Vainly we offer each ample oblation; Vainly with gifts would His favor secure: Richer by far is the heart's adoration; Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.
Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!
Reginald Heber [1783-1826]
I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along The unbroken song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till, ringing, singing on its way, The world revolved from night to day, A voice, a chime, A chant sublime Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth The cannon thundered in the South, And with the sound The carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent The hearth-stones of a continent, And made forlorn The households born Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head; "There is no peace on earth," I said, "For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: "God is not dead, nor doth He sleep! The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men!"
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]
The Christ-child lay on Mary's lap, His hair was like a light. (O weary, weary were the world, But here is all aright.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary's breast, His hair was like a star. (O stern and cunning are the kings, But here the true hearts are.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary's heart, His hair was like a fire. (O weary, weary is the world, But here the world's desire.)
The Christ-child stood at Mary's knee, His hair was like a crown, And all the flowers looked up at Him, And all the stars looked down.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton [1874-1936]
There fared a mother driven forth Out of an inn to roam; In the place where she was homeless All men are at home. The crazy stable close at hand, With shaking timber and shifting sand, Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand Than the square stones of Rome.
For men are homesick in their homes, And strangers under the sun, And they lay their heads in a foreign land Whenever the day is done. Here we have battle and blazing eyes, And chance and honor and high surprise, But our homes are under miraculous skies Where the yule tale was begun.
A Child in a foul stable, Where the beasts feed and foam, Only where He was homeless Are you and I at home; We have hands that fashion and heads that know, But our hearts we lost—how long ago! In a place no chart nor ship can show Under the sky's dome.
This world is wild as an old wives' tale, And strange the plain things are, The earth is enough and the air is enough For our wonder and our war; But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings And our peace is put in impossible things Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings Round an incredible star.
To an open house in the evening Home shall men come, To an older place than Eden And a taller town than Rome. To the end of the way of the wandering star, To the things that cannot be and that are, To the place where God was homeless And all men are at home.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton [1874-1936]
There is heard a hymn when the panes are dim, And never before or again, When the nights are strong with a darkness long, And the dark is alive with rain.
Never we know but in sleet and snow The place where the great fires are, That the midst of earth is a raging mirth, And the heart of the earth a star.
And at night we win to the ancient inn, Where the Child in the frost is furled, We follow the feet where all souls meet, At the inn at the end of the world.
The gods lie dead where the leaves lie red, For the flame of the sun is flown; The gods lie cold where the leaves are gold, And a Child comes forth alone.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton [1874-1936]
Joseph, mild and noble, bent above the straw: A pale girl, a frail girl, suffering he saw; "O my Love, my Mary, my bride, I pity thee!" "Nay, Dear," said Mary, "all is well with me!" "Baby, my baby, O my babe," she sang. Suddenly the golden night all with music rang.
Angels leading shepherds, shepherds leading sheep: The silence of worship broke the mother's sleep. All the meek and lowly of all the world were there; Smiling, she showed them that her Child was fair, "Baby, my baby," kissing Him she said. Suddenly a flaming star through the heavens sped.
Three old men and weary knelt them side by side, The world's wealth forswearing, majesty and pride; Worldly might and wisdom before the Babe bent low: Weeping, maid Mary said, "I love Him so!" "Baby, my baby," and the Baby slept. Suddenly on Calvary all the olives wept.
Shaemas OSheel [1886-
A Ballad of Christmas Eve
There was a gentle hostler (And blessed be his name!) He opened up the stable The night Our Lady came. Our Lady and St. Joseph, He gave them food and bed, And Jesus Christ has given him A glory round his head.
So let the gate swing open However poor the yard, Lest weary People visit you And find their Passage barred. Unlatch the door at midnight And let your lantern's glow Shine out to guide the traveler's feet To you across the snow.
There was a courteous hostler (He is in Heaven to-night) He held Our Lady's bridle And helped her to alight. He spread clean straw before her Whereon she might lie down, And Jesus Christ has given him An everlasting crown.
Unlock the door this evening And let your gate swing wide, Let all who ask for shelter Come speedily inside. What if your yard be narrow? What if your house be small? There is a Guest is coming Will glorify it all.
There was a joyous hostler Who knelt on Christmas morn Beside the radiant manger Wherein his Lord was born. His heart was full of laughter, His soul was full of bliss When Jesus, on His Mother's lap, Gave him His hand to kiss.
Unbar your heart this evening And keep no stranger out, Take from your soul's great portal The barrier of doubt. To humble folk and weary Give hearty welcoming, Your breast shall be to-morrow The cradle of a King.
Joyce Kilmer [1886-1918]
Three Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar; Three Wise Men out of the East were they, And they travelled by night and they slept by day, For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.
The star was so beautiful, large and clear, That all the other stars of the sky Became a white mist in the atmosphere; And by this they knew that the coming was near Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.
Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, Three caskets of gold with golden keys; Their robes were of crimson silk, with rows Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.
And so the Three Kings rode into the West, Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell, And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at some wayside well.
"Of the child that is born," said Baltasar, "Good people, I pray you, tell us the news, For we in the East have seen his star, And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, To find and worship the King of the Jews."
And the people answered, "You ask in vain; We know of no king but Herod the Great!" They thought the Wise Men were men insane, As they spurred their horses across the plain Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait.
And when they came to Jerusalem, Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem, And bring me tidings of this new king."
So they rode away, and the star stood still, The only one in the gray of morn; Yes, it stopped,—it stood still of its own free will, Right over Bethlehem on the hill, The city of David, where Christ was born.
And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, Through the silent street, till their horses turned And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard; But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, And only a light in the stable burned.
And cradled there in the scented hay, In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, The little child in the manger lay, The Child that would be King one day Of a kingdom not human, but divine.
His mother, Mary of Nazareth, Sat watching beside his place of rest, Watching the even flow of his breath, For the joy of life and the terror of death Were mingled together in her breast.
They laid their offerings at his feet: The gold was their tribute to a King; The frankincense, with its odor sweet, Was for the Priest, the Paraclete; The myrrh for the body's burying.
And the mother wondered and bowed her head, And sat as still as a statue of stone; Her heart was troubled yet comforted, Remembering what the Angel had said Of an endless reign and of David's throne.
Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, With a clatter of hoofs in proud array; But they went not back to Herod the Great, For they knew his malice and feared his hate, And returned to their homes by another way.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]
There hath come an host to see Thee, Baby dear, Bearded men with eyes of flame And lips of fear, For the heavens, they say, have broken Into blinding gulfs of glory, And the Lord, they say, hath spoken In a little wondrous story, Baby dear.
There have come three kings to greet Thee, Baby dear, Crowned with gold, and clad in purple, They draw near. They have brought rare silks to bind Thee, At Thy feet, behold, they spread them, From their thrones they sprang to find Thee, And a blazing star hath led them, Baby dear.
I have neither jade nor jasper, Baby dear, Thou art all my hope and glory, And my fear, Yet for all the gems that strew Thee, And the costly gowns that fold Thee, Yea, though all the world should woo Thee, Thou art mine—and fast I hold Thee, Baby dear.
Henry Howarth Bashford [1880-
My counterpane is soft as silk, My blankets white as creamy milk. The hay was soft to Him, I know, Our little Lord of long ago.
Above the roofs the pigeons fly In silver wheels across the sky. The stable-doves they cooed to them, Mary and Christ in Bethlehem.
Bright shines the sun across the drifts, And bright upon my Christmas gifts. They brought Him incense, myrrh, and gold, Our little Lord who lived of old.
Oh, soft and clear our mother sings Of Christmas joys and Christmas things. God's holy angels sang to them, Mary and Christ in Bethlehem.
Our hearts they hold all Christmas dear, And earth seems sweet and heaven seems near, Oh, heaven was in His sight, I know, That little Child of long ago.
Marjorie L. C. Pickthall [1883-1922]
Father calls me William, sister calls me Will, Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill! Mighty glad I ain't a girl—ruther be a boy, Without them sashes, curls, an' things that's worn by Fauntleroy! Love to chawnk green apples an' go swimmin' in the lake— Hate to take the castor-ile they give for belly-ache! 'Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain't no flies on me, But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!
Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat; First thing she knows she doesn't know where she is at! Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide, 'Long comes the grocery cart an' we all hook a ride! But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross, He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss, An' then I laff an' holler, "Oh, ye never teched me!" But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!
Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man, I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother, Dan, As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon's Isle, Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile! But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West show, Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd know That Buff'lo Bill and cow-boys is good enough for me! Excep' jest 'fore Christmas, when I'm good as I kin be!
And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an' still, His eyes they keep a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?" The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's become Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum! But I am so perlite an' 'tend so earnestly to biz, That mother says to father: "How improved our Willie is!" But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me When jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be!
For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes an' toys, Was made, they say, for proper kids an' not for naughty boys; So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's an' q's, An' don't bust out yer pantaloons, an' don't wear out yer shoes; Say "Yessum" to the ladies, an' "Yessur" to the men, An' when they's company, don't pass yer plate for pie again; But, thinking of the things yer'd like to see upon that tree, Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be!
Eugene Field [1850-1895]
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!" As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face and a little round belly, That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."
Clement Clarke Moore [1779-1863]
Come, bring with a noise, My merry, merry boys, The Christmas log to the firing; While my good dame, she Bids ye all be free; And drink to your hearts' desiring.
With the last year's brand Light the new block, and For good success in his spending, On your psaltries play, That sweet luck may Come while the log is a-tending.
Drink now the strong beer, Cut the white loaf here, The while the meat is a-shredding; For the rare mince-pie And the plums stand by To fill the paste that's a-kneading.
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
This is the month, and this the happy morn Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.
That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-ta To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside; and, here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.
Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the Infant God? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain To welcome him to this his new abode, Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
See how from far, upon the eastern road, The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet! O run, prevent them with thy humble ode And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice unto the angel choir From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.
THE HYMN It was the winter wild While the heaven-born Child All meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies; Nature in awe to Him Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize: It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.
Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities.
But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing and amorous clouds dividing; And waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.
No war, or battle's sound Was heard the world around: The idle spear and shield were high uphung; The hooked chariot stood Unstained with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by.
But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began: The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kissed, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean— Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence; And will not take their flight For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warned them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.
And though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame The new-enlightened world no more should need; He saw a greater Sun appear Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear.
The shepherds on the lawn Or ere the point of dawn Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they then That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.
When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet As never was by mortal finger strook— Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took: The air, such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.
Nature, that heard such sound Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union.
At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light That with long beams the shamefaced night arrayed; The helmed Cherubim And sworded Seraphim Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, Harping in loud and solemn choir With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.
Such music (as 'tis said) Before was never made But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set And the well-balanced world on hinges hung; And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.
Ring out, ye crystal spheres! Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow; And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.
For if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; And speckled vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould; And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.
But wisest Fate says No; This must not yet be so; The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both himself and us to glorify: Yet first, to those ychained in sleep The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;
With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake: The aged Earth aghast With terror of that blast Shall from the surface to the centre shake, When, at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.
And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day The old Dragon under ground, In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
The oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving: No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
The lonely mountains o'er And the resounding shore A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; From haunted spring and dale Edged with poplar pale The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
In consecrated earth And on the holy hearth The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; In urns, and altars round A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat.
Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-battered god of Palestine; And mooned Ashtaroth Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn: In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.
And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue; In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue; The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.
Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove, or green, Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest; Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrelled anthems dark The sable stoled sorcerers bear his worshiped ark.
He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand; The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyen; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in His swaddling bands control the damned crew.
So, when the sun in bed Curtained with cloudy red Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail, Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave: And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.
But see! the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest; Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest teemed star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending: And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable.
John Milton [1608-1674]
In summer, when the grass is thick, if mother has the time, She shows me with her pencil how a poet makes a rhyme, And often she is sweet enough to choose a leafy nook, Where I cuddle up so closely when she reads the Fairybook.
In winter, when the corn's asleep, and birds are not in song, And crocuses and violets have been away too long, Dear mother puts her thimble by in answer to my look, And I cuddle up so closely when she reads the Fairybook.
And mother tells the servants that of course they must contrive To manage all the household things from four till half-past five, For we really cannot suffer interruption from the cook, When we cuddle close together with the happy Fairybook.
Norman Gale [1862-
I From "A Midsummer-Night's Dream"
Over hill, over dale, Through bush, through brier, Over park, over pale, Through flood, through fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green: The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favors, In those freckles live their savors: I must go seek some dew-drops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
II From "A Midsummer-Night's Dream"
You spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong; Come not near our fairy queen.
Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good night, with lullaby.
Weaving spiders, come not here; Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence! Beetles black, approach not near; Worm nor snail, do no offence.
Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good-night, with lullaby.
III From "The Tempest"
Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: Court'sied when you have, and kissed,— The wild waves whist,— Foot it featly here and there; And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. Hark, hark! Bow, wow, The watch-dogs bark: Bow, wow. Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!
IV From "The Tempest"
Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily: Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
William Shakespeare [1564-1616]
From "The Satyr"
This is Mab, the Mistress-Fairy, That doth nightly rob the dairy And can hurt or help the churning, As she please without discerning.
She that pinches country wenches If they rub not clean their benches, And with sharper nails remembers When they rake not up their embers: But if so they chance to feast her, In a shoe she drops a tester.
This is she that empties cradles, Takes out children, puts in ladles: Trains forth old wives in their slumber With a sieve the holes to number; And then leads them from her burrows, Home through ponds and water-furrows.
She can start our Franklins' daughters, In their sleep, with shrieks and laughters: And on sweet Saint Anna's night Feed them with a promised sight, Some of husbands, some of lovers, Which an empty dream discovers.
Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]
Under a toadstool crept a wee Elf, Out of the rain, to shelter himself.
Under the toadstool sound asleep, Sat a big Dormouse all in a heap.
Trembled the wee Elf, frightened, and yet Fearing to fly away lest he get wet.
To the next shelter—maybe a mile! Sudden the wee Elf smiled a wee smile,
Tugged till the toadstool toppled in two. Holding it over him, gayly he flew.
Soon he was safe home, dry as could be. Soon woke the Dormouse—"Good gracious me!
"Where is my toadstool?" loud he lamented. —And that's how umbrellas first were invented.
Oliver Herford [1863-1935]
Oh! where do fairies hide their heads, When snow lies on the hills, When frost has spoiled their mossy beds, And crystallized their rills? Beneath the moon they cannot trip In circles o'er the plain; And draughts of dew they cannot sip, Till green leaves come again.
Perhaps, in small, blue diving-bells They plunge beneath the waves, Inhabiting the wreathed shells That lie in coral caves. Perhaps, in red Vesuvius Carousals they maintain; And cheer their little spirits thus, Till green leaves come again.
When they return, there will be mirth And music in the air. And fairy wings upon the earth, And mischief everywhere. The maids, to keep the elves aloof, Will bar the doors in vain; No key-hole will he fairy-proof When green leaves come again.
Thomas Haynes Bayly [1797-1839]
From "Amyntas"
We the Fairies, blithe and antic, Of dimensions not gigantic, Though the moonshine mostly keep us, Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.
Stolen sweets are always sweeter, Stolen kisses much completer, Stolen looks are nice in chapels, Stolen, stolen be your apples.
When to bed the world is bobbing, Then's the time for orchard-robbing; Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling Were it not for stealing, stealing.
Translated by Leigh Hunt from the Latin of Thomas Randolph [1605-1635]
I come from woods enchaunted, Starlit and pixey-haunted, Where 'twixt the bracken and the trees The goblins lie and take their ease By winter moods undaunted.
There down the golden gravel The laughing rivers travel; Elves wake at nights and whisper low Between the bracken and the snow Their dreamings to unravel.
Twisted and lank and hairy, With wanton eyes and wary, They stretch and chuckle in the wind, For one has found a mermaid kind, And one has kissed a fairy.
They know no melancholy, But fashion crowns of holly, And gather sleep within the brake To deck a kingdom when they wake, And bless the dreamer's folly.
Ah! would that I might follow The servants of Apollo! But it is sweet to heap the hours With quiet dreams and poppy-flowers, Down in the pixies' hollow.
Richard Middleton [1882-1911]
Shed no tear! O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more! O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core. Dry your eyes! O, dry your eyes! For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies,— Shed no tear.
Overhead! look overhead! 'Mong the blossoms white and red,— Look up, look up! I flutter now On this flush pomegranate bough. See me! 'tis this silvery bill Ever cures the good man's ill,— Shed no tear! O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Adieu, adieu—I fly—adieu! I vanish in the heaven's blue,— Adieu, adieu!
John Keats [1795-1821]
A little fairy comes at night, Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown, With silver spots upon her wings, And from the moon she flutters down.
She has a little silver wand, And when a good child goes to bed She waves her hand from right to left, And makes a circle round its head.
And then it dreams of pleasant things, Of fountains filled with fairy fish, And trees that bear delicious fruit, And bow their branches at a wish:
Of arbors filled with dainty scents From lovely flowers that never fade; Bright flies that glitter in the sun, And glow-worms shining in the shade:
And talking birds with gifted tongues, For singing songs and telling tales, And pretty dwarfs to show the way Through fairy hills and fairy dales.
But when a bad child goes to bed, From left to right she weaves her rings, And then it dreams all through the night Of only ugly horrid things!
Then lions come with glaring eyes, And tigers growl, a dreadful noise, And ogres draw their cruel knives, To shed the blood of girls and boys.
Then stormy waves rush on to drown, Or raging flames come scorching round, Fierce dragons hover in the air, And serpents crawl along the ground.
Then wicked children wake and weep, And wish the long black gloom away; But good ones love the dark, and find The night as pleasant as the day.
Thomas Hood [1799-1845]
A Midsummer Legend
"And where have you been, my Mary, And where have you been from me?" "I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low, The midsummer night to see!"
"And what did you see, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Low?" "I saw the glad sunshine come down, And I saw the merry winds blow."
"And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Hill?" "I heard the drops of the water made, And the ears of the green corn fill."
"Oh, tell me all, my Mary— All—all that ever you know; For you must have seen the fairies Last night on the Caldon-Low!"
"Then take me on your knee, mother, And listen, mother of mine: A hundred fairies danced last night, And the harpers they were nine.
"And their harp-strings rang so merrily To their dancing feet so small; But, oh! the words of their talking Were merrier far than all!"
"And what were the words, my Mary, That you did hear them say?" "I'll tell you all, my mother, But let me have my way.
"Some of them played with the water, And rolled it down the hill; 'And this,' they said, 'shall speedily turn The poor old miller's mill.
"'For there has been no water Ever since the first of May; And a busy man will the miller be At the dawning of the day!
"'Oh! the miller, how he will laugh, When he sees the mill-dam rise! The jolly old miller, how he will laugh, Till the tears fill both his eyes!'
"And some they seized the little winds, That sounded over the hill, And each put a horn into his mouth, And blew both loud and shrill:
"'And there,' said they, 'the merry winds go Away from every horn; And they shall clear the mildew dank From the blind old widow's corn:
"'Oh, the poor blind widow— Though she has been blind so long, She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone, And the corn stands tall and strong!'
"And some they brought the brown linseed And flung it down the Low: 'And this,' said they, 'by the sunrise In the weaver's croft shall grow!
"'Oh, the poor lame weaver! How will he laugh outright When he sees his dwindling flax-field All full of flowers by night!'
"And then outspoke a brownie, With a long beard on his chin: 'I have spun up all the tow,' said he, 'And I want some more to spin.
"'I've spun a piece of hempen cloth And I want to spin another— A little sheet for Mary's bed, And an apron for her mother!'
"With that I could not help but laugh, And I laughed out loud and free; And then on the top of the Caldon-Low There was no one left but me.
"And all on the top of the Caldon-Low The mists were cold and gray, And nothing I saw but the mossy stones That round about me lay.
"But, coming down from the hill-top, I heard, afar below, How busy the jolly miller was, And how merry the wheel did go!
"And I peeped into the widow's field, And, sure enough, was seen The yellow ears of the mildewed corn All standing stout and green.
"And down the weaver's croft I stole, To see if the flax were sprung; And I met the weaver at his gate With the good news on his tongue!
"Now, this is all I heard, mother, And all that I did see; So, prithee, make my bed, mother, For I'm tired as I can be!"
Mary Howitt [1799-1888]
Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!
Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake.
High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lake, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. If any man so daring As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!
William Allingham [1824-1889]
On gossamer nights when the moon is low, And stars in the mist are hiding, Over the hill where the foxgloves grow You may see the fairies riding. Kling! Klang! Kling! Their stirrups and their bridles ring, And their horns are loud and their bugles blow, When the moon is low.
They sweep through the night like a whistling wind, They pass and have left no traces; But one of them lingers far behind The flight of the fairy faces. She makes no moan, She sorrows in the dark alone, She wails for the love of human kind, Like a whistling wind.
"Ah! why did I roam where the elfins ride, Their glimmering steps to follow? They bore me far from my loved one's side, To wander o'er hill and hollow. Kling! Klang! Kling! Their stirrups and their bridles ring, But my heart is cold in the cold night-tide, Where the elfins ride."
Mary C. G. Byron [1861-
Farewell, rewards and fairies! Good housewives now may say, For now foul sluts in dairies Do fare as well as they. And though they sweep their hearths no less Than maids were wont to do, Yet who of late, for cleanliness, Finds sixpence in her shoe?
Lament, lament, old abbeys, The fairies' lost command! They did but change priests' babies, But some have changed your land; And all your children sprung from thence, Are now grown Puritanes; Who live as changelings ever since, For love of your demains.
At morning and at evening both You merry were and glad; So little care of sleep or sloth These pretty ladies had; When Tom came home from labor, Or Ciss to milking rose, Then merrily merrily went their tabor And nimbly went their toes.
Witness those rings and roundelays Of theirs, which yet remain, Were footed in Queen Mary's days On many a grassy plain; But since of late, Elizabeth, And later, James came in, They never danced on any heath As when the time hath been.
By which we note the fairies Were of the old profession; Their songs were Ave-Maries, Their dances were procession. But now, alas! they all are dead, Or gone beyond the seas; Or farther for religion fled; Or else they take their ease.
A tell-tale in their company They never could endure; And whoso kept not secretly Their mirth, was punished sure; It was a just and Christian deed To pinch such black and blue: Oh, how the Commonwealth doth need Such justices as you!
Richard Corbet [1582-1635]
Come cuddle close in daddy's coat Beside the fire so bright, And hear about the fairy folk That wander in the night. For when the stars are shining clear And all the world is still, They float across the silver moon From hill to cloudy hill.
Their caps of red, their cloaks of green, Are hung with silver bells, And when they're shaken with the wind Their merry ringing swells. And riding on the crimson moth, With black spots on her wings, They guide them down the purple sky With golden bridle rings.
They love to visit girls and boys To see how sweet they sleep, To stand beside their cosy cots And at their faces peep. For in the whole of fairy-land They have no finer sight Than little children sleeping sound With faces rosy bright.
On tip-toe crowding round their heads, When bright the moonlight beams, They whisper little tender words That fill their minds with dreams; And when they see a sunny smile, With lightest finger tips They lay a hundred kisses sweet Upon the ruddy lips.
And then the little spotted moths Spread out their crimson wings, And bear away the fairy crowd With shaking bridle rings. Come, bairnies, hide in daddy's coat, Beside the fire so bright— Perhaps the little fairy folk Will visit you to-night.
Robert Bird [1867-
When Mother takes the Fairy Book And we curl up to hear, 'Tis "All aboard for Fairyland!" Which seems to be so near.
For soon we reach the pleasant place Of Once Upon a Time, Where birdies sing the hour of day, And flowers talk in rhyme;
Where Bobby is a velvet Prince, And where I am a Queen; Where one can talk with animals, And walk about unseen;
Where Little People live in nuts, And ride on butterflies, And wonders kindly come to pass Before your very eyes;
Where candy grows on every bush, And playthings on the trees, And visitors pick basketfuls As often as they please.
It is the nicest time of day— Though Bedtime is so near,— When Mother takes the Fairy Book And we curl up to hear.
Abbie Farwell Brown [1875-1927]
The white goat Amaryllis, She wandered at her will At time of daffodillies Afar and up the hill: We hunted and we holloa'd And back she came at dawn, But what d'you think had followed?— A little, pagan Faun!
His face was like a berry. His ears were high and pricked: Tip-tap—his hoofs came merry As up the path he clicked; A junket for his winning We set in dairy delf; He eat it—peart and grinning As Christian as yourself!
He stayed about the steading A fortnight, say, or more; A blanket for his bedding We spread beside the door; And when the cocks crowed clearly Before the dawn was ripe, He'd call the milkmaids cheerly Upon a reedy pipe!
That fortnight of his staying The work went smooth as silk: The hens were all in laying, The cows were all in milk; And then—and then one morning The maids woke up at day Without his oaten warning,— And found he'd gone away.
He left no trace behind him; But still the milkmaids deem That they, perhaps, may find him With butter and with cream: Beside the door they set them In bowl and golden pat, But no one comes to get them— Unless, maybe, the cat.
The white goat Amaryllis, She wanders at her will At time of daffodillies, Away up Woolcombe hill; She stays until the morrow, Then back she comes at dawn; But never—to our sorrow— The little, pagan Faun.
Patrick R. Chalmers [18
I met a little Elf-man, once, Down where the lilies blow. I asked him why he was so small, And why he didn't grow. He slightly frowned, and with his eye He looked me through and through. "I'm quite as big for me," said he, "As you are big for you."
John Kendrick Bangs [1862-1922]
Within the wood behind the hill The moon got tangled in the trees. Her splendor made the branches thrill And thrilled the breeze.
The satyrs in the grotto bent Their heads to see the wondrous sight. "It is a god in banishment That stirs the night."
The little satyr looked and guessed: "It is an apple that one sees, Brought from that garden of the West— Hesperides."
"It is a cyclops' glaring eye." "A temple dome from Babylon." "A Titan's cup of ivory." "A little sun."
The tiny satyr jumped for joy, And kicked hoofs in utmost glee. "It is a wondrous silver toy— Bring it to me!"
A great wind whistled through the blue And caught the moon and tossed it high; A bubble of pale fire it flew Across the sky.
The satyrs gasped and looked and smiled, And wagged their heads from side to side, Except their shaggy little child, Who cried and cried.
Herbert S. Gorman [1893-
When the lessons and tasks are all ended, And the school for the day is dismissed, The little ones gather around me, To bid me good night and be kissed; Oh, the little white arms that encircle My neck in their tender embrace! Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, Shedding sunshine of love on my face!
And when they are gone, I sit dreaming Of my childhood too lovely to last,— Of joy that my heart will remember, While it wakes to the pulse of the past, Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin, When the glory of God was about me, And the glory of gladness within.
All my heart grows as weak as a woman's, And the fountain of feeling will flow, When I think of the paths steep and stony, Where the feet of the dear ones must go,— Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, Of the tempest of fate blowing wild;— Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child!
They are idols of hearts and of households; They are angels of God in disguise; His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, His glory still shines in their eyes; Those truants from home and from heaven,— They have made me more manly and mild; And I know now how Jesus could liken The kingdom of God to a child.
I ask not a life for the dear ones, All radiant, as others have done, But that life may have just enough shadow To temper the glare of the sun; I would pray God to guard them from evil, But my prayer would bound back to myself;— Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner, But a sinner must pray for himself.
The twig is so easily bended, I have banished the rule and the rod I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, They have taught me the goodness of God: My heart is the dungeon of darkness Where I shut them for breaking a rule; My frown is sufficient correction; My love is the law of the school.
I shall leave the old house in the autumn, To traverse its threshold no more; Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear ones That meet me each morn at the door! I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses, And the gush of their innocent glee, The group on the green, and the flowers That are brought every morning for me.
I shall miss them at morn and at even, Their song in the school and the street; I shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tread of their delicate feet. When the lessons of life are all ended, And death says: "The school is dismissed!" May the little ones gather around me, To bid me good night and be kissed!
Charles Monroe Dickinson [1842-1924]
Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]
In praise of little children I will say God first made man, then found a better way For woman, but his third way was the best. Of all created things, the loveliest And most divine are children. Nothing here Can be to us more gracious or more dear. And though, when God saw all his works were good, There was no rosy flower of babyhood, 'Twas said of children in a later day That none could enter Heaven save such as they.
The earth, which feels the flowering of a thorn, Was glad, O little child, when you were born; The earth, which thrills when skylarks scale the blue, Soared up itself to God's own Heaven in you; And Heaven, which loves to lean down and to glass Its beauty in each dewdrop on the grass,— Heaven laughed to find your face so pure and fair, And left, O little child, its reflex there.
William Canton [1845-
Give me no mansions ivory white Nor palaces of pearl and gold; Give me a child for all delight, Just four years old.
Give me no wings of rosy shine Nor snowy raiment, fold on fold, Give me a little boy all mine, Just four years old.
Give me no gold and starry crown Nor harps, nor palm branches unrolled; Give me a nestling head of brown, Just four years old.
Give me a cheek that's like the peach, Two arms to clasp me from the cold; And all my heaven's within my reach, Just four years old.
Dear God, You give me from Your skies A little paradise to hold, As Mary once her Paradise, Just four years old.
Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931]
All the bells of heaven may ring, All the birds of heaven may sing, All the wells on earth may spring, All the winds on earth may bring All sweet sounds together; Sweeter far then all things heard, Hand of harper, tone of bird, Sound of woods at sundawn stirred, Welling water's winsome word, Wind in warm, wan weather.
One thing yet there is, that none, Hearing ere its chime be done, Knows not well the sweetest one Heard of man beneath the sun, Hoped in heaven hereafter; Soft and strong and loud and light, Very sound of very light, Heard from morning's rosiest height, When the soul of all delight, Fills a child's clear laughter.
Golden bells of welcome rolled Never forth such note, nor told Hours so blithe in tones so bold, As the radiant mouth of gold Here that rings forth heaven. If the golden-crested wren Were a nightingale—why, then Something seen and heard of men Might be half as sweet as when Laughs a child of seven.
Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]
Seven white roses on one tree, Seven white loaves of blameless leaven, Seven white sails on one soft sea, Seven white swans on one lake's lea, Seven white flowerlike stars in Heaven, All are types unmeet to be For a birthday's crown of seven.
Not the radiance of the roses, Not the blessing of the bread, Not the breeze that ere day grows is Fresh for sails and swans, and closes Wings above the sun's grave spread When the starshine on the snows is Sweet as sleep on sorrow shed.
Nothing sweeter, nothing best, Holds so good and sweet a treasure As the love wherewith once blest Joy grows holy, grief takes rest, Life, half tired with hours to measure, Fills his eyes and lips and breast With most light and breath of pleasure;
As the rapture unpolluted, As the passion undefiled, By whose force all pains heart-rooted Are transfigured and transmuted, Recompensed and reconciled, Through the imperial, undisputed, Present godhead of a child.
Brown bright eyes and fair bright head, Worth a worthier crown than this is, Worth a worthier song instead, Sweet grave wise round mouth, full fed With the joy of love, whose bliss is More than mortal wine and bread, Lips whose words are sweet as kisses.
Little hands so glad of giving, Little heart so glad of love, Little soul so glad of living, While the strong swift hours are weaving Light with darkness woven above, Time for mirth and time for grieving, Plume of raven and plume of dove.
I can give you but a word Warm with love therein for leaven, But a song that falls unheard Yet on ears of sense unstirred Yet by song so far from Heaven, Whence you came the brightest bird, Seven years since, of seven times seven.
Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]
Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang, Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld Grannie's sang: Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang, Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang.
Creep awa', my bairnie, ye're ower young to learn To tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn; Better creepin' cannie, than fa'in' wi' a bang, Duntin' a' your wee brow,—creep afore ye gang.
Ye'll creep, an' ye'll hotch, an' ye'll nod to your mither, Watchin' ilka step o' your wee dousy brither; Rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow strang, An' ye'll be a braw chiel yet,—creep afore ye gang.
The wee birdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee, Folks are sure to tumble, when they climb ower hie; They wha canna walk right are sure to come to wrang, Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang.
James Ballantine [1808-1877]
The bonnie, bonnie bairn who sits poking in the ase, Glowering in the fire wi' his wee round face, Laughing at the fuffin' lowe—what sees he there? Ha! the young dreamer's bigging castles in the air.
His wee chubby face and his touzie curly pow Are laughing and nodding to the dancing lowe; He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair, Glowering at the imps wi' their castles in the air.
He sees muckle castles towering to the moon; He sees little sodgers pu'ing them a' doun; Warlds whommlin' up and doun, bleezing wi' a flare,— See how he loups as they glimmer in the air!
For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken? He's thinking upon naething, like mony mighty men: A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare,— There are mair folk than him bigging castles in the air.
Sic a night in winter may weel mak' him cauld: His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld; His brow is brent sae braid—O pray that daddy Care Wad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air!
He'll glower at the fire, and he'll keek at the light; But mony sparkling stars are swallowed up by Night: Aulder e'en than his are glamored by a glare,— Hearts are broken, heads are turned, wi' castles in the air.
James Ballantine [1808-1877]
Under my window, under my window, All in the Midsummer weather, Three little girls with fluttering curls Flit to and fro together:— There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, And Kate with her scarlet feather.
Under my window, under my window, Leaning stealthily over, Merry and clear, the voice I hear Of each glad-hearted rover. Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my roses; And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies, As merry as bees in clover.
Under my window, under my window, In the blue Midsummer weather, Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe, I catch them all together:— Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, And Kate with her scarlet feather.
Under my window, under my window, And off through the orchard closes; While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts, They scamper and drop their posies; But dear little Kate takes naught amiss, And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, And I give her all my roses.
Thomas Westwood [1814?-1888]
LITTLE BELL
He prayeth well who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.
The Ancient Mariner
Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray "Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, What's your name?" quoth he— "What's your name? Oh stop and straight unfold, Pretty maid with showery curls of gold,"— "Little Bell," said she.
Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks— Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks— "Bonny bird," quoth she, "Sing me your best song before I go." "Here's the very finest song I know, Little Bell," said he.
And the blackbird piped; you never heard Half so gay a song from any bird— Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow. All for love of that sweet face below, Dimpled o'er with smiles.
And the while the bonny bird did pour His full heart out freely o'er and o'er 'Neath the morning skies. In the little childish heart below All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine forth in happy overflow From the blue, bright eyes.
Down the dell she tripped and through the glade, Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, And from out the tree Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear,— While bold blackbird piped that all might hear— "Little Bell," piped he.
Little Bell sat down amid the fern— "Squirrel, to your task return— Bring me nuts," quoth she. Up, away the frisky squirrel hies— Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes— And adown the tree, Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, In the little lap dropped one by one— Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun! "Happy Bell," pipes he.
Little Bell looked up and down the glade— "Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid, Come and share with me!" Down came squirrel eager for his fare— Down came bonny blackbird I declare; Little Bell gave each his honest share— Ah the merry three! And the while these frolic playmates twain Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine out in happy overflow From her blue, bright eyes.
By her snow-white cot at close of day, Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray— Very calm and clear Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, In blue heaven, an angel shape serene Paused awhile to hear— "What good child is this," the angel said, "That, with happy heart, beside her bed Prays so lovingly?" Low and soft, oh! very low and soft, Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, "Bell, dear Bell!" crooned he.
"Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care; Child, thy bed shall be Folded safe from harm—Love deep and kind Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee!"
Thomas Westwood [1814?-1888]
Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy,— I was once a barefoot boy! Prince thou art,—the grown-up man Only is republican. Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye,— Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans! For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy,— Blessings on the barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides! Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
Oh for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread; Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil: Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]
Thee rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
The rich man's son inherits cares; The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy-chair; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit, King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labor sings; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit? A patience learned of being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.
O rich man's son! there is a toil That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten, soft white hands; This is the best crop from thy lands, A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee.
O poor man's son! scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee.
Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; Both, children of the same dear God, Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well-filled past; A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.
James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]
Or Some Irregularities In A First Lesson In Geography
When Letty had scarce passed her third glad year, And her young artless words began to flow, One day we gave the child a colored sphere Of the wide Earth, that she might mark and know, By tint and outline, all its sea and land. She patted all the world; old Empires peeped Between her baby fingers; her soft hand Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leaped, And laughed and prattled in her world-wide bliss! But when we turned her sweet unlearned eye On our own Isle, she raised a joyous cry,— "O yes! I see it, Letty's home is there!" And while she hid all England with a kiss, Bright over Europe fell her golden hair.
Charles Tennyson Turner [1808-1879]
"Sylvia, hush!" I said, "come here, Come see a fairy-tale, my dear! Tales told are good, tales seen are best!" The dove was brooding on the nest In the lowest crotch of the apple tree. I lifted her up so quietly, That when she could have touched the bird The soft gray creature had not stirred. It looked at us with a wild dark eye. But, "Birdie, fly!" was Sylvia's cry, Impatient Sylvia, "Birdie, fly." Ah, well: but when I touched the nest, The child recoiled upon my breast. Was ever such a startling thing? Sudden silver and purple wing, The dove was out, away, across, Struggling heart-break on the grass. And there in the cup within the tree Two milk-white eggs were ours to see. Was ever thing so pretty? Alack, "Birdie!" Sylvia cried, "come back!"
Joseph Russell Taylor [1868-1933]
I lay upon the summer grass. A gold-haired, sunny child came by, And looked at me, as loath to pass, With questions in her lingering eye.
She stopped and wavered, then drew near, (Ah! the pale gold around her head!) And o'er my shoulder stopped to peer. "Why do you read?" she said.
"I read a poet of old time, Who sang through all his living hours— Beauty of earth—the streams, the flowers— And stars, more lovely than his rhyme.
"And now I read him, since men go, Forgetful of these sweetest things; Since he and I love brooks that flow, And dawns, and bees, and flash of wings!"
She stared at me with laughing look, Then clasped her hands upon my knees: "How strange to read it in a book! I could have told you all of these!"
Arthur Davison Ficke [1883-
You taught me ways of gracefulness and fashions of address, The mode of plucking pansies and the art of sowing cress, And how to handle puppies, with propitiatory pats For mother dogs, and little acts of courtesy to cats.
O connoisseur of pebbles, colored leaves and trickling rills, Whom seasons fit as do the sheaths that wrap the daffodils, Whose eyes' divine expectancy foretells some starry goal, You taught me here docility—and how to save my soul.
Helen Parry Eden [18
Her eyes are like forget-me-nots, So loving, kind and true; Her lips are like a pink sea-shell Just as the sun shines through; Her hair is like the waving grain In summer's golden light; And, best of all, her little soul Is, like a lily, white.
Gustav Kobbe [1857-1918]
Aged Three Years And Five Months
Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop,—first let me kiss away that tear!) Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite, With spirits feather-light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin,— (My dear, the child is swallowing a pin!)
Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air,— (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents,—(Drat the boy! There goes my ink!)
Thou cherub,—but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him, if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny.— (Another tumble! That's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are these torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,— (He's got a knife!)
Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball, bestride the stick,— (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk! (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)
Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the South,— (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,— (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove;— (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write unless he's sent above.)
Thomas Hood [1799-1845]
I write. He sits beside my chair, And scribbles, too, in hushed delight, He dips his pen in charmed air: What is it he pretends to write?
He toils and toils; the paper gives No clue to aught he thinks. What then? His little heart is glad; he lives The poems that he cannot pen.
Strange fancies throng that baby brain. What grave, sweet looks! What earnest eyes! He stops—reflects—and now again His unrecording pen he plies.
It seems a satire on myself,— These dreamy nothings scrawled in air, This thought, this work! Oh tricksy elf, Wouldst drive thy father to despair?
Despair! Ah, no; the heart, the mind Persists in hoping,—schemes and strives That there may linger with our kind Some memory of our little lives.
Beneath his rock in the early world Smiling the naked hunter lay, And sketched on horn the spear he hurled, The urus which he made his prey.
Like him I strive in hope my rhymes May keep my name a little while,— O child, who knows how many times We two have made the angels smile!
William Canton [1845-
Bright be the skies that cover thee, Child of the sunny brow,— Bright as the dream flung over thee By all that meets thee now,— Thy heart is beating joyously, Thy voice is like a bird's, And sweetly breaks the melody Of thy imperfect words. I know no fount that gushes out As gladly as thy tiny shout.
I would that thou might'st ever be As beautiful as now, That time might ever leave as free Thy yet unwritten brow. I would life were all poetry To gentle measure set, That naught but chastened melody Might stain thine eye of jet, Nor one discordant note be spoken, Till God the cunning harp hath broken.
I would—but deeper things than these With woman's lot are wove: Wrought of intensest sympathies, And nerved by purest love; By the strong spirit's discipline, By the fierce wrong forgiven, By all that wrings the heart of sin, Is woman won to heaven. "Her lot is on thee," lovely child— God keep thy spirit undefiled!
I fear thy gentle loveliness, Thy witching tone and air, Thine eye's beseeching earnestness May be to thee a snare. The silver stars may purely shine, The waters taintless flow: But they who kneel at woman's shrine Breathe on it as they bow. Peace may fling back the gift again, But the crushed flower will leave a stain.
What shall preserve thee, beautiful child? Keep thee as thou art now? Bring thee, a spirit undefiled, At God's pure throne to bow? The world is but a broken reed, And life grows early dim— Who shall be near thee in thy need, To lead thee up to Him? He who himself was "undefiled?" With Him we trust thee, beautiful child!
Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]
Rose, when I remember you, Little lady, scarcely two, I am suddenly aware Of the angels in the air. All your softly gracious ways Make an island in my days Where my thoughts fly back to be Sheltered from too strong a sea. All your luminous delight Shines before me in the night When I grope for sleep and find Only shadows in my mind.
Rose, when I remember you, White and glowing, pink and new, With so swift a sense of fun Although life has just begun; With so sure a pride of place In your very infant face, I should like to make a prayer To the angels in the air: "If an angel ever brings Me a baby in her wings, Please be certain that it grows Very, very much like Rose."
Sara Teasdale [1884-1933]
Timely blossom, Infant fair, Fondling of a happy pair, Every morn and every night Their solicitous delight, Sleeping, waking, still at ease, Pleasing, without skill to please; Little gossip, blithe and hale, Tattling many a broken tale, Singing many a tuneless song, Lavish of a heedless tongue; Simple maiden, void of art, Babbling out the very heart, Yet abandoned to thy will, Yet imagining no ill, Yet too innocent to blush; Like the linnet in the bush To the mother-linnet's note Moduling her slender throat; Chirping forth thy pretty joys, Wanton in the change of toys, Like the linnet green, in May Flitting to each bloomy spray; Wearied then and glad of rest, Like the linnet in the nest:— This thy present happy lot, This, in time will be forgot: Other pleasures, other cares, Ever-busy Time prepares; And thou shalt in thy daughter see, This picture, once, resembled thee.
Ambrose Philips [1675?-1749]
See with what simplicity This nymph begins her golden days! In the green grass she loves to lie, And there with her fair aspect tames The wilder flowers, and gives them names; But only with the roses plays, And them does tell What color best becomes them, and what smell.
Who can foretell for what high cause This darling of the gods was born? Yet this is she whose chaster laws The wanton Love shall one day fear, And, under her command severe, See his bow broke, and ensigns torn. Happy who can Appease this virtuous enemy of man!
O then let me in time compound And parley with those conquering eyes, Ere they have tried their force to wound, Ere with their glancing wheels they drive In triumph over hearts that strive, And them that yield but more despise: Let me be laid Where I may see the glories from some shade.
Meantime, whilst every verdant thing Itself does at thy beauty charm, Reform the errors of the Spring; Make that the tulips may have share Of sweetness, seeing they are fair, And roses of their thorns disarm But most procure That violets may a longer age endure.
But O young beauty of the woods, Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers, Gather the flowers, but spare the buds; Lest Flora, angry at thy crime To kill her infants in their prime, Do quickly make the example yours; And, ere we see, Nip, in the blossom, all our hopes and thee.
Andrew Marvell [1621-1678]
Six Years Old
O thou! whose fancies from afar are brought: Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, And fittest to unutterable thought The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol; Thou fairy voyager! that dost float In such clear water, that thy boat May rather seem To brood on air than on an earthly stream; Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, Where earth and heaven do make one imagery: O blessed vision! happy child! Thou art so exquisitely wild, I think of thee with many fears For what may be thy lot in future years. I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, Lord of thy house and hospitality; And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest But when she sate within the touch of thee. O too industrious folly! O vain and causeless melancholy! Nature will either end thee quite; Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, Preserve for thee, by individual right, A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. What hast thou to do with sorrow, Or the injuries of to-morrow? Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, Ill-fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, Or to be trailed along the soiling earth; A gem that glitters while it lives, And no forewarning gives; But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife, Slips in a moment out of life.
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
Five Years Old, 1704, The Author Then Forty
Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, Were summoned by her high command To show their passions by their letters.
My pen amongst the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read, Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed.
Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbids me yet my flame to tell; Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion, And I may write till she can spell.
For, while she makes her silkworms' beds With all the tender things I swear; Whilst all the house my passion reads, In papers round her baby's hair;
She may receive and own my flame; For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet.
Then too, alas! when she shall tear The rhymes some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends.
For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!), That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it.
Matthew Prior [1664-1721]
Little Jesus, wast Thou shy Once, and just so small as I? And what did it feel like to be Out of Heaven, and just like me? Didst Thou sometimes think of there, And ask where all the angels were? I should think that I would cry For my house all made of sky; I would look about the air, And wonder where my angels were; And at waking 'twould distress me— Not an angel there to dress me!
Hadst Thou ever any toys, Like us little girls and boys? And didst Thou play in Heaven with all The angels, that were not too tall, With stars for marbles? Did the things Play Can you see me? through their wings?
Didst Thou kneel at night to pray, And didst Thou join Thy hands, this way? And did they tire sometimes, being young, And make the prayer seem very long? And dost Thou like it best, that we Should join our hands to pray to Thee? I used to think, before I knew, The prayer not said unless we do. And did Thy Mother at the night Kiss Thee, and fold the clothes in right? And didst Thou feel quite good in bed, Kissed, and sweet, and Thy prayers said?
Thou canst not have forgotten all That it feels like to be small: And Thou know'st I cannot pray To Thee in my father's way— When Thou wast so little, say, Could'st Thou talk Thy Father's way?— So, a little Child, come down And hear a child's tongue like Thy own;
Take me by the hand and walk, And listen to my baby-talk. To Thy Father show my prayer (He will look, Thou art so fair), And say: "O Father, I, Thy Son, Bring the prayer of a little one."
And He will smile, that children's tongue Has not changed since Thou wast young!
Francis Thompson [1859-1907]
Finding Francesca full of tears, I said, "Tell me thy trouble." "Oh, my dog is dead! Murdered by poison!—no one knows for what!— Was ever dog born capable of that?" "Child,"—I began to say, but checked my thought,— "A better dog can easily be bought." For no—what animal could him replace? Those loving eyes! That fond, confiding face! Those dear, dumb touches! Therefore I was dumb. From word of mine could any comfort come? A bitter sorrow 'tis to lose a brute Friend, dog or horse, for grief must then be mute,— So many smile to see the rivers shed Of tears for one poor, speechless creature dead. When parents die there's many a word to say— Kind words, consoling—one can always pray; When children die 'tis natural to tell Their mother, "Certainly, with them 'tis well!" But for a dog, 'twas all the life he had, Since death is end of dogs, or good or bad. This was his world; he was contented here; Imagined nothing better, naught more dear, Than his young mistress; sought no brighter sphere; Having no sin, asked not to be forgiven; Ne'er guessed at God nor ever dreamed of heaven. Now he has passed away, so much of love Goes from our life, without one hope above! When a dog dies there's nothing to be said But—kiss me, darling!—dear old Smiler's dead.
Thomas William Parsons [1819-1892]
On, there are those, a sordid clan, With pride in gaud and faith in gold, Who prize the sacred soul of man For what his hands have sold.
And these shall deem thee humbly bred: They shall not hear, they shall not see The kings among the lordly dead Who walk and talk with thee!
A tattered cloak may be thy dole, And thine the roof that Jesus had: The broidered garment of the soul Shall keep thee purple-clad!
The blood of men hath dyed its brede, And it was wrought by holy seers With sombre dream and golden deed, And pearled with women's tears.
With Eld thy chain of days is one: The seas are still Homeric seas; Thy skies shall glow with Pindar's sun, The stars of Socrates!
Unaged the ancient tide shall surge, The old Spring burn along the bough: For thee, new and old converge In one eternal Now!
I give thy feet the hopeful sod, Thy mouth, the priceless boon of breath; The glory of the search for God Be thine in life and death!
Unto thy flesh, the soothing dust; Thy soul, the gift of being free: The torch my fathers gave in trust, Thy father gives to thee!
John G. Neihardt [1881-
A public haunt they found her in: She lay asleep, a lovely child; The only thing left undefiled Where all things else bore taint of sin.
Her supple outlines fixed in clay The universal law suspend, And turn Time's chariot back, and blend A thousand years with yesterday.
A sinless touch, austere yet warm, Around her girlish figure pressed, Caught the sweet imprint of her breast, And held her, surely clasped, from harm.
Truer than work of sculptor's art Comes this dear maid of long ago, Sheltered from woeful chance, to show A spirit's lovely counterpart,
And bid mistrustful men be sure That form shall fate of flesh escape, And, quit of earth's corruptions, shape Itself, imperishably pure.
Edward Sandford Martin [1856-
Tired of play! Tired of play! What hast thou done this live-long day! The bird is silent and so is the bee, The shadow is creeping up steeple and tree; The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves; Twilight gathers, and day is done,— How hast thou spent it, restless one?
Playing! And what hast thou done beside To tell thy mother at eventide? What promise of morn is left unbroken? What kind word to thy playmate spoken? Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven? How with thy faults has duty striven? What hast thou learned by field and hill, By greenwood path and by singing rill?
There will come an eve to a longer day That will find thee tired,—but not with play! And thou wilt learn, as thou learnest now, With wearied limbs and aching brow, And wish the shadows would faster creep And long to go to thy quiet sleep.
Well will it be for thee then if thou Art as free from sin and shame as now! Well for thee if thy tongue can tell A tale like this, of a day spent well! If thine open hand hath relieved distress, And thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness— If thou hast forgiven the sore offence And humbled thy heart with penitence;
If Nature's voices have spoken to thee With her holy meanings, eloquently— If every creature hath won thy love, From the creeping worm to the brooding dove— If never a sad, low-spoken word Hath plead with thy human heart unheard— Then, when the night steals on, as now It will bring relief to thine aching brow, And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest, Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.
Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.
'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade: The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colors have all passed away from her eyes!
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
Sometimes wind and sometimes rain, Then the sun comes back again; Sometimes rain and sometimes snow, Goodness, how we'd like to know Why the weather alters so.
When the weather's really good We go nutting in the wood; When it rains we stay at home, And then sometimes other some Of the neighbors' children come.
Sometimes we have jam and meat, All the things we like to eat; Sometimes we make do with bread And potatoes boiled instead. Once when we were put to bed We had nowt and mother cried, But that was after father died.
So, sometimes wind and sometimes rain, Then the sun comes back again; Sometimes rain and sometimes snow, Goodness, how we'd like to know If things will always alter so.
Ford Madox Ford [1873-
When a' other bairnies are hushed to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'? 'Tis the puir doited loonie,—the mitherless bairn!
The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed; Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn.
Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e na the locks o' the mitherless bairn!
Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.
Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth, Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth; Recording in heaven the blessings they earn Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!
O, speak him na harshly,—he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile; In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn That God deals the blow, for the mitherless bairn!
William Thom [1798?-1848]
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west— But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free.
Do you question the young children in the sorrow, Why their tears are falling so? The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago; The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost, The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, The old hope is hardest to be lost: But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, In our happy Fatherland?
They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see, For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy; "Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary; Our young feet" they say, "are very weak; Few paces have we taken, yet are weary— Our grave-rest is very far to seek: Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children For the outside earth is cold, And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old.
"True," say the children, "it may happen That we die before our time: Little Alice died last year—her grave is shapen Like a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her: Was no room for any work in the close clay! From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.' If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries; Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, For the smile has time for growing in her eyes: And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in The shroud by the kirk-chime. It is good when it happens," say the children, "That we die before our time."
Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking Death in life, as best to have! They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city, Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do; Pluck your handfuls of the meadow cowslips pretty; Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through! But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds anear the mine? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, From your pleasures fair and fine!
"For oh," say the children, "we are weary, And we cannot run or leap; If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, We fall upon our faces, trying to go; And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For, all day, we drag our burden tiring, Through the coal-dark, underground; Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round.
"For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning; Their wind comes in our faces, Till our hearts turn, our heads, with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places: Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling, Turns the long light that drops adown the wall, Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling: All are turning, all the day, and we with all. And all day, the iron wheels are droning; And sometimes we could pray, 'O ye wheels, (breaking out in a mad moaning) 'Stop! be silent for to-day!'"
Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth! Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals: Let them prove their living souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, O wheels! Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark.
Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, To look up to Him and pray; So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others, Will bless them another day. They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us, While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word! And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door: Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, Hears our weeping any more?
"Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, And at midnight's hour of harm, 'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, We say softly for a charm. We know no other words except 'Our Father,' And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, And hold both within his right hand which is strong. 'Our Father!' If He heard us, He would surely (For they call Him good and mild) Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, 'Come and rest with me, my child.'
"But no!" say the children, weeping faster, "He is speechless as a stone; And they tell us, of His image is the master Who commands us to work on. Go to!" say the children,—"Up in Heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving: We look up for God, but tears have made us blind." Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, O my brothers, what ye preach? For God's possible is taught by His world's loving, And the children doubt of each.
And well may the children weep before you! They are weary ere they run; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun. They know the grief of man, without its wisdom; They sink in man's despair, without its calm; Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm: Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly The harvest of its memories cannot reap,— Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly. Let them weep! let them weep!
They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, And their look is dread to see, For they mind you of their angels in high places, With eyes turned on Deity. "How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,— Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper, And your purple shows your path; But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper Than the strong man in his wrath!"
Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]
Why do the wheels go whirring round, Mother, mother? Oh, mother, are they giants bound, And will they growl forever? Yes, fiery giants underground, Daughter, little daughter, Forever turn the wheels around, And rumble-grumble ever.
Why do I pick the threads all day, Mother, mother? While sunshine children are at play? And must I work forever? Yes, shadow-child; the live-long day, Daughter, little daughter, Your hands must pick the threads away, And feel the sunshine never.
Why do the birds sing in the sun, Mother, mother? If all day long I run and run, Run with the wheels forever? The birds may sing till day is done, Daughter, little daughter, But with the wheels your feet must run— Run with the wheels forever.
Why do I feel so tired each night, Mother, mother? The wheels are always buzzing bright; Do they grow sleepy never? Oh, baby thing, so soft and white, Daughter, little daughter, The big wheels grind us in their might, And they will grind forever.
And is the white thread never spun, Mother, mother? And is the white cloth never done, For you and me done never? Oh, yes, our thread will all be spun, Daughter, little daughter, When we lie down out in the sun, And work no more forever.
And when will come that happy day, Mother, mother? Oh, shall we laugh and sing and play Out in the sun forever? Nay, shadow-child, we'll rest all day, Daughter, little daughter, Where green grass grows and roses gay, There in the sun forever.
Harriet Monroe [1860-1936]
Mother wept, and father sighed; With delight aglow Cried the lad, "To-morrow," cried, "To the pit I go."
Up and down the place he sped,— Greeted old and young; Far and wide the tidings spread; Clapt his hands and sung.
Came his cronies; some to gaze Wrapped in wonder; some Free with counsel; some with praise: Some with envy dumb.
"May he," many a gossip cried, "Be from peril kept." Father hid his face and sighed, Mother turned and wept.
Joseph Skipsey [1832-1903]
So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is God to man, When Duty whispers low, "Thou must," The youth replies, "I can."
Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]
Or Solitude
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see, at break of day, The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen.
"To-night will be a stormy night,— You to the town must go; And take a lantern, Child, to light Your mother through the snow."
"That, Father, will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon,— The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon!"
At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a fagot-brand. He plied his work;—and Lucy took The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down: And many a hill did Lucy climb: But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide.
At daybreak on the hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door.
They wept,—and, turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet;" When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small: And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, And by the low stone-wall;
And then an open field they crossed— The marks were still the same— They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none!
—Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
Emmie
Our doctor had called in another, I never had seen him before, But he sent a chill to my heart when I saw him come in at the door, Fresh from the surgery-schools of France and of other lands— Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, big merciless hands! Wonderful cures he had done, O yes, but they said too of him He was happier using the knife than in trying to save the limb, And that I can well believe, for he looked so coarse and so red, I could think he was one of those who would break their jests on the dead, And mangle the living dog that had loved him and fawned at his knee— Drenched with the hellish oorali—that ever such things should be!
Here was a boy—I am sure that some of our children would die But for the voice of love, and the smile, and the comforting eye— Here was a boy in the ward, every bone seemed out of its place— Caught in a mill and crushed—it was all but a hopeless case: And he handled him gently enough; but his voice and his face were not kind, And it was but a hopeless case, he had seen it and made up his mind, And he said to me roughly "The lad will need little more of your care." "All the more need," I told him, "to seek the Lord Jesus in prayer; They are all His children here, and I pray for them all as my own:" But he turned to me, "Ay, good woman, can prayer set a broken bone?" Then he muttered half to himself, but I know that I heard him say, "All very well—but the good Lord Jesus has had his day."
Had? has it come? It has only dawned. It will come by and by. O, how could I serve in the wards if the hope of the world were a lie? How could I bear with the sights and the loathsome smells of disease But that He said "Ye do it to me, when ye do it to these"?
So he went. And we passed to this ward where the younger children are laid: Here is the cot of our orphan, our darling, our meek little maid; Empty you see just now! We have lost her who loved her so much— Patient of pain though as quick as a sensitive plant to the touch; Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often moved me to tears, Hers was the gratefullest heart I have found in a child of her years— Nay you remember our Emmie; you used to send her the flowers; How she would smile at 'em, play with 'em, talk to 'em hours after hours!
They that can wander at will where the works of the Lord are revealed Little guess what joy can be got from a cowslip out of the field; Flowers to these "spirits in prison" are all they can know of the spring, They freshen and sweeten the wards like the waft of an angel's wing; And she lay with a flower in one hand and her thin hands crossed on her breast— Wan, but as pretty as heart can desire, and we thought her at rest, Quietly sleeping—so quiet, our doctor said, "Poor little dear, Nurse, I must do it to-morrow; she'll never live through it, I fear."
I walked with our kindly old doctor as far as the head of the stair, Then I returned to the ward; the child didn't see I was there.
Never since I was nurse, had I been so grieved and so vexed! Emmie had heard him. Softly she called from her cot to the next, "He says I shall never live through it; O Annie, what shall I do?" Annie considered. "If I," said the wise little Annie, "was you, I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to help me, for, Emmie, you see, It's all in the picture there: 'Little children should come to Me.'"— (Meaning the print that you gave us, I find that it always can please Our children, the dear Lord Jesus with children about His knees.) "Yes, and I will," said Emmie, "but then if I call to the Lord, How should He know that it's me? such a lot of beds in the ward?" That was a puzzle for Annie. Again she considered and said: "Emmie, you put out your arms, and you leave 'em outside on the bed— The Lord has so much to see to! but, Emmie, you tell it Him plain, It's the little girl with her arms lying out on the counterpane."
I had sat three nights by the child—I could not watch her for four— My brain had begun to reel—I felt I could do it no more. That was my sleeping-night, but I thought that it never would pass. There was a thunderclap once, and a clatter of hail on the glass, And there was a phantom cry that I heard as I tossed about, The motherless bleat of a lamb in the storm and the darkness without; My sleep was broken besides with dreams of the dreadful knife And fears for our delicate Emmie who scarce would escape with her life; Then in the gray of the morning it seemed she stood by me and smiled, And the doctor came at his hour, and we went to see the child.
He had brought his ghastly tools: we believed her asleep again— Her dear, long, lean, little arms lying out on the counterpane;— Say that His day is done! Ah, why should we care what they say? The Lord of the children had heard her, and Emmie had passed away.
Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]
"If I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!" The dear lips quivered as they spake, And the tears brake From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled. Poor Child, poor Child! I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song. It is not true that Love will do no wrong. Poor Child! And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, And of those words your full avengers make? Poor Child, poor Child! And now, unless it be That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, O God, have Thou no mercy upon me! Poor Child!
Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]
My little Son, who looked from thoughtful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobeyed, I struck him, and dismissed With hard words and unkissed, —His Mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-veined stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach, And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells, And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I prayed To God, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, "I will be sorry for their childishness."
Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]
Oh, to come home once more, when the dusk is falling, To see the nursery lighted and the children's table spread; "Mother, mother, mother!" the eager voices calling, "The baby was so sleepy that he had to go to bed!"
Oh, to come home once more, and see the smiling faces, Dark head, bright head, clustered at the pane; Much the years have taken, when the heart its path retraces, But until time is not for me, the image will remain.
Men and women now they are, standing straight and steady, Grave heart, gay heart, fit for life's emprise; Shoulder set to shoulder, how should they be but ready! The future shines before them with the light of their own eyes.
Still each answers to my call; no good has been denied me, My burdens have been fitted to the little strength that's mine, Beauty, pride and peace have walked by day beside me, The evening closes gently in, and how can I repine?
But oh, to see once more, when the early dusk is falling, The nursery windows glowing and the children's table spread; "Mother, mother, mother!" the high child voices calling, "He couldn't stay awake for you, he had to go to bed!"
Unknown
The little toy dog is covered with dust, But sturdy and stanch he stands; And the little toy soldier is red with rust, And his musket moulds in his hands. Time was when the little toy dog was new, And the soldier was passing fair; And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there.
"Now, don't you go till I come," he said, "And don't you make any noise!" So, toddling off to his trundle-bed, He dreamt of the pretty toys; And, as he was dreaming, an angel song Awakened our Little Boy Blue— Oh! the years are many, the years are long, But the little toy friends are true!
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Each in the same old place, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face; And they wonder, as waiting the long years through In the dust of that little chair, What has become of our Little Boy Blue, Since he kissed them and put them there.
Eugene Field [1850-1895]
I have a little kinsman Whose earthly summers are but three, And yet a voyager is he Greater then Drake or Frobisher, Than all their peers together! He is a brave discoverer, And, far beyond the tether Of them who seek the frozen Pole, Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll. Ay, he has travelled whither A winged pilot steered his bark Through the portals of the dark, Past hoary Mimir's well and tree, Across the unknown sea.
Suddenly, in his fair young hour, Came one who bore a flower, And laid it in his dimpled hand With this command: "Henceforth thou art a rover! Thou must make a voyage far, Sail beneath the evening star, And a wondrous land discover." —With his sweet smile innocent Our little kinsman went.
Since that time no word From the absent has been heard. Who can tell How he fares, or answer well What the little one has found Since he left us, outward bound? Would that he might return! Then should we learn From the pricking of his chart How the skyey roadways part. Hush! does not the baby this way bring, To lay beside this severed curl, Some starry offering Of chrysolite or pearl?
Ah, no! not so! We may follow on his track, But he comes not back. And yet I dare aver He is a brave discoverer Of climes his elders do not know. He has more learning than appears On the scroll of twice three thousand years, More than in the groves is taught, Or from furthest Indies brought; He knows, perchance, how spirits fare,— What shapes the angels wear, What is their guise and speech In those lands beyond our reach,— And his eyes behold Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told.
Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]
My little Madchen found one day A curious something in her play, That was not fruit, nor flower, nor seed; It was not anything that grew, Or crept, or climbed, or swam, or flew; Had neither legs nor wings, indeed; And yet she was not sure, she said, Whether it was alive or dead.
She brought in her tiny hand To see if I would understand, And wondered when I made reply, "You've found a baby butterfly." "A butterfly is not like this," With doubtful look she answered me. So then I told her what would be Some day within the chrysalis; How, slowly, in the dull brown thing Now still as death, a spotted wing, And then another, would unfold, Till from the empty shell would fly A pretty creature, by and by, All radiant in blue and gold.
"And will it, truly?" questioned she— Her laughing lips and eager eyes All in a sparkle of surprise— "And shall your little Madchen see?" "She shall! I said. How could I tell That ere the worm within its shell Its gauzy, splendid wings had spread, My little Madchen would be dead?
To-day the butterfly has flown,— She was not here to see it fly,— And sorrowing I wonder why The empty shell is mine alone. Perhaps the secret lies in this: I too had found a chrysalis, And Death that robbed me of delight Was but the radiant creature's flight!
Mary Emily Bradley [1835-1898]
I'd a dream to-night As I fell asleep, O! the touching sight Makes me still to weep: Of my little lad, Gone to leave me sad, Ay, the child I had, But was not to keep.
As in heaven high, I my child did seek, There in train came by Children fair and meek, Each in lily white, With a lamp alight; Each was clear to sight, But they did not speak.
Then, a little sad, Came my child in turn, But the lamp he had, O it did not burn! He, to clear my doubt, Said, half-turned about, "Your tears put it out; Mother, never mourn."
William Barnes [1801-1886]
The stars began to peep Gone was the bitter day. She heard the milky ewes Bleat to their lambs astray. Her heart cried for her lamb Lapped cold in the churchyard sod, She could not think on the happy children At play with the Lamb of God.
She heard the calling ewes And the lambs' answer, alas! She heard her heart's blood drip in the night As the ewes' milk on the grass. Her tears that burnt like fire So bitter and slow ran down She could not think on the new-washed children Playing by Mary's gown.
Oh who is this comes in Over her threshold stone? And why is the old dog wild with joy Who all day long made moan? This fair little radiant ghost, Her one little son of seven, New 'scaped from the band of merry children In the nurseries of Heaven.
He was all clad in white Without a speck or stain; His curls had a ring of light That rose and fell again. "Now come with me, my own mother, And you shall have great ease, For you shall see the lost children Gathered to Mary's knees."
Oh, lightly sprang she up Nor waked her sleeping man, And hand in hand with the little ghost Through the dark night she ran. She is gone swift as a fawn, As a bird homes to its nest, She has seen them lie, the sleepy children Twixt Mary's arm and breast.
At morning she came back; Her eyes were strange to see. She will not fear the long journey, However long it be. As she goes in and out She sings unto hersel'; For she has seen the mothers' children And knows that it is well.
Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931]
The night throbs on; O, let me pray, dear lad! Crush off his name a moment from my mouth. To Thee my eyes would turn, but they go back, Back to my arm beside me, where he lay— So little, Lord, so little and so warm!
I cannot think that Thou hadst need of him! He was so little, Lord, he cannot sing, He cannot praise Thee; all his life had learned Was to hold fast my kisses in the night.
Give him to me—he is not happy there! He had not felt this life; his lovely eyes Just knew me for his mother, and he died.
Hast Thou an angel there to mother him? I say he loves me best—if he forgets, If Thou allow it that my child forgets And runs not out to meet me when I come—
What are my curses to Thee? Thou hast heard The curse of Abel's mother, and since then We have not ceased to threaten at Thy throne, To threat and pray Thee that Thou hold them still In memory of us.
See Thou tend him well, Thou God of all the mothers. If he lack One of his kisses—ah, my heart, my heart, Do angels kiss in heaven? Give him back!
Forgive me, Lord, but I am sick with grief, And tired of tears, and cold to comforting. Thou art wise, I know, and tender, aye, and good, Thou hast my child, and he is safe in Thee, And I believe—
Ah, God, my child shall go Orphaned among the angels! All alone. So little and alone! He knows not Thee, He only knows his mother—give him back.
Josephine Daskam Bacon [1876-
The good Lord gave, the Lord has taken from me, Blessed be His name, His holy will be done. The mourners all have gone, all save I, his mother, The little grave lies lonely in the sun.
Nay! I would not follow, though they did beseech me, For the angels come now waiting for my dead. Heaven's door is open, so my whispers soar there, While the gentle angels lift him from his bed.
Oh Lord, when Thou gavest he was weak and helpless, Could not rise nor wander from my shielding arm; Lovely is he now and strong with four sweet summers, Laughing, running, tumbling, hard to keep from harm.
If some tender mother, whose babe on earth is living, Takes his little hand to guide his stranger feet 'Mid the countless hosts that cross the floor of heaven, Thou wilt not reprove her for Thy pity sweet.
If upon her breast she holds his baby beauty, All his golden hair will fall about her hand, Laughing let her fingers pull it into ringlets— Long and lovely ringlets. She will understand.
Wilful are his ways and full of merry mischief; If he prove unruly, lay the blame on me. Never did I chide him for his noise or riot, Smiled upon his folly, glad his joy to see.
Each eve shall I come beside his bed so lowly; "Hush-a-by, my baby," softly shall I sing, So, if he be frightened, full of sleep and anger, The song he loved shall reach him and sure comfort bring.
Lord, if in my praying, Thou shouldst hear me weeping, Ever was I wayward, always full of tears, Take no heed of this grief. Sweet the gift Thou gavest All the cherished treasure of those golden years.
Do not, therefore, hold me to Thy will ungrateful: Soon I shall stand upright, smiling, strong, and brave, With a son in heaven the sad earth forgetting, But 'tis lonely yet, Lord, by the little grave. Oh, 'tis lonely, lonely, by the little grave!
Dora Sigerson Shorter [1862-1918]
Da spreeng ees com'; but oh, da joy Eet ees too late! He was so cold, my leetla boy, He no could wait.
I no can count how manny week, How manny day, dat he ees seeck; How manny night I seet an' hold Da leetla hand dat was so cold. He was so patience, oh, so sweet! Eet hurts my throat for theenk of eet; An' all he evra ask ees w'en Ees gona com' da spreeng agen. Wan day, wan brighta sunny day, He see, across da alleyway, Da leetla girl dat's livin' dere Ees raise her window for da air, An' put outside a leetla pot Of—w'at-you-call?—forgat-me-not. So smalla flower, so leetla theeng! But steell eet mak' hees hearta seeng: "Oh, now, at las', ees com' da spreeng! Da leetla plant ees glad for know Da sun ees com' for mak' eet grow. So, too, I am grow warm and strong." So lika dat he seeng hees song. But, ah! da night com' down an' den Da weenter ees sneak back agen, An' een da alley all da night Ees fall da snow, so cold, so white, An' cover up da leetla pot Of—w'at-you-call?—forgat-me-not. All night da leetla hand I hold Ees grow so cold, so cold, so cold!
Da spreeng ees com'; but, oh, da joy Eet ees too late! He was so cold, my leetla boy, He no could wait.
Thomas Augustin Daly [1871-
I I met a child upon the moor A-wading down the heather; She put her hand into my own, We crossed the fields together.
I led her to her father's door— A cottage midst the clover. I left her—and the world grew poor To me, a childless rover.
II I met a maid upon the moor, The morrow was her wedding. Love lit her eyes with lovelier hues Than the eve-star was shedding.
She looked a sweet good-bye to me, And o'er the stile went singing. Down all the lonely night I heard But bridal bells a-ringing.
III I met a mother on the moor, By a new grave a-praying. The happy swallows in the blue Upon the winds were playing.
"Would I were in his grave," I said, "And he beside her standing!" There was no heart to break if death For me had made demanding.
Cale Young Rice [1872-
Here doth Dionysia lie: She whose little wanton foot, Tripping (ah, too carelessly!) Touched this tomb, and fell into 't.
Trip no more shall she, nor fall. And her trippings were so few! Summers only eight in all Had the sweet child wandered through.
But, already, life's few suns Love's strong seeds had ripened warm. All her ways were winning ones; All her cunning was to charm.
And the fancy, in the flower, While the flesh was in the bud, Childhood's dawning sex did dower With warm gusts of womanhood.
Oh what joys by hope begun, Oh what kisses kissed by thought, What love-deeds by fancy done, Death to endless dust hath wrought!
Had the fates been kind as thou, Who, till now, was never cold, Once Love's aptest scholar, now Thou hadst been his teacher bold;
But, if buried seeds upthrow Fruits and flowers; if flower and fruit By their nature fitly show What the seeds are, whence they shoot,
Dionysia, o'er this tomb, Where thy buried beauties be, From their dust shall spring and bloom Loves and graces like to thee.
Unknown
The night is late, the house is still; The angels of the hour fulfil Their tender ministries, and move From couch to couch in cares of love. They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife, The happiest smile of Charlie's life, And lay on baby's lips a kiss, Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss; And, as they pass, they seem to make A strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake."
My listening heart takes up the strain, And gives it to the night again, Fitted with words of lowly praise, And patience learned of mournful days, And memories of the dead child's ways. His will be done, His will be done! Who gave and took away my son, In "the far land" to shine and sing Before the Beautiful, the King, Who every day doth Christmas make, All starred and belled for Charlie's sake.
For Charlie's sake I will arise; I will anoint me where he lies, And change my raiment, and go in To the Lord's house, and leave my sin Without, and seat me at his board, Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord. For wherefore should I fast and weep, And sullen moods of mourning keep? I cannot bring him back, nor he, For any calling, come to me. The bond the angel Death did sign, God sealed—for Charlie's sake, and mine.
I'm very poor—this slender stone Marks all the narrow field I own; Yet, patient husbandman, I till With faith and prayers, that precious hill, Sow it with penitential pains, And, hopeful, wait the latter rains; Content if, after all, the spot Yield barely one forget-me-not— Whether or figs or thistles make My crop, content for Charlie's sake.
I have no houses, builded well— Only that little lonesome cell, Where never romping playmates come, Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb— An April burst of girls and boys, Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joys Born with their songs, gone with their toys; Nor ever is its stillness stirred By purr of cat, or chirp of bird, Or mother's twilight legend, told Of Horner's pie, or Tiddler's gold, Or fairy hobbling to the door, Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor, To bless the good child's gracious eyes, The good child's wistful charities, And crippled changeling's hunch to make Dance on his crutch, for good child's sake.
How is it with the child? 'Tis well; Nor would I any miracle Might stir my sleeper's tranquil trance, Or plague his painless countenance: I would not any seer might place His staff on my immortal's face, Or lip to lip, and eye to eye, Charm back his pale mortality. No, Shunamite! I would not break God's stillness. Let them weep who wake.
For Charlie's sake my lot is blest: No comfort like his mother's breast, No praise like hers; no charm expressed In fairest forms hath half her zest. For Charlie's sake this bird's caressed That death left lonely in the nest; For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed, As for its birthday, in its best; For Charlie's sake we leave the rest To Him who gave, and who did take, And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake.
John Williamson Palmer [1825-1906]
Each day, when the glow of sunset Fades in the western sky, And the wee ones, tired of playing, Go tripping lightly by, I steal away from my husband, Asleep in his easy-chair, And watch from the open doorway Their faces fresh and fair.
Alone in the dear old homestead That once was full of life, Ringing with girlish laughter, Echoing boyish strife, We two are waiting together; And oft, as the shadows come, With tremulous voice he calls me, "It is night! are the children home?"
"Yes, love!" I answer him gently, "They're all home long ago;"— And I sing, in my quivering treble, A song so soft and low, Till the old man drops to slumber, With his head upon his hand, And I tell to myself the number At home in the better land.
At home, where never a sorrow Shall dim their eyes with tears! Where the smile of God is on them Through all the summer years! I know,—yet my arms are empty, That fondly folded seven, And the mother-heart within me Is almost starved for heaven.
Sometimes, in the dusk of evening, I only shut my eyes, And the children are all about me, A vision from the skies: The babes whose dimpled fingers Lost the way to my breast, And the beautiful ones, the angels, Passed to the world of the blest.
With never a cloud upon them, I see their radiant brows; My boys that I gave to freedom,— The red sword sealed their vows! In a tangled Southern forest, Twin brothers bold and brave, They fell; and the flag they died for, Thank God! floats over their grave.
A breath, and the vision is lifted Away on wings of light, And again we two are together, All alone in the night. They tell me his mind is failing, But I smile at idle fears; He is only back with the children, In the dear and peaceful years.
And still, as the summer sunset Fades away in the west, And the wee ones, tired of playing, Go trooping home to rest, My husband calls from his corner, "Say, love, have the children come?" And I answer, with eyes uplifted, "Yes, dear! they are all at home."
Margaret Sangster [1838-1919]
We wreathed about our darling's head The morning-glory bright; Her little face looked out beneath, So full of life and light, So lit as with a sunrise, That we could only say, "She is the morning-glory true, And her poor types are they."
So always from that happy time We called her by their name, And very fitting did it seem— For, sure as morning came, Behind her cradle bars she smiled To catch the first faint ray, As from the trellis smiles the flower And opens to the day.
But not so beautiful they rear Their airy cups of blue, As turned her sweet eyes to the light, Brimmed with sleep's tender dew; And not so close their tendrils fine Round their supports are thrown, As those dear arms whose outstretched plea Clasped all hearts to her own.
We used to think how she had come, Even as comes the flower, The last and perfect added gift To crown Love's morning hour; And how in her was imaged forth The love we could not say, As on the little dewdrops round Shines back the heart of day.
We never could have thought, O God, That she must wither up, Almost before a day was flown, Like the morning-glory's cup; We never thought to see her droop Her fair and noble head, Till she lay stretched before our eyes, Wilted, and cold, and dead!
The morning-glory's blossoming Will soon be coming round— We see the rows of heart-shaped leaves Upspringing from the ground; The tender things the winter killed Renew again their birth, But the glory of our morning Has passed away from earth.
O Earth! in vain our aching eyes Stretch over thy green plain! Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air Her spirit to sustain; But up in groves of Paradise Full surely we shall see Our morning-glory beautiful Twine round our dear Lord's knee.
Maria White Lowell [1821-1855]
As a twig trembles, which a bird Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, So is my memory thrilled and stirred;— I only know she came and went.
As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, The blue dome's measureless content, So my soul held that moment's heaven;— I only know she came and went.
As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps The orchards full of bloom and scent, So clove her May my wintry sleeps;— I only know she came and went.
An angel stood and met my gaze, Through the low doorway of my tent; The tent is struck, the vision stays;— I only know she came and went.
Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, And life's last oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim, Only to think she came and went.
James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]
The snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, The stiff rails softened to swan's-down, And still fluttered down the snow.
I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, Like brown leaves whirling by.
I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little headstone stood; How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood.
Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?" And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below.
Again I looked at the snow-fall, And thought of the leaden sky That arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high.
I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar that renewed our woe.
And again to the child I whispered, "The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall"
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; And she, kissing back, could not know That my kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow.
James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]
A simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said: Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; —Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me.
"And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea;
"Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven—I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be."
Then did the little Maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie Beneath the church-yard tree."
"You run about, my little Maid; Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied: "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side.
"My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them.
"And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there.
"The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away.
"So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side."
"How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little Maid's reply, "O Master! we are seven."
"But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
I cannot make him dead! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair; Yet when my eyes, now dim With tears, I turn to him, The vision vanishes,—he is not there!
I walk my parlor floor, And, through the open door, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; I'm stepping toward the hall To give my boy a call; And then bethink me that—he is not there!
I thread the crowded street; A satchelled lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that—he is not there!
I know his face is hid Under the coffin-lid; Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; My hand that marble felt; O'er it in prayer I knelt; Yet my heart whispers that—he is not there!
I cannot make him dead! When passing by the bed, So long watched over with parental care, My spirit and my eye, Seek him inquiringly, Before the thought comes that—he is not there!
When, at the cool gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy; Then comes the sad thought that—he is not there!
Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer; Whate'er I may be saying, I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though—he is not there!
Not there!—Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear. The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe locked;—he is not there!
He lives!—In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair; In dreams I see him now; And on his angel brow, I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"
Yes, we all live to God! Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That, in the spirit-land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that—he is there!
John Pierpont [1785-1866]
Do you remember, my sweet, absent son, How in the soft June days forever done You loved the heavens so warm and clear and high; And when I lifted you, soft came your cry,— "Put me 'way up—'way, 'way up in blue sky"?
I laughed and said I could not;—set you down, Your gray eyes wonder-filled beneath that crown Of bright hair gladdening me as you raced by. Another Father now, more strong than I, Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue sky.
George Parsons Lathrop [1851-1898]
This little child, so white, so calm, Decked for her grave, Encountered death without a qualm. Are you as brave?
So small, and armed with naught beside Her mother's kiss, Alone she stepped, unterrified, Into the abyss.
"Ah," you explain, "she did not know— This babe of four— Just what it signifies to go." Do you know more?
Kenton Foster Murray [18—
A little elbow leans upon your knee, Your tired knee that has so much to bear; A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly From underneath a thatch of tangled hair. Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight; You do not prize this blessing overmuch,— You almost are too tired to pray to-night.
But it is blessedness! A year ago I did not see it as I do to-day,— We are so dull and thankless; and too slow To catch the sunshine till it slips away. And now it seems surpassing strange to me That, while I wore the badge of motherhood, I did not kiss more oft and tenderly The little child that brought me only good.
And if some night when you sit down to rest, You miss this elbow from your tired knee,— This restless, curling head from off your breast— This lisping tongue that chatters constantly; If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, And ne'er would nestle in your palm again; If the white feet into, their grave had tripped, I could not blame you for your heartache then!
I wonder so that mothers ever fret At little children clinging to their gown; Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown. If I could find a little muddy boot, Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor,— If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, And hear its patter in my house once more,—
If I could mend a broken cart to-day, To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, There is no woman in God's world could say She was more blissfully content than I. But ah! the dainty pillow next my own Is never rumpled by a shining head; My singing birdling from its nest has flown, The little boy I used to kiss is dead.
May Riley Smith [1842-1927]
In the light of the moon, by the side of the water, My seat on the sand and her seat on my knees, We watch the bright billows, do I and my daughter, My sweet little daughter Louise. We wonder what city the pathway of glory, That broadens away to the limitless west, Leads up to—she minds her of some pretty story And says: "To the city that mortals love best." Then I say: "It must lead to the far away city, The beautiful City of Rest."
In the light of the moon, by the side of the water, Stand two in the shadow of whispering trees, And one loves my daughter, my beautiful daughter, My womanly daughter Louise. She steps to the boat with a touch of his fingers, And out on the diamonded pathway they move; The shallop is lost in the distance, it lingers, It waits, but I know that its coming will prove That it went to the walls of the wonderful city, The magical City of Love.
In the light of the moon, by the side of the water, I wait for her coming from over the seas; I wait but to welcome the dust of my daughter, To weep for my daughter Louise. The path, as of old, reaching out in its splendor, Gleams bright, like a way that an angel has trod; I kiss the cold burden its billows surrender, Sweet clay to lie under the pitiful sod: But she rests, at the end of the path, in the city Whose "builder and maker is God."
Homer Greene [1853-
From "The Spanish Gypsy"
The world is great: the birds all fly from me, The stars are golden fruit upon a tree All out of reach: my little sister went, And I am lonely.
The world is great: I tried to mount the hill Above the pines, where the light lies so still, But it rose higher: little Lisa went And I am lonely.
The world is great: the wind comes rushing by. I wonder where it comes from; sea birds cry And hurt my heart: my little sister went, And I am lonely.
The world is great: the people laugh and talk, And make loud holiday: how fast they walk! I'm lame, they push me: little Lisa went, And I am lonely.
George Eliot [1819-1880]
From "Mimma Bella"
I Have dark Egyptians stolen Thee away, Oh Baby, Baby, in whose cot we peer As down some empty gulf that opens sheer And fathomless, illumined by no ray? And wilt thou come, on some far distant day, With unknown face, and say, "Behold! I'm here, The child you lost;" while we in sudden fear, Dumb with great doubt, shall find no word to say? One darker than dark gipsy holds thee fast; One whose strong fingers none has forced apart Since first they closed on things that were too fair; Nor shall we see thee other than thou wast, But such as thou art printed in the heart, In changeless baby loveliness still there.
II Two springs she saw—two radiant Tuscan springs, What time the wild red tulips are aflame In the new wheat, and wreaths of young vine frame The daffodils that every light breeze swings; And the anemones that April brings Make purple pools, as if Adonis came Just there to die; and Florence scrolls her name In every blossom Primavera flings. Now, when the scented iris, straight and tall, Shall hedge the garden gravel once again With pale blue flags, at May's exulting call, And when the amber roses, wet with rain, Shall tapestry the old gray villa wall, We, left alone, shall seek one bud in vain.
IV Oh, rosy as the lining of a shell Were the wee hands that now are white as snows; And like pink coral, with their elfin toes, The feet that on life's brambles never fell. And with its tiny smile, adorable The mouth that never knew life's bitter sloes; And like the incurved petal of a rose The little ear, now deaf in Death's strong spell. Now, while the seasons in their order roll, And sun and rain pour down from God's great dome, And deathless stars shine nightly overhead, Near other children, with her little doll, She waits the wizard that will never come To wake the sleep-struck playground of the dead.
VI Oh, bless the law that veils the Future's face; For who could smile into a baby's eyes, Or bear the beauty of the evening skies, If he could see what cometh on apace? The ticking of the death-watch would replace The baby's prattle, for the over-wise; The breeze's murmur would become the cries Of stormy petrels where the breakers race. We live as moves the walker in his sleep, Who walks because he sees not the abyss His feet are skirting as he goes his way: If we could see the morrow from the steep Of our security, the soul would miss Its footing, and fall headlong from to-day.
VIII One day, I mind me, now that she is dead, When nothing warned us of the dark decree, I crooned, to lull her, in a minor key, Such fancies as first came into my head. I crooned them low, beside her little bed; And the refrain was somehow "Come with me, And we will wander by the purple sea;" I crooned it, and—God help me!—felt no dread. O Purple Sea, beyond the stress of storms, Where never ripple breaks upon the shore Of Death's pale Isles of Twilight as they dream, Give back, give back, O Sea of Nevermore, The frailest of the unsubstantial forms That leave the shores that are for those that seem!
XX What essences from Idumean palm, What ambergris, what sacerdotal wine, What Arab myrrh, what spikenard, would be thine, If I could swathe thy memory in such balm! Oh, for wrecked gold, from depths for ever calm, To fashion for thy name a fretted shrine; Oh, for strange gems, still locked in virgin mine, To stud the pyx, where thought would bring sweet psalm! I have but this small rosary of rhyme,— No rubies but heart's drops, no pearls but tears, To lay upon the altar of thy name, O Mimma Bella;—on the shrine that Time Makes ever holier for the soul, while years Obliterate the rolls of human fame.
Eugene Lee-Hamilton [1845-1907]
Little Sister Rose-Marie, Will thy feet as willing-light Run through Paradise, I wonder, As they run the blue skies under, Willing feet, so airy-light?
Little Sister Rose-Marie, Will thy voice as bird-note clear Lift and ripple over Heaven As its mortal sound is given, Swift bird-voice, so young and clear?
How God will be glad of thee, Little Sister Rose-Marie!
Adelaide Crapsey [1878-1914]
Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies Like the dusk in evening skies!
Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses, wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run!
Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet!
Gazing, with, a timid glance, On the brooklet's swift advance, On the river's broad expanse!
Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem, As the river of a dream.
Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian?
Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye, Sees the falcon's shadow fly?
Hearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more, Deafened by the cataract's roar?
Oh, thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands,—Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares!
Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon, May glides onward into June.
Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Birds and blossoms many-numbered;— Age, that bough with snows encumbered.
Gather, then, each flower that grows, When the young heart overflows, To embalm that tent of snows.
Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand.
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth.
Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;
And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart For a smile of God thou art.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting,
That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
Merry Margaret As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower: With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness; So joyously, So maidenly, So womanly Her demeaning In every thing, Far, far passing That I can indite, Or suffice to write Of merry Margaret As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower, As patient and still And as full of good will As fair Isaphill, Coliander, Sweet pomander, Good Cassander; Steadfast of thought, Well made, well wrought, Far may be sought, Eye that ye can find So courteous, so kind, As merry Margaret, This midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower.
John Skelton [1460?-1529]
What's she, so late from Penshurst come, More gorgeous than the mid-day sun, That all the world amazes? Sure 'tis some angel from above, Or 'tis the Cyprian Queen of Love Attended by the Graces.
Or is't not Juno, Heaven's great dame, Or Pallas armed, as on she came To assist the Greeks in fight, Or Cynthia, that huntress bold, Or from old Tithon's bed so cold, Aurora chasing night?
No, none of those, yet one that shall Compare, perhaps exceed them all, For beauty, wit, and birth; As good as great, as chaste as fair, A brighter nymph none breathes the air, Or treads upon the earth.
'Tis Dorothee, a maid high-born, And lovely as the blushing morn, Of noble Sidney's race; Oh! could you see into her mind, The beauties there locked-up outshine The beauties of her face.
Fair Dorothea, sent from heaven To add more wonders to the seven, And glad each eye and ear, Crown of her sex, the Muse's port, The glory of our English court, The brightness of our sphere.
To welcome her the Spring breathes forth Elysian sweets, March strews the earth With violets and posies, The sun renews his darting fires, April puts on her best attires, And May her crown of roses.
Go, happy maid, increase the store Of graces born with you, and more Add to their number still; So neither all-consuming age, Nor envy's blast, nor fortune's rage Shall ever work you ill.
Edmund Waller [1606-1687]
O saw ye bonny Lesley As she gaed owre the Border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther.
To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For nature made her what she is, And ne'er made sic anither!
Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee.
The deil he couldna scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonny face, And say, "I canna wrang thee!"
The powers aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha' na steer thee; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie! That we may brag we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonny.
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid!— Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng: With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course; Graceful and useful all she does, Blessing and blest where'er she goes; Pure-bosomed as that watery glass, And Heaven reflected in her face!
William Cowper [1731-1800]
She stood breast high among the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.
On her cheek an autumn flush, Deeply ripened;—such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell. But long lashes veiled a light, That had else been all too bright.
And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim; Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks:
Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean, Where I reap thou shouldst but glean; Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home.
Thomas Hood [1799-1845]
Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of Travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again!
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;— I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
I How blest the Maid whose heart—yet free From Love's uneasy sovereignty— Beats with a fancy running high, Her simple cares to magnify; Whom Labor, never urged to toil, Hath cherished on a healthful soil; Who knows not pomp, who heeds not pelf; Whose heaviest sin it is to look Askance upon her pretty Self Reflected in some crystal brook; Whom grief hath spared—who sheds no tear But in sweet pity; and can hear Another's praise from envy clear.
II Such (but O lavish Nature! why That dark unfathomable eye, Where lurks a Spirit that replies To stillest mood of softest skies, Yet hints at peace to be o'erthrown, Another's first, and then her own?) Such haply, yon Italian Maid, Our Lady's laggard Votaress, Halting beneath the chestnut shade To accomplish there her loveliness: Nice aid maternal fingers lend; A Sister serves with slacker hand; Then, glittering like a star, she joins the festal band.
III How blest (if truth may entertain Coy fancy with a bolder strain) The Helvetian Girl—who daily braves, In her light skiff, the tossing waves, And quits the bosom of the deep Only to climb the rugged steep! —Say whence that modulated shout! From Wood-nymph of Diana's throng? Or does the greeting to a rout Of giddy Bacchanals belong? Jubilant outcry! rock and glade Resounded—but the voice obeyed The breath of an Helvetian Maid.
IV Her beauty dazzles the thick wood; Her courage animates the flood; Her steps the elastic greensward meets Returning unreluctant sweets; The mountains (as ye heard) rejoice Aloud, saluted by her voice! Blithe Paragon of Alpine grace, Be as thou art—for through thy veins The blood of Heroes runs its race! And nobly wilt thou brook the chains That, for the virtuous, Life prepares; The fetter which the Matron wears; The patriot Mother's weight of anxious cares!
"Sweet Highland Girl! a very shower Of beauty was thy earthly dower," When thou didst flit before mine eyes, Gay Vision under sullen skies, While Hope and Love around thee played, Near the rough falls of Inversneyd! Have they, who nursed the blossom, seen No breach of promise in the fruit? Was joy, in following joy, as keen As grief can be in grief's pursuit? When youth had flown did hope still bless Thy goings—or the cheerfulness Of innocence survive to mitigate distress?
VI But from our course why turn—to tread A way with shadows overspread; Where what we gladliest would believe Is feared as what may most deceive? Bright Spirit, not with amaranth crowned But heath-bells from thy native ground, Time cannot thin thy flowing hair, Nor take one ray of light from Thee; For in my Fancy thou dost share The gift of immortality; And there shall bloom, with Thee allied, The Votaress by Lugano's side; And that intrepid Nymph, on Uri's steep descried!
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
BLACKMWORE MAIDENS
The primrwose in the sheade do blow, The cowslip in the zun, The thyme upon the down do grow, The cote where streams do run; An' where do pretty maidens grow An' blow, but where the tower Do rise among the bricken tuns, In Blackmwore by the Stour.
If you could zee their comely gait, An' pretty feaces' smiles, A-trippen on so light o' waight, An' steppen off the stiles; A-gwain to church, as bells do swing An' ring within the tower, You'd own the pretty maidens' pleace Is Blackmwore by the Stour.
If you vrom Wimborne took your road, To Stower or Paladore, An' all the farmers' housen showed Their daughters at the door; You'd cry to bachelors at hwome— "Here, come: 'ithin an hour You'll vind ten maidens to your mind, In Blackmwore by the Stour."
An' if you looked 'ithin their door, To zee em in their pleace, A-doen housework up avore Their smilen mother's feace; You'd cry—"Why if a man would wive An' thrive, 'ithout a dower, Then let en look en out a wife In Blackmwore by the Stour."
As I upon my road did pass A school-house back in May, There out upon the beaten grass Wer maidens at their play; An' as the pretty souls did tweil An' smile, I cried, "The flower O' beauty, then, is still in bud In Blackmwore by the Stour."
William Barnes [1801-1886]
"One name is Elizabeth" Ben Jonson
I will paint her as I see her. Ten times have the lilies blown Since she looked upon the sun.
And her face is lily-clear, Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty To the law of its own beauty.
Oval cheeks encolored faintly, Which a trail of golden hair Keeps from fading off to air:
And a forehead fair and saintly, Which two blue eyes undershine, Like meek prayers before a shrine.
Face and figure of a child,— Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her.
Yet child-simple, undefiled, Frank, obedient, waiting still On the turnings of your will.
Moving light, as all young things, As young birds, or early wheat When the wind blows over it.
Only, free from flutterings Of loud mirth that scorneth measure— Taking love for her chief pleasure.
Choosing pleasures, for the rest, Which come softly—just as she, When she nestles at your knee.
Quiet talk she liketh best, In a bower of gentle looks,— Watering flowers, or reading books.
And her voice, it murmurs lowly, As a silver stream may run, Which yet feels (you feel) the sun.
And her smile it seems half holy, As if drawn from thoughts more far Than our common jestings are.
And if any poet knew her, He would sing of her with falls Used in lovely madrigals.
And if any painter drew her, He would paint her unaware With a halo round her hair.
And if reader read the poem, He would whisper—"You have done a Consecrated little Una!"
And a dreamer (did you show him That same picture) would exclaim, "'Tis my angel, with a name!"
And a stranger,—when he sees her In the street even—smileth stilly, Just as you would at a lily.
And all voices that address her, Soften, sleeken every word, As if speaking to a bird.
And all fancies yearn to cover The hard earth, whereon she passes, With the thymy-scented grasses.
And all hearts do pray, "God love her!" Ay and always, in good sooth, We may all be sure HE DOTH.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]
The nests are in the hedgerows, The lambs are on the grass; With laughter sweet as music The hours lightfooted pass, My darling child of fancy, My winsome prattling lass.
Blue eyes, with long brown lashes, Thickets of golden curl, Red little lips disclosing Twin rows of fairy pearl, Cheeks like the apple blossom, Voice lightsome as the merle.
A whole Spring's fickle changes, In every short-lived day, A passing cloud of April, A flowery smile of May, A thousand quick mutations From graver moods to gay.
Far off, I see the season When thy childhood's course is run, And thy girlhood opens wider Beneath the growing sun, And the rose begins to redden, But the violets are done.
And further still the summer, When thy fair tree, fully grown, Shall bourgeon, and grow splendid With blossoms of its own, And the fruit begins to gather, But the buttercups are mown.
If I should see thy autumn, 'Twill not be close at hand, But with a spirit vision, From some far-distant land. Or, perhaps, I hence may see thee Amongst the angels stand.
I know not what of fortune The future holds for thee, Nor if skies fair or clouded Wait thee in days to be, But neither joy nor sorrow Shall sever thee from me.
Dear child, whatever changes Across our lives may pass, I shall see thee still for ever, Clearly as in a glass, The same sweet child of fancy, The same dear winsome lass.
Lewis Morris [1833-1907]
Where the thistle lifts a purple crown Six foot out of the turf, And the harebell shakes on the windy hill— O the breath of the distant surf!—
The hills look over on the South, And southward dreams the sea; And with the sea-breeze hand in hand Came innocence and she.
Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry Red for the gatherer springs, Two children did we stray and talk Wise, idle, childish things.
She listened with big-lipped surprise, Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine: Her skin was like a grape, whose veins Run snow instead of wine.
She knew not those sweet words she spake, Nor knew her own sweet way; But there's never a bird, so sweet a song Thronged in whose throat that day!
Oh, there were flowers in Storrington On the turf and on the spray; But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills Was the Daisy-flower that day!
Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face! She gave me tokens three:— A look, a word of her winsome mouth, And a wild raspberry.
A berry red, a guileless look, A still word,—strings of sand! And yet they made my wild, wild heart Fly down to her little hand.
For standing artless as the air, And candid as the skies, She took the berries with her hand, And the love with her sweet eyes.
The fairest things have fleetest end: Their scent survives their close, But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose!
She looked a little wistfully, Then went her sunshine way:— The sea's eye had a mist on it, And the leaves fell from the day.
She went her unremembering way, She went and left in me The pang of all the partings gone, And partings yet to be.
She left me marveling why my soul Was sad that she was glad; At all the sadness in the sweet, The sweetness in the sad.
Still, still I seemed to see her, still Look up with soft replies, And take the berries with her hand, And the love with her lovely eyes.
Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in others' pain, And perish in our own.
Francis Thompson [1859?-1907]
Yesterday it blew alway, Yesterday is dead, Now forever must it stay Coiled about your head, Tell me Whence the great Command Hitherward has sped. "Silly boy, as if I knew," Petronilla said.
Nay, but I am very sure, Since you left my side, Something has befallen you, You are fain to hide, Homage has been done to you, Innocents have died. "Silly boy, and what of that?" Petronilla cried.
Petronilla, much I fear Scarcely have you wept All those merry yesterdays, Slaughtered whilst you slept, Slain to bind that pretty crown Closer round your head. "Silly boy, as if I cared," Petronilla said.
Henry Howarth Bashford [1880-
Passing I saw her as she stood beside A lonely stream between two barren wolds; Her loose vest hung in rudely gathered folds On her swart bosom, which in maiden pride Pillowed a string of pearls; among her hair Twined the light bluebell and the stone-crop gay; And not far thence the small encampment lay, Curling its wreathed smoke into the air. She seemed a child of some sun-favored clime; So still, so habited to warmth and rest; And in my wayward musings on past time, When my thought fills with treasured memories, That image nearest borders on the blest Creations of pure art that never dies.
Henry Alford [1810-1871]
A Southern Blossom
Come and see her as she stands, Crimson roses in her hands; And her eyes Are as dark as Southern night, Yet than Southern dawn more bright, And a soft, alluring light In them lies.
None deny if she beseech With that pretty, liquid speech Of the South. All her consonants are slurred, And the vowels are preferred; There's a poem in each word From that mouth.
Even Cupid is her slave; Of her arrows, half he gave Her one day In a merry, playful hour. Dowered with these and beauty's dower, Strong indeed her magic power, So they say.
Venus, not to be outdone By her generous little son, Shaped the mouth Very like to Cupid's bow. Lack-a-day! Our North can show No such lovely flowers as grow In the South!
Anne Reeve Aldrich [1866-1892]
Just a picture of Somebody's child,— Sweet face set in golden hair, Violet eyes, and cheeks of rose, Rounded chin, with a dimple there,
Tender eyes where the shadows sleep, Lit from within by a secret ray,— Tender eyes that will shine like stars When love and womanhood come this way:
Scarlet lips with a story to tell,— Blessed be he who shall find it out, Who shall learn the eyes' deep secret well, And read the heart with never a doubt.
Then you will tremble, scarlet lips, Then you will crimson, loveliest cheeks: Eyes will brighten and blushes will burn When the one true lover bends and speaks.
But she's only a child now, as you see, Only a child in her careless grace: When Love and Womanhood come this way Will anything sadden the flower-like face?
Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]
Halfway up the Hemlock valley turnpike, In the bend of Silver Water's arm, Where the deer come trooping down at even, Drink the cowslip pool, and fear no harm, Dwells Emilia, Flower of the fields of Camlet Farm.
Sitting sewing by the western window As the too brief mountain sunshine flies, Hast thou seen a slender-shouldered figure With a chestnut braid, Minerva-wise, Round her temples, Shadowing her gray, enchanted eyes?
When the freshets flood the Silver Water, When the swallow flying northward braves Sleeting rains that sweep the birchen foothills Where the windflowers' pale plantation waves— (Fairy gardens Springing from the dead leaves in their graves),—
Falls forgotten, then, Emilia's needle; Ancient ballads, fleeting through her brain, Sing the cuckoo and the English primrose, Outdoors calling with a quaint refrain; And a rainbow Seems to brighten through the gusty rain.
Forth she goes, in some old dress and faded, Fearless of the showery shifting wind; Kilted are her skirts to clear the mosses, And her bright braids in a 'kerchief pinned, Younger sister Of the damsel-errant Rosalind.
While she helps to serve the harvest supper In the lantern-lighted village hall, Moonlight rises on the burning woodland, Echoes dwindle from the distant Fall. Hark, Emilia! In her ear the airy voices call.
Hidden papers in the dusty garret, Where her few and secret poems lie,— Thither flies her heart to join her treasure, While she serves, with absent-musing eye, Mighty tankards Foaming cider in the glasses high.
"Would she mingle with her young companions!" Vainly do her aunts and uncles say; Ever, from the village sports and dances, Early missed, Emilia slips away. Whither vanished? With what unimagined mates to play?
Did they seek her, wandering by the water, They should find her comrades shy and strange: Queens and princesses, and saints and fairies, Dimly moving in a cloud of change:— Desdemona; Mariana of the Moated Grange.
Up this valley to the fair and market When young farmers from the southward ride, Oft they linger at a sound of chanting In the meadows by the turnpike side; Long they listen, Deep in fancies of a fairy bride.
Sarah N. Cleghorn [1876-
With breath of thyme and bees that hum, Across the years you seem to come,— Across the years with nymph-like head, And wind-blown brows unfilleted; A girlish shape that slips the bud In lines of unspoiled symmetry; A girlish shape that stirs the blood With pulse of Spring, Autonoe!
Where'er you pass,—where'er you go, I hear the pebbly rillet flow; Where'er you go,—where'er you pass, There comes a gladness on the grass; You bring blithe airs where'er you tread,— Blithe airs that blow from down and sea; You wake in me a Pan not dead,— Not wholly dead!—Autonoe!
How sweet with you on some green sod To wreathe the rustic garden-god; How sweet beneath the chestnut's shade With you to weave a basket-braid; To watch across the stricken chords Your rosy-twinkling fingers flee; To woo you in soft woodland words, With woodland pipe, Autonoe!
In vain,—in vain! The years divide: Where Thamis rolls a murky tide, I sit and fill my painful reams, And see you only in my dreams;— A vision, like Alcestis, brought From under-lands of Memory,— A dream of Form in days of Thought,— A dream,—a dream, Autonoe!
Austin Dobson [1840-1921]
An Exquisite Picture In The Studio Of A Young Artist At Rome
She rose from her untroubled sleep, And put away her soft brown hair, And, in a tone as low and deep As love's first whisper, breathed a prayer— Her snow-white hands together pressed, Her blue eyes sheltered in the lid, The folded linen on her breast, Just swelling with the charms it hid; And from her long and flowing dress Escaped a bare and slender foot, Whose shape upon the earth did press Like a new snow-flake, white and "mute"; And there, from slumber pure and warm, Like a young spirit fresh from heaven, She bowed her slight and graceful form, And humbly prayed to be forgiven.
Oh God! if souls unsoiled as these Need daily mercy from Thy throne; If she upon her bended knees, Our loveliest and our purest one,— She, with a face so clear and bright, We deem her some stray child of light;— If she, with those soft eyes in tears, Day after day in her first years, Must kneel and pray for grace from Thee, What far, far deeper need have we! How hardly, if she win not heaven, Will our wild errors be forgiven!
Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]
Ah, be not false, sweet Splendor! Be true, be good; Be wise as thou art tender; Be all that Beauty should.
Not lightly be thy citadel subdued; Not ignobly, not untimely, Take praise in solemn mood; Take love sublimely.
Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1909]
There! little girl, don't cry! They have broken your doll, I know; And your tea-set blue, And your play-house, too, Are things of the long ago; But childish troubles will soon pass by.— There! little girl, don't cry!
There! little girl, don't cry! They have broken your slate, I know; And the glad, wild ways Of your school-girl days Are things of the long ago; But life and love will soon come by.— There! little girl, don't cry!
There! little girl, don't cry! They have broken your heart, I know; And the rainbow gleams Of your youthful dreams Are things of the long ago; But Heaven holds all for which you sigh.— There! little girl, don't cry!
James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]
The Lord God Speaks To A Youth
Bend now thy body to the common weight: (But oh, that vine-clad head, those limbs of morn! Those proud young shoulders, I myself made straight! How shall ye wear the yoke that must be worn?)
Look thou, my son, what wisdom comes to thee: (But oh, that singing mouth, those radiant eyes! Those dancing feet—that I myself made free! How shall I sadden them to make them wise?)
Nay, then, thou shalt! Resist not—have a care! (Yea, I must work my plans who sovereign sit; Yet do not tremble so! I cannot bear— Though I am God—to see thee so submit!)
Margaret Steele Anderson [1869-1921]
There are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain: But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again.
We are stronger, and are better, Under manhood's sterner reign: Still we feel that something sweet Followed youth, with flying feet, And will never come again.
Something beautiful is vanished, And we sigh for it in vain: We behold it everywhere, On the earth, and in the air, But it never comes again.
Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]
Days of my youth, Ye have glided away; Hairs of my youth, Ye are frosted and gray; Eyes of my youth, Your keen sight is no more; Cheeks of my youth, Ye are furrowed all o'er; Strength of my youth, All your vigor is gone; Thoughts of my youth, Your gay visions are flown.
Days of my youth, I wish not your recall; Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye should fall; Eyes of my youth, You much evil have seen; Cheeks of my youth, Bathed in tears have you been; Thoughts of my youth, You have led me astray; Strength of my youth, Why lament your decay?
Days of my age, Ye will shortly be past; Pains of my age, Yet awhile ye can last; Joys of my age, In true wisdom delight; Eyes of my age, Be religion your light; Thoughts of my age, Dread ye not the cold sod; Hopes of my age, Be ye fixed on your God.
St. George Tucker [1752-1827]
Farewell my Youth! for now we needs must part, For here the paths divide; Here hand from hand must sever, heart from heart,— Divergence deep and wide.
You'll wear no withered roses for my sake, Though I go mourning for you all day long, Finding no magic more in bower or brake, No melody in song.
Gray Eld must travel in my company To seal this severance more fast and sure. A joyless fellowship, i' faith, 'twill be, Yet must we fare together, I and he, Till I shall tread the footpath way no more.
But when a blackbird pipes among the boughs, On some dim, iridescent day in spring, Then I may dream you are remembering Our ancient vows.
Or when some joy foregone, some fate forsworn, Looks through the dark eyes of the violet, I may re-cross the set, forbidden bourne, I may forget Our long, long parting for a little while, Dream of the golden splendors of your smile, Dream you remember yet.
Rosamund Marriott Watson [1863-1911]
Where art thou gone, light-ankled Youth? With wing at either shoulder, And smile that never left thy mouth Until the Hours grew colder:
Then somewhat seemed to whisper near That thou and I must part; I doubted it; I felt no fear, No weight upon the heart.
If aught befell it, Love was by And rolled it off again; So, if there ever was a sigh, 'Twas not a sigh of pain.
I may not call thee back; but thou Returnest when the hand Of gentle Sleep waves o'er my brow His poppy-crested wand;
Then smiling eyes bend over mine, Then lips once pressed invite; But sleep hath given a silent sign, And both, alas! take flight.
Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? 'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled: Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
Oh Fame!—if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover, She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]
There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again.
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.
Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruined turret wreathe, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.
Oh could I feel as I have felt,—or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanished scene; As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to me.
George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]
When, as a lad, at break of day I watched the fishers sail away, My thoughts, like flocking birds, would follow Across the curving sky's blue hollow, And on and on- Into the very heart of dawn!
For long I searched the world! Ah me! I searched the sky, I searched the sea, With much of useless grief and rueing, Those winged thoughts of mine pursuing— So dear were they, So lovely and so far away!
I seek them still and always will Until my laggard heart is still, And I am free to follow, follow, Across the curving sky's blue hollow, Those thoughts too fleet For any save the soul's swift feet!
Isabel Ecclestone Mackay [1875-
Around the child bend all the three Sweet Graces—Faith, Hope, Charity. Around the man bend other faces Pride, Envy, Malice, are his Graces.
Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]
When I was a beggarly boy, And lived in a cellar damp, I had not a friend nor a toy, But I had Aladdin's lamp; When I could not sleep for the cold, I had fire enough in my brain, And builded, with roofs of gold, My beautiful castles in Spain!
Since then I have toiled day and night, I have money and power good store, But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright For the one that is mine no more. Take, Fortune, whatever you choose; You gave, and may snatch again; I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose, For I own no more castles in Spain!
James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]
It was a heavenly time of life When first I went to Spain, The lovely land of silver mists, The land of golden grain.
My little ship through unknown seas Sailed many a changing day; Sometimes the chilling winds came up And blew across her way;
Sometimes the rain came down and hid The shining shores of Spain, The beauty of the silver mists And of the golden grain.
But through the rains and through the winds, Upon the untried sea, My fairy ship sailed on and on, With all my dreams and me.
And now, no more a child, I long For that sweet time again, When on the far horizon bar Rose up the shores of Spain.
O lovely land of silver mists, O land of golden grain, I look for you with smiles, with tears, But look for you in vain!
Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz [?-1933]
"My birth-day"—what a different sound That word had in my youthful ears! And how, each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears! When first our scanty years are told, It seems like pastime to grow old; And, as Youth counts the shining links That Time around him binds so fast, Pleased with the task, he little thinks How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain, Who said—"were he ordained to run His long career of life again, He would do all that he had done."
Ah, 'tis not thus the voice, that dwells In sober birth-days, speaks to me; Far otherwise—of time it tells Lavished unwisely, carelessly; Of counsel mocked: of talents, made Haply for high and pure designs, But oft, like Israel's incense, laid Upon unholy, earthly shrines; Of nursing many a wrong desire; Of wandering after Love too far, And taking every meteor-fire That crossed my pathway, for a star. All this it tells, and, could I trace The imperfect picture o'er again, With power to add, retouch, efface The lights and shades, the joy and pain, How little of the past would stay! How quickly all should melt away— All—but that Freedom of the Mind, Which hath been more than wealth to me; Those friendships, in my boyhood twined, And kept till now unchangingly; And that dear home, that saving-ark, Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark, And comfortless, and stormy round!
Thomas Moore [1779-1852]
On His Having Arrived To The Age of Twenty-Three
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth That I to manhood am arrived so near; And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven: All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-master's eye.
John Milton [1608-1674]
'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!
The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze— A funeral pile.
The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain.
But 'tis not thus—and 'tis not here— Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow.
The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see! The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free.
Awake! (not Greece—she is awake!) Awake, my spirit! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then strike home!
Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood I—unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be.
If thou regret'st thy youth, why live? The land of honorable death Is here:—up to the field, and give Away thy breath!
Seek out—less often sought than found— A soldier's grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest.
George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]
GROWING GRAY
"On a l'age de son caeur."
A. D'Houdetot
A little more toward the light;— Me miserable! Here's one that's white; And one that's turning; Adieu to song and "salad days;" My Muse, let's go at once to Jay's, And order mourning.
We must reform our rhymes, my Dear,— Renounce the gay for the severe,— Be grave, not witty; We have, no more, the right to find That Pyrrha's hair is neatly twined,— That Chloe's pretty.
Young Love's for us a farce that's played; Light canzonet and serenade No more may tempt us; Gray hairs but ill accord with dreams; From aught but sour didactic themes Our years exempt us.
Indeed! you really fancy so? You think for one white streak we grow At once satiric? A fiddlestick! Each hair's a string To which our ancient Muse shall sing A younger lyric.
The heart's still sound. Shall "cakes and ale" Grow rare to youth because we rail At schoolboy dishes? Perish the thought! 'Tis ours to chant When neither Time nor Tide can grant Belief with wishes.
Austin Dobson [1840-1921]
The wisest of the wise Listen to pretty lies And love to hear'em told. Doubt not that Solomon Listened to many a one,— Some in his youth, and more when he grew old.
I never was among The choir of Wisdom's song, But pretty lies loved I As much as any king, When youth was on the wing, And (must it then be told?) when youth had quite gone by.
Alas! and I have not The pleasant hour forgot When one pert lady said, "O Walter! I am quite Bewildered with affright! I see (sit quiet now) a white hair on your head!"
Another more benign Snipped it away from mine, And in her own dark hair Pretended it was found... She leaped, and twirled it round... Fair as she was, she never was so fair!
Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]
Our youth began with tears and sighs, With seeking what we could not find; Our verses all were threnodies, In elegiacs still we whined; Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind, We sought and knew not what we sought. We marvel, now we look behind: Life's more amusing than we thought!
Oh, foolish youth, untimely wise! Oh, phantoms of the sickly mind! What? not content with seas and skies, With rainy clouds and southern wind, With common cares and faces kind, With pains and joys each morning brought? Ah, old, and worn, and tired we find Life's more amusing than we thought!
Though youth "turns spectre-thin and dies," To mourn for youth we're not inclined; We set our souls on salmon flies, We whistle where we once repined. Confound the woes of human-kind! By Heaven we're "well deceived," I wot; Who hum, contented or resigned, "Life's more amusing than we thought"!
ENVOY O nate mecum, worn and lined Our faces show, but that is naught; Our hearts are young 'neath wrinkled rind: Life's more amusing than we thought!
Andrew Lang [1844-1912]
When that my days were fewer, Some twenty years ago, And all that is was newer, And time itself seemed slow, With ardor all impassioned, I let my hopes fly free, And deemed the world was fashioned My playing-field to be.
The cup of joy was filled then With Fancy's sparkling wine; And all the things I willed then Seemed destined to be mine. Friends had I then in plenty, And every friend was true; Friends always are at twenty, And on to twenty-two.
The men whose hair was sprinkled With little flecks of gray, Whose faded brows were wrinkled— Sure they had had their day. And though we bore no malice, We knew their hearts were cold, For they had drained their chalice, And now were spent and old.
At thirty, we admitted, A man may be alive, But slower, feebler witted; And done at thirty-five. If Fate prolongs his earth-days, His joys grow fewer still; And after five more birthdays He totters down the hill.
We were the true immortals Who held the earth in fee; For us were flung the portals Of fame and victory. The days were bright and breezy, And gay our banners flew, And every peak was easy To scale at twenty-two.
And thus we spent our gay time As having much to spend; Swift, swift, that pretty playtime Flew by and had its end. And lo! without a warning I woke, as others do, One fine mid-winter morning, A man of forty-two.
And now I see how vainly Is youth with ardor fired; How fondly, how insanely I formerly aspired. A boy may still detest age, But as for me I know, A man has reached his best age At forty-two or so.
For youth it is the season Of restlessness and strife; Of passion and unreason, And ignorance of life. Since, though his cheeks have roses, No boy can understand That everything he knows is A graft at second hand.
But we have toiled and wandered With weary feet and numb; Have doubted, sifted, pondered,— How else should knowledge come? Have seen too late for heeding, Our hopes go out in tears, Lost in the dim receding, Irrevocable years.
Yet, though with busy fingers No more we wreathe the flowers, An airy perfume lingers, A brightness still is ours. And though no rose our cheeks have, The sky still shines as blue; And still the distant peaks have The glow of twenty-two.
Rudolph Chambers Lehmann [1856-1929]
When I was seventeen I heard From each censorious tongue, "I'd not do that if I were you; You see you're rather young."
Now that I number forty years, I'm quite as often told Of this or that I shouldn't do Because I'm quite too old.
O carping world! If there's an age Where youth and manhood keep An equal poise, alas! I must Have passed it in my sleep.
Walter Learned [1847-1915]
My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
Pass, thou wild light, Wild light on peaks that so Grieve to let go The day. Lovely thy tarrying, lovely too is night: Pass thou away.
Pass, thou wild heart, Wild heart of youth that still Hast half a will To stay. I grow too old a comrade, let us part: Pass thou away.
William Watson [1858-1935]
The sun of life has crossed the line; The summer-shine of lengthened light Faded and failed, till, where I stand, 'Tis equal day and equal night.
One after one, as dwindling hours, Youth's glowing hopes have dropped away, And soon may barely leave the gleam That coldly scores a winter's day.
I am not young; I am not old; The flush of morn, the sunset calm, Paling and deepening, each to each, Meet midway with a solemn charm.
One side I see the summer fields, Not yet disrobed of all their green; While westerly, along the hills, Flame the first tints of frosty sheen.
Ah, middle-point, where cloud and storm Make battle-ground of this my life! Where, even-matched, the night and day Wage round me their September strife!
I bow me to the threatening gale: I know when that is overpast, Among the peaceful harvest days, An Indian Summer comes at last!
Adeline D. T. Whitney [1824-1906]
From "Atalanta in Calydon"
Before the beginning of years, There came to the making of man Time, with a gift of tears; Grief, with a glass that ran; Pleasure, with pain for leaven; Summer, with flowers that fell; Remembrance, fallen from heaven; And madness, risen from hell; Strength, without hands to smite; Love, that endures for a breath; Night, the shadow of light; And life, the shadow of death.
And the high gods took in hand Fire, and the falling of tears, And a measure of sliding sand From under the feet of the years; And froth and drift of the sea, And dust of the laboring earth; And bodies of things to be In the houses of death and of birth; And wrought with weeping and laughter, And fashioned with loathing and love, With life before and after, And death beneath and above, For a day and a night and a morrow, That his strength might endure for a span, With travail and heavy sorrow, The holy Spirit of man.
From the winds of the north and the south They gathered as unto strife; They breathed upon his mouth, They filled his body with life; Eyesight and speech they wrought For the veils of the soul therein, A time for labor and thought, A time to serve and to sin; They gave him light in his ways, And love, and a space for delight, And beauty and length of days, And night, and sleep in the night. His speech is a burning fire; With his lips he travaileth; In his heart is a blind desire, In his eyes foreknowledge of death; He weaves, and is clothed with derision Sows, and he shall not reap; His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep.
Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]
Weighing the steadfastness and state Of some mean things which here below reside, Where birds, like watchful clocks, the noiseless date And intercourse of times divide. Where bees at night get home and hive, and flowers, Early as well as late, Rise with the sun, and set in the same bowers;
I would, said I, my God would give The staidness of these things to man! for these To His divine appointments ever cleave, And no new business breaks their peace; The birds nor sow nor reap, yet sup and dine, The flowers without clothes live, Yet Solomon was never dressed so fine.
Man hath still either toys, or care; He hath no root, nor to one place is tied, But ever restless and irregular About this earth doth run and ride; He knows he hath a home, but scarce knows where; He says it is so far, That he hath quite forgot how to go there.
He knocks at all doors, strays and roams; Nay, hath not so much wit as some stones have, Which in the darkest nights point to their homes By some hid sense their Maker gave; Man is the shuttle, to whose winding quest And passage through these looms God ordered motion, but ordained no rest.
Henry Vaughan [1622-1695]
When God at first made Man, Having a glass of blessings standing by— Let us (said He) pour on him all we can; Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span.
So strength first made a way, Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure: When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure, Rest in the bottom lay.
For if I should (said He) Bestow this jewel also on My creature, He would adore My gifts instead of Me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature: So both should losers be.
Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness; Let him be rich and weary, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to My breast.
George Herbert [1593-1633]
FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD
I There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;— Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
II The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose; The Moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
III Now, while the Birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep: No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and Sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every Beast keep holiday;— Thou Child of Joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!
IV Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all. O evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning This sweet May morning, And the Children are culling On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:— I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! —But there's a Tree, of many, one, A single Field which I have looked upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone: The Pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
V Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the East Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, And by the vision spendid Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
VI Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And even with something of a Mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely Nurse doth all she can, To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came.
VII Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his Mother's kisses, With light upon him from his Father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife: But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation.
VIII Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy Soul's immensity; Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,— Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave: Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, And Custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
IX O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest— Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:— Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor Man nor Boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thither And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
X Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.
XI And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks, which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they: The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet; The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober coloring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
Not she with traitorous kiss her Saviour stung, Not she denied him with unholy tongue; She, while apostles shrank, could dangers brave, Last at the cross and earliest at the grave.
Eaton Stannard Barrett [1786-1820]
There in the fane a beauteous creature stands, The first best work of the Creator's hands, Whose slender limbs inadequately bear A full-orbed bosom and a weight of care; Whose teeth like pearls, whose lips like cherries, show, And fawn-like eyes still tremble as they glow.
From the Sanskrit of Calidasa
From "Epicoene"
Still to be neat, still to be dressed As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed: Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]
A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness: A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction: An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher: A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbons to flow confusedly: A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat: A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility: Do more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part.
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
Give place, you ladies, and begone! Boast not yourselves at all! For here at hand approacheth one Whose face will stain you all.
The virtue of her lively looks Excels the precious stone; I wish to have none other books To read or look upon.
In each of her two crystal eyes Smileth a naked boy; It would you all in heart suffice To see that lamp of joy.
I think Nature hath lost the mould Where she her shape did take; Or else I doubt if Nature could So fair a creature make.
She may be well compared Unto the Phoenix kind, Whose like was never seen nor heard, That any man can find.
In life she is Diana chaste, In truth Penelope; In word and eke in deed steadfast. What will you more we say?
If all the world were sought so far, Who could find such a wight? Her beauty twinkleth like a star Within the frosty night.
Her roseal color comes and goes With such a comely grace, More ruddier, too, than doth the rose Within her lively face.
At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet, Nor at no wanton play, Nor gazing in an open street, Nor gadding as a stray.
The modest mirth that she doth use Is mixed with shamefastness; All vice she doth wholly refuse, And hateth idleness.
O Lord! it is a world to see How virtue can repair, And deck her in such honesty, Whom Nature made so fair.
Truly she doth so far exceed Our women nowadays, As doth the gillyflower a weed; And more a thousand ways.
How might I do to get a graff Of this unspotted tree? For all the rest are plain but chaff, Which seem good corn to be.
This gift alone I shall her give: When death doth what he can, Her honest fame shall ever live Within the mouth of man.
John Heywood [1497?-1580?]
I know a thing that's most uncommon; (Envy, be silent and attend!) I know a reasonable woman, Handsome and witty, yet a friend.
Not warped by passion, awed by rumor; Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly; An equal mixture of good-humor And sensible soft melancholy.
"Has she no faults then, (Envy says), Sir?" Yes, she has one, I must aver: When all the world conspires to praise her, The woman's deaf, and does not hear.
Alexander Pope [1688-1744]
She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
She was a queen of noble Nature's crowning, A smile of hers was like an act of grace; She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning, Like daily beauties of the vulgar race: But if she smiled, a light was on her face, A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam Of peaceful radiance, silvering o'er the stream Of human thought with unabiding glory; Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream, A visitation, bright and transitory.
But she is changed,—hath felt the touch of sorrow, No love hath she, no understanding friend; O grief! when Heaven is forced of earth to borrow What the poor niggard earth has not to lend; But when the stalk is snapped, the rose must bend. The tallest flower that skyward rears its head Grows from the common ground, and there must shed Its delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely, That they should find so base a bridal bed, Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and purely.
She had a brother, and a tender father, And she was loved, but not as others are From whom we ask return of love,—but rather As one might love a dream; a phantom fair Of something exquisitely strange and rare, Which all were glad to look on, men and maids, Yet no one claimed—as oft, in dewy glades, The peering primrose, like a sudden gladness, Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;— The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness.
'Tis vain to say—her worst of grief is only The common lot, which all the world have known; To her 'tis more, because her heart is lonely, And yet she hath no strength to stand alone,— Once she had playmates, fancies of her own, And she did love them. They are passed away As Fairies vanish at the break of day; And like a spectre of an age departed, Or unsphered Angel wofully astray, She glides along—the solitary-hearted.
Hartley Coleridge [1796-1849]
Women there are on earth, most sweet and high, Who lose their own, and walk bereft and lonely, Loving that one lost heart until they die, Loving it only.
And so they never see beside them grow Children, whose coming is like breath of flowers; Consoled by subtler loves the angels know Through childless hours.
Good deeds they do: they comfort and they bless In duties others put off till the morrow; Their look is balm, their touch is tenderness To all in sorrow.
Betimes the world smiles at them, as 'twere shame, This maiden guise, long after youth's departed; But in God's Book they bear another name— "The faithful-hearted."
Faithful in life, and faithful unto death, Such souls, in sooth, illume with lustre splendid That glimpsed, glad land wherein, the Vision saith, Earth's wrongs are ended.
Richard Burton [1861-
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!
George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]
From "The Angel in the House"
I UNTHRIFT
Ah, wasteful woman, she that may On her sweet self set her own price, Knowing man cannot choose but pay, How has she cheapened paradise; How given for nought her priceless gift, How spoiled the bread, and spilled the wine, Which, spent with due, respective thrift, Had made brutes men, and men divine.
II HONOR AND DESERT
O Queen, awake to thy renown, Require what 'tis our wealth to give, And comprehend and wear the crown Of thy despised prerogative! I, who in manhood's name at length With glad songs come to abdicate The gross regality of strength, Must yet in this thy praise abate, That, through thine erring humbleness And disregard of thy degree, Mainly, has man been so much less Than fits his fellowship with thee.
High thoughts had shaped the foolish brow, The coward had grasped the hero's sword, The vilest had been great, hadst thou, Just to thyself, been worth's reward. But lofty honors undersold Seller and buyer both disgrace; And favors that make folly bold Banish the light from virtue's face.
III THE ROSE OF THE WORLD
Lo, when the Lord made North and South, And sun and moon ordained, He, Forthbringing each by word of mouth In order of its dignity Did man from the crude clay express By sequence, and all else decreed, He formed the woman; nor might less Than Sabbath such a work succeed.
And still with favor singled out, Marred less than man by mortal fall, Her disposition is devout, Her countenance angelical: The best things that the best believe Are in her face so kindly writ The faithless, seeing her, conceive Not only heaven, but hope of it; No idle thought her instinct shrouds, But fancy chequers settled sense, Like alteration of the clouds On noonday's azure permanence.
Pure dignity, composure, ease, Declare affections nobly fixed, And impulse sprung from due degrees Of sense and spirit sweetly mixed. Her modesty, her chiefest grace, The cestus clasping Venus' side, How potent to deject the face Of him who would affront its pride!
Wrong dares not in her presence speak, Nor spotted thought its taint disclose Under the protest of a cheek Outbragging Nature's boast, the rose. In mind and manners how discreet; How artless in her very art; How candid in discourse; how sweet The concord of her lips and heart!
How simple and how circumspect; How subtle and how fancy-free; Though sacred to her love, how decked With unexclusive courtesy; How quick in talk to see from far The way to vanquish or evade; How able her persuasions are To prove, her reasons to persuade.
How (not to call true instinct's bent And woman's very nature, harm), How amiable and innocent Her pleasure in her power to charm; How humbly careful to attract, Though crowned with all the soul desires, Connubial aptitude exact, Diversity that never tires!
IV THE TRIBUTE
Boon Nature to the woman bows; She walks in earth's whole glory clad, And, chiefest far herself of shows, All others help her and are glad: No splendor 'neath the sky's proud dome But serves her for familiar wear; The far-fetched diamond finds its home Flashing and smouldering in her hair; For her the seas their pearls reveal; Art and strange lands her pomp supply With purple, chrome, and cochineal, Ochre, and lapis lazuli; The worm its golden woof presents; Whatever runs, flies, dives, or delves, All doff for her their ornaments, Which suit her better than themselves; And all, by this their power to give, Proving her right to take, proclaim Her beauty's clear prerogative To profit so by Eden's blame.
V NEAREST THE DEAREST
Till Eve was brought to Adam, he A solitary desert trod, Though in the great society Of nature, angels, and of God. If one slight column counterweighs The ocean, 'tis the Maker's law, Who deems obedience better praise Than sacrifice of erring awe.
VI THE FOREIGN LAND
A woman is a foreign land, Of which, though there he settle young, A man will ne'er quite understand The customs, politics, and tongue. The foolish hie them post-haste through, See fashions odd and prospects fair, Learn of the language, "How d'ye do," And go and brag they have been there. The most for leave to trade apply, For once, at Empire's seat, her heart, Then get what knowledge ear and eye Glean chancewise in the life-long mart. And certain others, few and fit, Attach them to the Court, and see The Country's best, its accent hit, And partly sound its polity.
Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]
I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose.
Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns,— The idol of past years!
Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers.
I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon— Her health! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name.
Edward Coote Pinkney [1802-1828]
Her face was very fair to see, So luminous with purity:— It had no roses, but the hue Of lilies lustrous with their dew— Her very soul seemed shining through!
Her quiet nature seemed to be Tuned to each season's harmony. The holy sky bent near to her; She saw a spirit in the stir Of solemn woods. The rills that beat Their mosses with voluptuous feet, Went dripping music through her thought. Sweet impulse came to her unsought From graceful things, and beauty took A sacred meaning in her look.
In the great Master's steps went she With patience and humility. The casual gazer could not guess Half of her veiled loveliness; Yet ah! what precious things lay hid Beneath her bosom's snowy lid:— What tenderness and sympathy, What beauty of sincerity, What fancies chaste, and loves, that grew In heaven's own stainless light and dew!
True woman was she day by day In suffering, toil, and victory. Her life, made holy and serene By faith, was hid with things unseen. She knew what they alone can know Who live above but dwell below.
Horatio Nelson Powers [1826-1890]
Her thoughts are like a flock of butterflies. She has a merry love of little things, And a bright flutter of speech, whereto she brings A threefold eloquence—voice, hands and eyes. Yet under all a subtle silence lies As a bird's heart is hidden by its wings; And you shall search through many wanderings The fairyland of her realities.
She hides herself behind a busy brain— A woman, with a child's laugh in her blood; A maid, wearing the shadow of motherhood— Wise with the quiet memory of old pain, As the soft glamor of remembered rain Hallows the gladness of a sunlit wood.
Brian Hooker [1880-
Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? For these red lips, with all their mournful pride, Mournful that no new wonder may betide, Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam, And Usna's children died.
We and the laboring world are passing by: Amid men's souls, that waver and give place, Like the pale waters in their wintry race, Under the passing stars, foam of the sky, Lives on this lonely face.
Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode: Before you were, or any hearts to beat, Weary and kind one lingered by His seat; He made the world to be a grassy road Before her wandering feet.
William Butler Yeats [1865-
Thus will I have the woman of my dream. Strong must she be and gentle, like a star Her soul burn whitely; nor its arrowy beam
May any cloud of superstition mar: True to the earth she is, patient and calm. Her tranquil eyes shall penetrate afar
Through centuries, and her maternal arm Enfold the generations yet unborn; Nor she, by passing glamor nor alarm,
Will from the steadfast way of life be drawn. Gray-eyed and fearless, I behold her gaze Outward into the furnace of the dawn.
Sacred shall be the purport of her days, Yet human; and the passion of the earth Shall be for her adornment and her praise.
She is most often joyous, with a mirth That rings true-tempered holy womanhood, She cannot fear the agonies of birth,
Nor sit in pallid lethargy and brood Upon the coming seasons of her pain: By her the mystery is understood
Of harvest, and fulfilment in the grain. Yea, she is wont to labor in the field, Delights to heap, at sunset, on the wain
Festoons and coronals of the golden yield. A triumph is the labor of her soul, Sublime along eternity revealed.
Lo, everlastingly in her control, Under the even measure of her breath, Like crested waves the onward centuries roll.
Nor to far heaven her spirit wandereth, Nor lifteth she her voice in barren prayer, Nor trembleth at appearances of death.
She, godlike in her womanhood, will fare Calm-visaged and heroic to the end. The homestead is her most especial care;
She loves the sacred hearth: she will defend Her gods from desecration of the vile. Fierce, like a wounded tigress, she can rend
Whatever may have entered to defile. I see her in the evening by the fire, And in her eyes, illumined from the pile
Of blazing logs, a motherly desire Glows like the moulded passion of a rose; Beautiful is her presence in the bower:
Her spirit is the spirit of repose. Mankind shall hold her motherhood in awe: Woman is she indeed, and not of those
That he with sacramental gold must draw Discreetly to his chamber in the night, Or bind to him with fetters of the law.
He holds her by a spiritual right. With diamond and with pearl he need not sue; Nor will she deck herself for his delight:
Beauty is the adornment of the true. She shall possess for ornament and gem A flower, the glowworm, or the drop of dew:
More innocently fair than all of them, It will not even shame her if she make A coronal of stars her diadem.
Though she is but a vision, I can take Courage from her. I feel her arrowy beam Already, for her spirit is awake,
And passes down the future like a gleam,— Thus have I made the woman of my dream.
Harold Monro [1879-1932]
She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep. Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep. She feeds them on the fragrant height, And folds them in for sleep.
She roams maternal hills and bright, Dark valleys safe and deep. Into that tender breast at night The chastest stars may peep. She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep.
She holds her little thoughts in sight, Though gay they run and leap. She is so circumspect and right; She has her soul to keep. She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep.
Alice Meynell [1853-1922]
Mother and maid and soldier, bearing best Her girl's lithe body under matron gray, And opening new eyes on each new day With faith concealed and courage unconfessed; Jealous to cloak a blessing in a jest, Clothe beauty carefully in disarray, And love absurdly, that no word betray The worship all her deeds make manifest:
Armored in smiles, a motley Britomart— Her lance is high adventure, tipped with scorn; Her banner to the suns and winds unfurled, Washed white with laughter; and beneath her heart, Shrined in a garland of laborious thorn, Blooms the unchanging Rose of all the World.
Brian Hooker [1880-
The little Dreams of Maidenhood— I put them all away As tenderly as mother would The toys of yesterday, When little children grow to men Too over-wise for play.
The little dreams I put aside— I loved them every one, And yet since moon-blown buds must hide Before the noon-day sun, I close them wistfully away And give the key to none.
O little Dreams of Maidenhood— Lie quietly, nor care If some day in an idle mood I, searching unaware Through some closed corner of my heart, Should laugh to find you there.
Theodosia Garrison [1874-
Trusty, dusky, vivid, true, With eyes of gold and bramble-dew, Steel true and blade straight The great Artificer made my mate.
Honor, anger, valor, fire, A love that life could never tire, Death quench, or evil stir, The mighty Master gave to her.
Teacher, tender comrade, wife, A fellow-farer true through life, Heart-whole and soul-free, The August Father gave to me.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
There is a shrine whose golden gate Was opened by the Hand of God; It stands serene, inviolate, Though millions have its pavement trod; As fresh, as when the first sunrise Awoke the lark in Paradise.
'Tis compassed with the dust and toil Of common days, yet should there fall A single speck, a single soil Upon the whiteness of its wall, The angels' tears in tender rain Would make the temple theirs again.
Without, the world is tired and old, But, once within the enchanted door, The mists of time are backward rolled, And creeds and ages are no more; But all the human-hearted meet In one communion vast and sweet.
I enter—all is simply fair, Nor incense-clouds, nor carven throne; But in the fragrant morning air A gentle lady sits alone; My mother—ah! whom should I see Within, save ever only thee?
Digby Mackworth Dolben [1848-1867]
As I went down the hill I heard The laughter of the countryside; For, rain being past, the whole land stirred With new emotion, like a bride. I scarce had left the grassy lane, When something made me catch my breath: A woman called, and called again, Elizabeth! Elizabeth!
It was my mother's name. A part Of wounded memory sprang to tears, And the few violets of my heart Shook in the wind of happier years. Quicker than magic came the face That once was sun and moon for me; The garden shawl, the cap of lace, The collie's head against her knee.
Mother, who findest out a way To pass the sentinels, and stand Behind my chair at close of day, To touch me—almost—with thy hand, Deep in my breast, how sure, how clear, The lamp of love burns on till death!— How trembles if I chance to hear Elizabeth! Elizabeth!
Norman Gale [1862-
I have praised many loved ones in my song, And yet I stand Before her shrine, to whom all things belong, With empty hand.
Perhaps the ripening future holds a time For things unsaid; Not now; men do not celebrate in rhyme Their daily bread.
Theresa Helburn [1888-
Oft in the after days, when thou and I Have fallen from the scope of human view, When, both together, under the sweet sky, We sleep beneath the daisies and the dew, Men will recall thy gracious presence bland, Conning the pictured sweetness of thy face; Will pore o'er paintings by thy plastic hand, And vaunt thy skill and tell thy deeds of grace. Oh, may they then, who crown thee with true bays, Saying, "What love unto her son she bore!" Make this addition to thy perfect praise, "Nor ever yet was mother worshipped more!" So shall I live with Thee, and thy dear fame Shall link my love unto thine honored name.
Julian Fane [1827-1870]
In the dark womb where I began, My mother's life made me a man. Through all the months of human birth Her beauty fed my common earth. I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir, But through the death of some of her.
Down in the darkness of the grave She cannot see the life she gave. For all her love, she cannot tell Whether I use it ill or well, Nor knock at dusty doors to find Her beauty dusty in the mind.
If the grave's gates could be undone, She would not know her little son, I am so grown. If we should meet, She would pass by me in the street, Unless my soul's face let her see My sense of what she did for me.
What have I done to keep in mind My debt to her and womankind? What woman's happier life repays Her for those months of wretched days? For all my mouthless body leeched Ere Birth's releasing hell was reached?
What have I done, or tried, or said In thanks to that dear woman dead? Men triumph over women still, Men trample women's rights at will, And man's lust roves the world untamed... O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed.
John Masefield [1878-
"What, you are stepping westward?"—"Yea." —'Twould be a wildish destiny, If we, who thus together roam In a strange Land, and far from home, Were in this place the guests of Chance: Yet who would stop, or fear to advance Though home or shelter he had none, With such a sky to lead him on?
The dewy ground was dark and cold; Behind, all gloomy to behold; And stepping westward seemed to be A kind of heavenly destiny: I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound Of something without place or bound; And seemed to give me spiritual right To travel through that region bright.
The voice was soft, and she who spake Was walking by her native lake: The salutation had to me The very sound of courtesy: Its power was felt; and while my eye Was fixed upon the glowing Sky, The echo of the voice enwrought A human sweetness with the thought Of travelling through the world that lay Before me in my endless way.
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
(To Queen Elizabeth)
His golden locks Time hath to silver turned; O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing! His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned, But spurned in vain; youth waneth by increasing: Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen; Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.
His helmet now shall make a hive for bees; And lovers' sonnets turned to holy psalms, A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms: But though from court to cottage he depart, His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.
And when he saddest sits in homely cell, He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,— "Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well, Curst be the souls that think her any wrong." Goddess, allow this aged man his right To be your beadsman now that was your knight.
George Peele [1558?-1597?]
The World's a bubble, and the life of Man Less than a span: In his conception wretched,—from the womb, So to the tomb; Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years With cares and fears. Who then to frail mortality shall trust, But limns on water, or but writes in dust.
Yet whilst with sorrow here we live oppressed, What life is best? Courts are but only superficial schools To dandle fools: The rural parts are turned into a den Of savage men; And where's a city from foul vice so free, But may be termed the worst of all the three?
Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, Or pains his head: Those that live single, take it for a curse, Or do things worse: Some would have children; those that have them moan Or wish them gone: What is it, then, to have, or have no wife, But single thraldom, or a double strife?
Our own affections still at home to please Is a disease; To cross the seas to any foreign soil, Peril and toil; Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, We are worse in peace: —What then remains, but that we still should cry For being born, or, being born, to die?
Francis Bacon [1561-1626]
From "Twelfth Night"
When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came to man's estate, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came, alas! to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came unto my beds, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, With toss-pots still had drunken heads; For the rain it raineth every day.
A great while ago the world begun, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, But that's all one, our play is done, And we'll strive to please you every day.
William Shakespeare [1564-1616]
When we for age could neither read nor write, The subject made us able to indite; The soul, with nobler resolutions decked, The body stooping does herself erect. No mortal parts are requisite to raise Her that, unbodied, can her Maker praise.
The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more. For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries.
The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made: Stronger by weakness, wiser, men become As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.
Edmund Waller [1606-1687]
The Night Before His Execution
My prime of youth is but a frost of cares; My feast of joy is but a dish of pain; My crop of corn is but a field of tares; And all my good is but vain hope of gain; The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun; And now I live, and now my life is done!
The spring is past, and yet it is not sprung; The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves be green; My youth is gone, and yet I am but young; I saw the world, and yet I was not seen; My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun; And now I live, and now my life is done!
I sought my death, and found it in my womb; I looked for life, and saw it was a shade; I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb; And now I die, and now I am but made; The glass is full, and now my glass is run; And now I live, and now my life is done!
Chidiock Tichborne [1558?-1586]
In the down-hill of life, when I find I'm declining, May my fate no less fortunate be Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining, And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea; With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, While I carol away idle sorrow, And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn, Look forward with hope for Tomorrow.
With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, As the sunshine or rain may prevail, And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, With a barn for the use of the flail: A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, And a purse when a friend wants to borrow; I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame, Nor what honors may wait him Tomorrow.
From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely Secured by a neighboring hill; And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly By the sound of a murmuring rill. And while peace and plenty I find at my board, With a heart free from sickness and sorrow, With my friends may I share what Today may afford, And let them spread the table Tomorrow.
And when I at last must throw off this frail covering, Which I've worn for three-score years and ten, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering, Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again; But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey, And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; And this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare Today, May become everlasting Tomorrow.
John Collins [1742?-1808]
We've trod the maze of error round, Long wandering in the winding glade; And now the torch of truth is found, It only shows us where we strayed: By long experience taught, we know— Can rightly judge of friends and foes; Can all the worth of these allow, And all the faults discern in those.
Now, 'tis our boast that we can quell The wildest passions in their rage, Can their destructive force repel, And their impetuous wrath assuage.— Ah, Virtue! dost thou arm when now This bold rebellious race are fled? When all these tyrants rest, and thou Art warring with the mighty dead?
George Crabbe [1754-1832]
Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding like a bee,— Both were mine! Life went a-maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy When I was young!
When I was young?—Ah, woful When! Ah, for the change 'twixt Now and Then! This breathing house not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, How lightly then it flashed along:— Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide! Naught cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I lived in't together.
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree; Oh! the joys that came down shower-like, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty Ere I was old!
Ere I was old? Ah, woful Ere, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here! O Youth! for years so many and sweet, 'Tis known that Thou and I were one. I'll think it but a fond conceit— It cannot be that Thou art gone! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled:— And thou wert aye a masker bold! What strange disguise hast now put on To make believe that thou art gone? I see these locks in silvery slips, This drooping gait, this altered size: But Springtide blossoms on thy lips, And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! Life is but thought: so think I will That Youth and I are house-mates still.
Dewdrops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve! Where no hope is, life's a warning That only serves to make us grieve When we are old:
That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking-leave, Like some poor nigh-related guest, That may not rudely be dismissed, Yet hath outstayed his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]
And How He Gained Them
"You are old, Father William," the young man cried; "The few locks which are left you are gray; You are hale, Father William,—a hearty old man: Now tell me the reason, I pray."
"In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remembered that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigor at first, That I never might need them at last."
"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And pleasures with youth pass away; And yet you lament not the days that are gone: Now tell me the reason, I pray."
"In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remembered that youth could not last; I thought of the future, whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past."
"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And life must be hastening away; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death: Now tell me the reason, I pray."
"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied; "Let the cause thy attention engage; In the days of my youth, I remembered my God, And He hath not forgotten my age."
Robert Southey [1774-1843]
Welcome, old friend! These many years Have we lived door by door: The Fates have laid aside their shears Perhaps for some few more.
I was indocile at an age When better boys were taught, But thou at length hast made me sage, If I am sage in aught.
Little I know from other men, Too little they from me, But thou hast pointed well the pen That writes these lines to thee.
Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope, One vile, the other vain; One's scourge, the other's telescope, I shall not see again:
Rather what lies before my feet My notice shall engage.— He who hath braved Youth's dizzy heat Dreads not the frost of Age.
Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]
The leaves are falling; so am I; The few late flowers have moisture in the eye; So have I too. Scarcely on any bough is heard Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird The whole wood through.
Winter may come: he brings but nigher His circle (yearly narrowing) to the fire Where old friends meet. Let him; now heaven is overcast, And spring and summer both are past, And all things sweet.
Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]
Years, many parti-colored years, Some have crept on, and some have flown Since first before me fell those tears I never could see fall alone.
Years, not so many, are to come, Years not so varied, when from you One more will fall: when, carried home, I see it not, nor hear Adieu.
Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]
The more we live, more brief appear Our life's succeeding stages: A day to childhood seems a year, And years like passing ages.
The gladsome current of our youth, Ere passion yet disorders, Steals, lingering like a river smooth Along its grassy borders.
But as the careworn cheek grows wan, And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, Ye Stars, that measure life to man, Why seem your courses quicker?
When joys have lost their bloom and breath, And life itself is vapid, Why, as we reach the Falls of Death, Feel we its tide more rapid?
It may be strange—yet who would change Time's course to slower speeding, When one by one our friends have gone And left our bosoms bleeding?
Heaven gives our years of fading strength Indemnifying fleetness; And those of youth, a seeming length, Proportioned to their sweetness.
Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]
Long time a child, and still a child, when years Had painted manhood on my check, was I,— For yet I lived like one not born to die; A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears, No hope I needed, and I knew no fears. But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep; and waking, I waked to sleep no more; at once o'ertaking The vanguard of my age, with all arrears Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man, Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is gray, For I have lost the race I never ran: A rathe December blights my lagging May; And still I am a child, though I be old: Time is my debtor for my years untold.
Hartley Coleridge [1796-1849]
Few, in the days of early youth, Trusted like me in love and truth. I've learned sad lessons from the years; But slowly, and with many tears; For God made me to kindly view The world that I was passing through.
How little did I once believe That friendly tones could e'er deceive! That kindness, and forbearance long, Might meet ingratitude and wrong! I could not help but kindly view The world that I was passing through.
And though I've learned some souls are base, I would not, therefore, hate the race; I still would bless my fellow men, And trust them, though deceived again. God help me still to kindly view The world that I am passing through!
Through weary conflicts I have passed, And struggled into rest at last; Such rest as when the rack has broke A joint, or nerve, at every stroke. The wish survives to kindly view The world that I am passing through.
From all that fate has brought to me I strive to learn humility, And trust in Him who rules above, Whose universal law is love. Thus only can I kindly view The world that I am passing through.
When I approach the setting sun, And feel my journey nearly done, May earth be veiled in genial light, And her last smile to me seem bright! Help me till then to kindly view The world that I am passing through!
And all who tempt a trusting heart From faith and hope to drift apart,— May they themselves be spared the pain Of losing power to trust again! God help us all to kindly view The world that we are passing through!
Lydia Maria Child [1802-1880]
It is time to be old, To take in sail:— The god of bounds, Who sets to seas a shore, Came to me in his fatal rounds, And said: "No more! No farther shoot Thy broad ambitious branches, and thy root. Fancy departs: no more invent; Contract thy firmament To compass of a tent. There's not enough for this and that, Make thy option which of two; Economize the failing river, Not the less revere the Giver, Leave the many and hold the few. Timely wise accept the terms, Soften the fall with wary foot; A little while Still plan and smile, And,—fault of novel germs,— Mature the unfallen fruit. Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires, Bad husbands of their fires, Who, when they gave thee breath, Failed to bequeath The needful sinew stark as once, The Baresark marrow to thy bones, But left a legacy of ebbing veins, Inconstant heat and nerveless reins,— Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb, Amid the Gladiators, halt and numb."
As the bird trims her to the gale, I trim myself to the storm of time, I man the rudder, reef the sail, Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime: "Lowly faithful, banish fear, Right onward drive unharmed; The port, well worth the cruise, is near, And every wave is charmed."
Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]
Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in his hand Who saith "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"
Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall?" Not that, admiring stars, It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!"
Not for such hopes and fears Annulling youth's brief years, Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without. Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.
Poor vaunt of life indeed, Were man but formed to feed On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: Such feasting ended, then As sure an end to men; Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?
Rejoice we are allied To that which doth provide And not partake, effect and not receive! A spark disturbs our clod; Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must believe.
Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!
For thence,—a paradox Which comforts while it mocks,— Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: What I aspired to be, And was not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.
What is he but a brute Whose flesh has soul to suit, Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? To man, propose this test— Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?
Yet gifts should prove their use: I own the Past profuse Of power each side, perfection every turn: Eyes, ears took in their dole, Brain treasured up the whole: Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn"?
Not once beat "Praise be thine! I see the whole design, I, who saw power, see now Love perfect too: Perfect I call thy plan: Thanks that I was a man! Maker, remake, complete,—I trust what thou shalt do!"
For pleasant is this flesh; Our soul, in its rose-mesh Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest: Would we some prize might hold To match those manifold Possessions of the brute,—gain most, as we did best!
Let us not always say, "Spite of this flesh to-day I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" As the bird wings and sings; Let us cry, "All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!"
Therefore I summon age To grant youth's heritage, Life's struggle having so far reached its term: Thence shall I pass, approved A man, for aye removed From the developed brute; a God though in the germ.
And I shall thereupon Take rest, ere I be gone Once more on my adventure brave and new: Fearless and unperplexed, When I wage battle next, What weapons to select, what armor to indue.
Youth ended, I shall try My gain or loss thereby; Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold: And I shall weigh the same, Give life its praise or blame: Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.
For note, when evening shuts, A certain moment cuts The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: A whisper from the west Shoots—"Add this to the rest, Take it and try its worth: here dies another day."
So, still within this life, Though lifted o'er its strife, Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, "This rage was right i' the main, That acquiescence vain: The Future I may face now I have proved the Past."
For more is not reserved To man, with soul just nerved To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: Here, work enough to watch The Master work, and catch Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play.
As it was better, youth Should strive, through acts uncouth, Toward making, than repose on aught found made: So, better, age, exempt From strife, should know, than tempt Further. Thou waitedest age: wait death nor be afraid!
Enough now, if the Right And Good and Infinite Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, With knowledge absolute, Subject to no dispute From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone.
Be there, for once and all, Severed great minds from small, Announced to each his station in the Past! Was I, the world arraigned, Were they, my soul disdained, Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last!
Now, who shall arbitrate? Ten men love what I hate, Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; Ten, who in ears and eyes Match me: we all surmise, They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe?
Not on the vulgar mass Called "work," must sentence pass, Things done, that took the eye and had the price; O'er which, from level stand, The low world laid its hand, Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:
But all, the world's coarse thumb And finger failed to plumb, So passed in making up the main account; All instincts immature, All purposes unsure, That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount:
Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped; All I could never be, All, men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.
Ay, note that Potter's wheel, That metaphor! and feel Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,— Thou, to whom fools propound, When the wine makes its round, "Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day?"
Fool! All that is, at all, Lasts ever, past recall; Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: What entered into thee, That was, is, and shall be: Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure.
He fixed thee 'mid this dance Of plastic circumstance, This Present, thou, forsooth, would fain arrest: Machinery just meant To give thy soul its bent, Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed.
What though the earlier grooves Which ran the laughing loves Around thy base, no longer pause and press? What though, about thy rim, Scull-things in order grim Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?
Look not thou down but up! To uses of a cup, The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, The new wine's foaming flow, The Master's lips a-glow! Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needest thou with earth's wheel?
But I need, now as then, Thee, God, who mouldest men; And since, not even while the whirl was worst, Did I—to the wheel of life With shapes and colors rife, Bound dizzily,—mistake my end, to slake thy thirst:
So, take and use thy work: Amend what flaws may lurk, What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! My times be in thy hand! Perfect the cup as planned! Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, Crumbling away beneath our very feet; Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing, In current unperceived because so fleet; Sad are our hopes for they were sweet in sowing, But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat; Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing; And still, O still, their dying breath is sweet: And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; And sweet our life's decline, for it hath left us A nearer Good to cure an older Ill: And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them.
Aubrey Thomas de Vere [1814-1902]
From "The Water Babies"
When all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green; And every goose a swan, lad, And every lass a queen; Then hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away; Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day.
When all the world is old, lad, And all the trees are brown; And all the sport is stale, lad, And all the wheels run down: Creep home, and take your place there, The spent and maimed among: God grant you find one face there You loved when all was young.
Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]
Oh, a wonderful stream is the River Time, As it flows through the realm of Tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, And a broader sweep and a surge sublime As it blends with the ocean of Years.
How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow! And the summers like buds between; And the year in the sheaf—so they come and they go On the River's breast with its ebb and flow, As they glide in the shadow and sheen.
There's a magical Isle up the River Time Where the softest of airs are playing; There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a voice as sweet as a vesper chime, And the Junes with the roses are staying.
And the name of this Isle is the Long Ago, And we bury our treasures there; There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow— They are heaps of dust, but we loved them so! There are trinkets and tresses of hair.
There are fragments of song that nobody sings, And a part of an infant's prayer, There's a harp unswept and a lute without strings, There are broken vows and pieces of rings, And the garments that she used to wear.
There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore By the mirage is lifted in air; And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the River is fair.
Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle All the day of our life till night, And when evening comes with its beautiful smile, And our eyes are closing in slumber awhile, May that "Greenwood" of soul be in sight.
Benjamin Franklin Taylor [1819-1887]
What is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, The lustre of the eye? Is it for beauty to forego her wealth? —Yes, but not this alone.
Is it to feel our strength— Not our bloom only, but our strength—decay? Is it to feel each limb Grow stiffer, every function less exact, Each nerve more loosely strung?
Yes, this, and more; but not— Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dreamed 'twould be! 'Tis not to have our life Mellowed and softened as with sunset glow, A golden day's decline.
'Tis not to see the world As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, And heart profoundly stirred; And weep, and feel the fulness of the past, The years that are no more.
It is to spend long days And not once feel that we were ever young; It is to add, immured In the hot prison of the present, month To month with weary pain.
It is to suffer this, And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel. Deep in our hidden heart Festers the dull remembrance of a change, But no emotion—none.
It is!—last stage of all— When we are frozen up within, and quite The phantom of ourselves, To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost Which blessed the living man.
Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]
The clocks are chiming in my heart Their cobweb chime; Old murmurings of days that die, The sob of things a-drifting by. The clocks are chiming in my heart!
The stars have twinkled, and gone out— Fair candles blown! The hot desires burn low, and wan Those ashy fires, that flamed anon. The stars have twinkled, and gone out!
John Galsworthy [1867-1933]
When I was young the twilight seemed too long. How often on the western window-seat I leaned my book against the misty pane And spelled the last enchanting lines again, The while my mother hummed an ancient song, Or sighed a little and said: "The hour is sweet!" When I, rebellious, clamored for the light.
But now I love the soft approach of night, And now with folded hands I sit and dream While all too fleet the hours of twilight seem; And thus I know that I am growing old.
O granaries of Age! O manifold And royal harvest of the common years! There are in all thy treasure-house no ways But lead by soft descent and gradual slope To memories more exquisite than hope. Thine is the Iris born of olden tears, And thrice more happy are the happy days That live divinely in the lingering rays.
A. Mary F. Robinson [1857-
Youth hath many charms,— Hath many joys, and much delight; Even its doubts, and vague alarms, By contrast make it bright: And yet—and yet—forsooth, I love Age as well as Youth!
Well, since I love them both, The good of both I will combine,— In women, I will look for Youth, And look for Age, in wine: And then—and then—I'll bless This twain that gives me happiness!
George Arnold [1834-1865]
Forty years on, when afar and asunder Parted are those who are singing today, When you look back, and forgetfully wonder What you were like in your work and your play; Then, it may be, there will often come o'er you Glimpses of notes like the catch of a song— Visions of boyhood shall float them before you, Echoes of dreamland shall bear them along. Follow up! Follow up! Follow up! Follow up! Till the field ring again and again, With the tramp of the twenty-two men, Follow up! Follow up!
Routs and discomfitures, rushes and rallies, Bases attempted, and rescued, and won, Strife without anger, and art without malice,— How will it seem to you forty years on? Then, you will say, not a feverish minute Strained the weak heart, and the wavering knee, Never the battle raged hottest, but in it Neither the last nor the faintest were we! Follow up! Follow up!
O the great days, in the distance enchanted, Days of fresh air, in the rain and the sun, How we rejoiced as we struggled and panted— Hardly believable forty years on! How we discoursed of them, one with another, Auguring triumph, or balancing fate, Loved the ally with the heart of a brother, Hated the foe with a playing at hate! Follow up! Follow up!
Forty years on, growing older and older, Shorter in wind, and in memory long, Feeble of foot and rheumatic of shoulder, What will it help you that once you were strong? God gives us bases to guard or beleaguer, Games to play out, whether earnest or fun, Fights for the fearless, and goals for the eager, Twenty, and thirty, and forty years on! Follow up! Follow up!
Edward Ernest Bowen [1836-1901]
The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof, (This is the end of every song man sings!) The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain, Bitter as wormwood and as salt as pain; And health and hope have gone the way of love Into the drear oblivion of lost things. Ghosts go along with us until the end; This was a mistress, this, perhaps, a friend. With pale, indifferent eyes, we sit and wait For the dropped curtain and the closing gate: This is the end of all the songs man sings.
Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]
A Variation On Ronsard
"Le temps s'en va, le temps s'en va, ma dame! Las! le temps non: mais nous nous en allons!"
Time goes, you say? Ah no! Alas, Time stays, we go; Or else, were this not so, What need to chain the hours, For Youth were always ours? Time goes, you say?—ah no!
Ours is the eyes' deceit Of men whose flying feet Lead through some landscape low; We pass, and think we see The earth's fixed surface flee:— Alas, Time stays—we go!
Once in the days of old, Your locks were curling gold, And mine had shamed the crow. Now, in the self-same stage, We've reached the silver age; Time goes, you say?—ah no!
Once, when my voice was strong, I filled the woods with song To praise your "rose" and "snow"; My bird, that sang, is dead; Where are your roses fled? Alas, Time stays—we go!
See, in what traversed ways, What backward Fate delays The hopes we used to know; Where are our old desires?— Ah, where those vanished fires? Time goes, you say?—ah no!
How far, how far, O sweet, The past behind our feet Lies in the even-glow! Now, on the forward way, Let us fold hands, and pray; Alas, Time stays,—we go!
Austin Dobson [1840-1921]
Snow and stars, the same as ever In the days when I was young,— But their silver song, ah never, Never now is sung!
Cold the stars are, cold the earth is, Everything is grim and cold! Strange and drear the sound of mirth is— Life and I are old!
William Winter [1836-1917]
Dawn drives the dreams away, yet some abide. Once, in a tide of pale and sunless weather, I dreamed I wandered on a bare hillside, When suddenly the birds sang all together.
Still it was Winter, even in the dream; There was no leaf nor bud nor young grass springing; The skies shone cold above the frost-bound stream: It was not Spring, and yet the birds were singing.
Blackbird and thrush and plaintive willow-wren, Chaffinch and lark and linnet, all were calling; A golden web of music held me then, Innumerable voices, rising, falling.
O, never do the birds of April sing More sweet than in that dream I still remember: Perchance the heart may keep its songs of Spring Even through the wintry dream of life's December.
Rosamund Marriott Watson [1863-1911]
Full happy is the man who comes at last Into the safe completion of his year; Weathered the perils of his spring, that blast How many blossoms promising and dear! And of his summer, with dread passions fraught That oft, like fire through the ripening corn, Blight all with mocking death and leave distraught Loved ones to mourn the ruined waste forlorn. But now, though autumn gave but harvest slight, Oh, grateful is he to the powers above For winter's sunshine, and the lengthened night By hearth-side genial with the warmth of love. Through silvered days of vistas gold and green Contentedly he glides away, serene.
Timothy Cole [1852-1931]
Ye are young, ye are young, I am old, I am old; And the song has been sung And the story been told.
Your locks are as brown As the mavis in May, Your hearts are as warm As the sunshine to-day, But mine white and cold As the snow on the brae.
And Love, like a flower, Is growing for you, Hands clasping, lips meeting, Hearts beating so true; While Fame like a star In the midnight afar Is flashing for you.
For you the To-come, But for me the Gone-by, You are panting to live, I am waiting to die; The meadow is empty, No flower groweth high, And naught but a socket The face of the sky.
Yea, how so we dream, Or how bravely we do; The end is the same, Be we traitor or true: And after the bloom And the passion is past, Death cometh at last.
Richard Le Gallienne [1866-
There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, There's no rain left in heaven; I've said my "seven times" over and over, Seven times one are seven.
I am old, so old, I can write a letter; My birthday lessons are done; The lambs play always, they know no better; They are only one times one.
O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low; You were bright! ah, bright! but your light is failing,— You are nothing now but a bow.
You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven That God has hidden your face? I hope if you have, you will soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place.
O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, You've powdered your legs with gold! O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold!
O columbine, open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell? O cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell!
And show me your nest with the young ones in it; I will not steal them away; I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet,— I am seven times one to-day.
You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges Come over, come over to me.
Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days
"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, While a boy listened alone; Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone.
Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, And mine, they are yet to be; No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: You leave the story to me.
The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather Preparing her hoods of snow; She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: Oh! children take long to grow.
I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late; And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait.
I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head; "The child is a woman, the book may close over, For all the lessons are said."
I wait for my story,—the birds cannot sing it, Not one, as he sits on the tree; The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh, bring it! Such as I wish it to be.
Seven Times Three.—LOVE
I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover, Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate, "Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover,— Hush, nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale, wait Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near, For my love he is late!
"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? Let the star-clusters grow, Let the sweet waters flow, And cross quickly to me.
"You night-moths that hover, where honey brims over From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep; You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. Ah, my sailor, make haste, For the time runs to waste, And my love lieth deep,—
"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover, Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight; But I'll love him more, more Than e'er wife loved before, Be the days dark or bright.
Seven Times Four.—MATERNITY
Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses, And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small! Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, Eager to gather them all.
Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups; Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow,"— Sing once, and sing it again.
Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow; A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters, Maybe he thinks of you now.
Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall! Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, God that is over us all!
Seven Times Five.—WIDOWHOOD
I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan Before I am well awake; "Let me bleed! O let me alone, Since I must not break!"
For children wake, though fathers sleep With a stone at foot and at head: O sleepless God, forever keep, Keep both living and dead!
I lift mine eyes, and what to see But a world happy and fair! I have not wished it to mourn with me,— Comfort is not there.
Oh, what anear but golden brooms, But a waste of reedy rills! Oh, what afar but the fine glooms On the rare blue hills!
I shall not die, but live forlore,— How bitter it is to part! Oh, to meet thee, my love, once more! O my heart, my heart!
No more to hear, no more to see! Oh, that an echo might wake And waft one note of thy psalm to me Ere my heart-strings break!
I should know it how faint soe'er, And with angel voices blent; Oh, once to feel thy spirit anear; I could be content!
Or once between the gates of gold, While an entering angel trod, But once,—thee sitting to behold On the hills of God!
Seven Times Six.—GIVING IN MARRIAGE
To bear, to nurse, to rear, To watch, and then to lose: To see my bright ones disappear, Drawn up like morning dews,— To bear, to nurse, to rear, To watch and then to lose: This have I done when God drew near Among his own to choose.
To hear, to heed, to wed, And with thy lord depart In tears, that he, as soon as shed, Will let no longer smart,— To hear, to heed, to wed, This while thou didst I smiled, For now it was not God who said, "Mother, give ME thy child."
O fond, O fool, and blind! To God I gave with tears; But when a man like grace would find, My soul put by her fears,— O fond, O fool, and blind! God guards in happier spheres; That man will guard where he did bind Is hope for unknown years.
To hear, to heed, to wed, Fair lot that maidens choose, Thy mother's tenderest words are said, Thy face no more she views; Thy mother's lot, my dear, She doth in naught accuse; Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, To love,—and then to lose.
Seven Times Seven.—LONGING FOR HOME
A song of a boat:— There was once a boat on a billow: Lightly she rocked to her port remote, And the foam was white in her wake like snow, And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow, And bent like a wand of willow.
I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat Went curtsying over the billow, I marked her course till a dancing mote, She faded out on the moonlit foam, And I stayed behind in the dear-loved home; And my thoughts all day were about the boat, And my dreams upon the pillow.
I pray you hear my song of a boat For it is but short:— My boat you shall find none fairer afloat, In river or port. Long I looked out for the lad she bore, On the open desolate sea, And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, For he came not back to me— Ah me!
A song of a nest:— There was once a nest in a hollow: Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, Soft and warm and full to the brim— Vetches leaned over it purple, and dim, With buttercup buds to follow.
I pray you hear my song of a nest, For it is not long:— You shall never light in a summer quest The bushes among— Shall never light on a prouder sitter, A fairer nestful, nor ever know A softer sound than their tender twitter, That wind-like did come and go.
I had a nestful once of my own, Ah, happy, happy I! Right dearly I loved them; but when they were grown They spread out their wings to fly— Oh, one after one they flew away Far up to the heavenly blue, To the better country, the upper day, And—I wish I was going too.
I pray you what is the nest to me, My empty nest? And what is the shore where I stood to see My boat sail down to the west? Can I call that home where I anchor yet, Though my good man has sailed? Can I call that home where my nest was set, Now all its hope hath failed?
Nay, but the port where my sailor went, And the land where my nestlings be: There is the home where my thoughts are sent The only home for me— Ah me!
Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]
My heart, I cannot still it, Nest that had song-birds in it; And when the last shall go, The dreary days, to fill it, Instead of lark or linnet, Shall whirl dead leaves and snow.
Had they been swallows only, Without the passion stronger That skyward longs and sings,— Woe's me, I shall be lonely When I can feel no longer The impatience of their wings!
A moment, sweet delusion, Like birds the brown leaves hover; But it will not be long Before their wild confusion Fall wavering down to cover The poet and his song.
James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]
Shined in my Angel-infancy! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy aught But a white, celestial thought; When yet I had not walked above A mile or two from my first Love, And looking back, at that short space, Could see a glimpse of His bright face; When on some gilded cloud or flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity; Before I taught my tongue to wound My Conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to every sense; But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness.
O how I long to travel back, And tread again that ancient track! That I might once more reach that plain Where first I left my glorious train; From whence the enlightened spirit sees That shady City of Palm-trees. But ah! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way! Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move; And, when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return.
Henry Vaughan [1622-1695]
Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell; Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between; Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart One moment through thy soul the soft surprise Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,— Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti [1828-1882]
When to the garden of untroubled thought I came of late, and saw the open door, And wished again to enter, and explore The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought, And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught, It seemed some purer voice must speak before I dared to tread that garden loved of yore, That Eden lost unknown and found unsought. Then just within the gate I saw a child,— A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear,— Who held his hands to me and softly smiled With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear; "Come in," he said, "and play awhile with me; I am the little child you used to be."
Henry Van Dyke [1852-1933]
My thoughts by night are often filled With visions false as fair: For in the Past alone I build My castles in the air.
I dwell not now on what may be; Night shadows o'er the scene; But still my fancy wanders free Through that which might have been.
Thomas Love Peacock [1785-1866]
Across the fields of yesterday He sometimes comes to me, A little lad just back from play— The lad I used to be.
And yet he smiles so wistfully Once he has crept within, I wonder if he hopes to see The man I might have been.
Thomas S. Jones, Jr. [1882-1932]
Where are they gone, and do you know If they come back at fall o' dew, The little ghosts of long ago, That long ago were you?
And all the songs that ne'er were sung. And all the dreams that ne'er came true, Like little children dying young— Do they come back to you?
Thomas S. Jones, Jr. [1882-1932]
Children, do you ever, In walks by land or sea, Meet a little maiden Long time lost to me?
She is gay and gladsome, Has a laughing face, And a heart as sunny; And her name is Grace.
Naught she knows of sorrow, Naught of doubt or blight; Heaven is just above her— All her thoughts are white.
Long time since I lost her, That other Me of mine; She crossed, into Time's shadow Out of Youth's sunshine.
Now the darkness keeps her; And, call her as I will, The years that lie between us Hide her from me still.
I am dull and pain-worn, And lonely as can be— Oh, children, if you meet her, Send back my other Me!
Grace Denio Litchfield [1849-
Under my keel another boat Sails as I sail, floats as I float; Silent and dim and mystic still, It steals through that weird nether-world, Mocking my power, though at my will The foam before its prow is curled, Or calm it lies, with canvas furled.
Vainly I peer, and fain would see What phantom in that boat may be; Yet half I dread, lest I with ruth Some ghost of my dead past divine, Some gracious shape of my lost youth, Whose deathless eyes once fixed on mine Would draw me downward through the brine!
Arlo Bates [1850-1918]
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone; Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye.
Mull was astern, Rum on the port, Eigg on the starboard bow; Glory of youth glowed in his soul: Where is that glory now?
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone; Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye.
Give me again all that was there, Give me the sun that shone! Give me the eyes, give me the soul, Give me the lad that's gone!
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone; Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye.
Billow and breeze, islands and seas, Mountains of rain and sun, All that was good, all that was fair, All that was me is gone.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
"I'm growing old, I've sixty years; I've labored all my life in vain. In all that time of hopes and fears, I've failed my dearest wish to gain. I see full well that here below Bliss unalloyed there is for none; My prayer would else fulfilment know— Never have I seen Carcassonne!
"You see the city from the hill, It lies beyond the mountains blue; And yet to reach it one must still Five long and weary leagues pursue, And, to return, as many more. Had but the vintage plenteous grown— But, ah! the grape withheld its store. I shall not look on Carcassonne!
"They tell me every day is there Not more or less than Sunday gay; In shining robes and garments fair The people walk upon their way. One gazes there on castle walls As grand as those of Babylon, A bishop and two generals! What joy to dwell in Carcassonne!
"The vicar's right: he says that we Are ever wayward, weak, and blind; He tells us in his homily Ambition ruins all mankind; Yet could I there two days have spent, While still the autumn sweetly shone, Ah, me! I might have died content When I had looked on Carcassonne.
"Thy pardon, Father, I beseech, In this my prayer if I offend; One something sees beyond his reach From childhood to his journey's end. My wife, our little boy, Aignan, Have travelled even to Narbonne; My grandchild has seen Perpignan; And I—have not seen Carcassonne!"
So crooned, one day, close by Limoux, A peasant, double-bent with age. "Rise up, my friend," said I; "with you I'll go upon this pilgrimage." We left, next morning, his abode, But (Heaven forgive him!) half-way on The old man died upon the road. He never gazed on Carcassonne.
Translated by John R. Thompson from the French of Gustave Nadaud [1820-? ]
Old Sorrow I shall meet again, And Joy, perchance—but never, never, Happy Childhood, shall we twain See each other's face forever!
And yet I would not call thee back, Dear Childhood, lest the sight of me, Thine old companion, on the rack Of Age, should sadden even thee.
John Banister Tabb [1845-1909]
Once, when I was little, as the summer night was falling, Among the purple upland fields I lost my barefoot way; The road to home was hidden fast, and frightful shadows, crawling Along the sky-line, swallowed up the last kind light of day; And then I seemed to hear you In the twilight; and be near you; Seemed to hear your dear voice calling— Through the meadows, calling, calling— And I followed and I found you, Flung my tired arms around you, And rested on the mother-breast, returned, tired out from play.
Down the days from that day, though I trod strange paths unheeding, Though I chased the jack-o'-lanterns of so many maddened years, Though I never looked behind me, where the home-lights were receding, Though I never looked enough ahead to ken the Inn of Fears; Still I knew your heart was near me, That your ear was strained to hear me, That your love would need no pleading To forgive me, but was pleading Of its self that, in disaster, I should run to you the faster And be sure that I was dearer for your sacrifice of tears.
Now on life's last Summertime the long last dusk is falling, And I, who trod one way so long, can tread no other way Until at death's dim crossroads I watch, hesitant, the crawling Night-passages that maze me with the ultimate dismay. Then when Death and Doubt shall blind me— Even then—I know you'll find me: I shall hear you, Mother, calling— Hear you calling—calling—calling: I shall fight and follow—find you Though the grave-clothes swathe and bind you, And I know your love will answer: "Here's my laddie home from play!"
Reginald Wright Kauffman [1877-
The world was wide when I was young, My schoolday hills and dales among; But, oh, it needs no Puck to put, With whipping wing and flying foot, A girdle 'round the narrow sphere In which I labor now and here!
Life's face was fair when careless I First loved beneath an April sky, And wept those fine-imagined woes That youth at nineteen thinks it knows; Now love and woe both run so deep I have not any time to weep.
No matter; though at last we see That what was could not always be, It girds our loins and steels our hands In duller days and smaller lands To recollect the country where The world was wide and life was fair.
Reginald Wright Kauffman [1877-
There is a temple in my heart Where moth or rust can never come, A temple swept and set apart, To make my soul a home.
And round about the doors of it Hang garlands that forever last, That gathered once are always sweet; The roses of the Past!
A. Mary F. Robinson [1857-
Like the ghost of a dear friend dead Is Time long past. A tone which is now forever fled, A hope which is now forever past, A love so sweet it could not last, Was Time long past.
There were sweet dreams in the night Of Time long past: And, was it sadness or delight, Each day a shadow onward cast Which made us wish it yet might last,— That Time long past.
There is regret, almost remorse, For Time long past. 'Tis like a child's beloved corse A father watches, till at last Beauty is like remembrance, cast From Time long past.
Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]
I remember, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away.
I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups— Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,— The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And though the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, The summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow.
I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy.
Thomas Hood [1799-1845]
Often I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth, are long, long thoughts."
I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the sea-fight far away, How it thundered o'er the tide! And the dead captains, as they lay In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering's Woods; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighborhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts"
Strange to me are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]
Voice of the western wind! Thou singest from afar, Rich with the music of a land Where all my memories are; But in thy song I only hear The echo of a tone That fell divinely on my ear In days forever flown.
Star of the western sky! Thou beamest from afar, With lustre caught from eyes I knew Whose orbs were each a star; But, oh, those orbs—too wildly bright— No more eclipse thine own, And never shall I find the light Of days forever flown!
Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]
Langsyne, when life was bonnie, An' a' the skies were blue, When ilka thocht took blossom, An' hung its heid wi' dew, When winter wasna winter, Though snaws cam' happin' doon, Langsyne, when life was bonnie, Spring gaed a twalmonth roun'.
Langsyne, when life was bonnie, An' a' the days were lang; When through them ran the music That comes to us in sang, We never wearied liltin' The auld love-laden tune; Langsyne, when life was bonnie, Love gaed a twalmonth roun'.
Langsyne, when life was bonnie, An' a' the warld was fair, The leaves were green wi' simmer, For autumn wasna there. But listen hoo they rustle, Wi' an eerie, weary soun', For noo, alas, 'tis winter That gangs a twalmonth roun'.
Alexander Anderson [1845-1909]
I do be thinking, lassie, of the old days now; For oh! your hair is tangled gold above your Irish brow; And oh! your eyes are fairy flax! no other eyes so blue; Come nestle in my arms, and swing upon the shoogy-shoo.
Sweet and slow, swinging low, eyes of Irish blue, All my heart is swinging, dear, swinging here with you; Irish eyes are like the flax, and mine are wet with dew, Thinking of the old days upon the shoogy-shoo.
When meadow-larks would singing be in old Glentair, Was one sweet lass had eyes of blue and tangled golden hair; She was a wee bit girleen then, dear heart, the like of you, When we two swung the braes among, upon the shoogy-shoo.
Ah well, the world goes up and down, and some sweet day Its shoogy-shoo will swing us two where sighs will pass away; So nestle close your bonnie head, and close your eyes so true, And swing with me, and memory, upon the shoogy-shoo.
Sweet and slow, swinging low, eyes of Irish blue, All my heart is swinging, dear, swinging here with you; Irish eyes are like the flax, and mine are wet with dew, Thinking of the old days upon the shoogy-shoo.
Winthrop Packard [1862-
"We shall meet again in Babylon."
I'm going softly all my years in wisdom if in pain— For, oh, the music stirs my blood as once it did before, And still I hear in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The dancing feet in Babylon, of those who took my floor.
I'm going silent all my years, but garnered in my brain Is that swift wit which used to flash and cut them like a sword— And now I hear in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The foolish tongues in Babylon, of those who took my word.
I'm going lonely all my days, who was the first to crave The second, fierce, unsteady voice, that struggled to speak free— And now I watch in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The pallid loves in Babylon of men who once loved me.
I'm sleeping early by a flame as one content and gray, But, oh, I dream a dream of dreams beneath a winter moon, I breathe the breath of Babylon, of Babylon, of Babylon, The scent of silks in Babylon that floated to a tune.
A band of years has flogged me out—an exile's fate is mine, To sit with mumbling crones and still a heart that cries with youth. But, oh, to walk in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The happy streets in Babylon, when once the dream was truth.
Viola Taylor [18
The old wind stirs the hawthorn tree; The tree is blossoming; Northward the road runs to the sea, And past the House of Spring.
The folk go down it unafraid; The still roofs rise before; When you were lad and I was maid, Wide open stood the door.
Now, other children crowd the stair, And hunt from room to room; Outside, under the hawthorn fair, We pluck the thorny bloom.
Out in the quiet road we stand, Shut in from wharf and mart, The old wind blowing up the land, The old thoughts at our heart.
Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]
There is a pity in forgotten things, Banished the heart they can no longer fill, Since restless Fancy, spreading swallow wings, Must seek new pleasures still!
There is a patience, too, in things forgot; They wait—they find the portal long unused; And knocking there, it shall refuse them not,— Nor aught shall be refused!
Ah, yes! though we, unheeding years on years, In alien pledges spend the heart's estate, They bide some blessed moment of quick tears— Some moment without date—
Some gleam on flower, or leaf, or beaded dew, Some tremble at the ear of memoried sound Of mother-song,—they seize the slender clew,— The old loves gather round!
When that which lured us once now lureth not, But the tired hands their garnered dross let fall, This is the triumph of the things forgot— To hear the tired heart call!
And they are with us at Life's farthest reach, A light when into shadow all else dips, As, in the stranger's land, their native speech Returns to dying lips!
Edith M. Thomas [1854-1925]
Men say the sullen instrument, That, from the Master's bow, With pangs of joy or woe, Feels music's soul through every fibre sent, Whispers the ravished strings More than he knew or meant; Old summers in its memory glow; The secrets of the wind it sings; It hears the April-loosened springs; And mixes with its mood All it dreamed when it stood In the murmurous pine-wood Long ago!
The magical moonlight then Steeped every bough and cone; The roar of the brook in the glen Came dim from the distance blown; The wind through its glooms sang low, And it swayed to and fro, With delight as it stood, In the wonderful wood, Long ago!
O my life, have we not had seasons That only said, Live and rejoice? That asked not for causes and reasons, But made us all feeling and voice? When we went with the winds in their blowing, When Nature and we were peers, And we seemed to share in the flowing Of the inexhaustible years? Have we not from the earth drawn juices Too fine for earth's sordid uses? Have I heard, have I seen All I feel, all I know? Doth my heart overween? Or could it have been Long ago?
Sometimes a breath floats by me, An odor from Dreamland sent, That makes the ghost seem nigh me Of a splendor that came and went, Of a life lived somewhere, I know not In what diviner sphere, Of memories that stay not and go not, Like music heard once by an ear That cannot forget or reclaim it, A something so shy, it would shame it To make it a show, A something too vague, could I name it, For others to know, As if I had lived it or dreamed it, As if I had acted or schemed it, Long ago!
And yet, could I live it over, This life that stirs in my brain, Could I be both maiden and lover, Moon and tide, bee and clover, As I seem to have been, once again, Could I but speak it and show it, This pleasure more sharp than pain, That baffles and lures me so, The world should once more have a poet, Such as it had In the ages glad, Long ago!
James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]
Sing we for love and idleness, Naught else is worth the having. Though I have been in many a land, There is naught else in living.
And I would rather have my sweet, Though rose-leaves die of grieving, Than do high deeds in Hungary To pass all men's believing.
Ezra Pound [1885-
"A cup for hope!" she said, In springtime ere the bloom was old: The crimson wine was poor and cold By her mouth's richer red.
"A cup for love!" how low, How soft the words; and all the while Her blush was rippling with a smile Like summer after snow.
"A cup for memory!" Cold cup that one must drain alone: While autumn winds are up and moan Across the barren sea.
Hope, memory, love: Hope for fair morn, and love for day, And memory for the evening gray And solitary dove.
Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]
I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful schooldays,— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I loved a Love once, fairest among women: Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her,— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood. Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces—
How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed,— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
Charles Lamb [1775-1834]
Oft in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.
When I remember all The friends, so linked together, I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed! Thus in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.
Thomas Moore [1779-1852]
From "The Princess"
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more!
Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]
"... the name
Which from their lips seemed a caress."
—-Miss Milford's "Dramatic Scenes"
I have a name, a little name, Uncadenced for the ear, Unhonored by ancestral claim, Unsanctified by prayer and psalm The solemn font anear.
It never did to pages wove For gay romance belong; It never dedicate did move As "Sacharissa" unto love, "Orinda" unto song.
Though I write books, it will be read Upon the leaves of none, And afterward, when I am dead, Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread, Across my funeral-stone.
This name, whoever chance to call, Perhaps your smile may win: Nay, do not smile! mine eyelids fall Over mine eyes and feel withal The sudden tears within.
Is there a leaf, that greenly grows Where summer meadows bloom, But gathereth the winter snows, And changeth to the hue of those, If lasting till they come?
Is there a word, or jest, or game, But time incrusteth round With sad associate thoughts the same? And so to me my very name Assumes a mournful sound.
My brother gave that name to me When we were children twain, When names acquired baptismally Were hard to utter, as to see That life had any pain.
No shade was on us then, save one Of chestnuts from the hill; And through the word our laugh did run As part thereof: the mirth being done, He calls me by it still.
Nay, do not smile! I hear in it What none of you can hear,— The talk upon the willow seat, The bird and wind that did repeat Around, our human cheer.
I hear the birthday's noisy bliss My sisters' woodland glee, My father's praise I did not miss When stooping down, he cared to kiss The poet at his knee,—
And voices which, to name me, aye Their tenderest tones were keeping,— To some I nevermore can say An answer till God wipes away In heaven these drops of weeping.
My name to me a sadness wears: No murmurs cross my mind— Now God be thanked for these thick tears, Which show, of those departed years, Sweet memories left behind.
Now God be thanked for years enwrought With love which softens yet: Now God be thanked for every thought Which is so tender it has caught Earth's guerdon of regret.
Earth saddens, never shall remove Affections purely given; And e'en that mortal grief shall prove The immortality of love, And heighten it with Heaven.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]
Who reach their threescore years and ten, As I have mine, without a sigh, Are either more or less than men— Not such am I.
I am not of them; life to me Has been a strange, bewildering dream, Wherein I knew not things that be From things that seem.
I thought, I hoped, I knew one thing, And had one gift, when I was young— The impulse and the power to sing, And so I sung.
To have a place in the high choir Of poets, and deserve the same— What more could mortal man desire Than poet's fame?
I sought it long, but never found; The choir so full was and so strong The jubilant voices there, they drowned My simple song.
Men would not hear me then, and now I care not, I accept my fate, When white hairs thatch the furrowed brow Crowns come too late!
The best of life went long ago From me; it was not much at best; Only the love that young hearts know, The dear unrest.
Back on my past, through gathering tears, Once more I cast my eyes, and see Bright shapes that in my better years Surrounded me!
They left me here, they left me there, Went down dark pathways, one by one— The wise, the great, the young, the fair; But I went on.
And I go on! And bad or good, The old allotted years of men I have endured as best I could, Threescore and ten!
Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]
When the humid shadows hover Over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness Gently weeps in rainy tears, What a bliss to press the pillow Of a cottage-chamber bed, And to listen to the patter Of the soft rain overhead!
Every tinkle on the shingles Has an echo in the heart; And a thousand dreamy fancies Into busy being start, And a thousand recollections Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter Of the rain upon the roof.
Now in memory comes my mother, As she used, in years agone, To regard the darling dreamers Ere she left them till the dawn; And I feel her fond look on me, As I list to this refrain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain.
Then my little seraph sister, With her wings and waving hair, And her star-eyed cherub brother— A serene angelic pair— Glide around my wakeful pillow, With their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur Of the soft rain on the roof.
And another comes, to thrill me With her eyes' delicious blue; And I mind not, musing on her, That her heart was all untrue: I remember but to love her With a passion kin to pain, And my heart's quick pulses vibrate To the patter of the rain.
Art hath naught of tone or cadence That can work with such a spell In the soul's mysterious fountains, Whence the tears of rapture well, As that melody of nature, That subdued, subduing strain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain.
Coates Kinney [1826-1904]
Here, in my snug little fire-lit chamber, Sit I alone: And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember Days long agone. Saddening it is when the night has descended, Thus to sit here, Pensively musing on episodes ended Many a year.
Still in my visions a golden-haired glory Flits to and fro; She whom I loved—but 'tis just the old story: Dead, long ago. 'Tis but a wraith of love; yet I linger (Thus passion errs), Foolishly kissing the ring on my finger— Once it was hers.
Nothing has changed since her spirit departed, Here, in this room Save I, who, weary, and half broken-hearted, Sit in the gloom. Loud 'gainst the window the winter rain dashes, Dreary and cold; Over the floor the red fire-light flashes Just as of old.
Just as of old—but the embers are scattered, Whose ruddy blaze Flashed o'er the floor where the fairy feet pattered In other days! Then, her dear voice, like a silver chime ringing, Melted away; Often these walls have re-echoed her singing, Now hushed for aye!
Why should love bring naught but sorrow, I wonder? Everything dies! Time and death, sooner or later, must sunder Holiest ties. Years have rolled by; I am wiser and older— Wiser, but yet Not till my heart and its feelings grow colder, Can I forget.
So, in my snug little fire-lit chamber, Sit I alone; And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember Days long agone!
George Arnold [1834-1865]
Oh for one hour of youthful joy! Give back my twentieth spring! I'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy, Than reign, a gray-beard king.
Off with the spoils of wrinkled age! Away with Learning's crown! Tear out life's Wisdom-written page, And dash its trophies down!
One moment let my life-blood stream From boyhood's fount of flame! Give me one giddy, reeling dream Of life all love and fame!
My listening angel heard the prayer, And, calmly smiling, said, "If I but touch thy silvered hair, Thy hasty wish hath sped.
"But is there nothing in thy track To bid thee fondly stay, While the swift seasons hurry back To find the wished-for day?"
"Ah, truest soul of womankind! Without thee what were life? One bliss I cannot leave behind: I'll take—my—precious—wife!"
The angel took a sapphire pen And wrote in rainbow dew, The man would be a boy again, And be a husband, too!
"And is there nothing yet unsaid, Before the change appears? Remember, all their gifts have fled With those dissolving years."
"Why, yes;" for memory would recall My fond paternal joys; "I could not bear to leave them all— I'll take—my—girl—and—boys."
The smiling angel dropped his pen,— "Why, this will never do; The man would be a boy again, And be a father, too!"
And so I laughed,—my laughter woke The household with its noise,— And wrote my dream, when morning broke, To please the gray-haired boys.
Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]
After Beranger
With pensive eyes the little room I view, Where, in my youth, I weathered it so long; With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two, And a light heart still breaking into song: Making a mock of life, and all its cares, Rich in the glory of my rising sun, Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs, In the brave days when I was twenty-one.
Yes; 'tis a garret—let him know't who will— There was my bed—full hard it was and small; My table there—and I decipher still Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall. Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away, Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun; For you I pawned my watch how many a day, In the brave days when I was twenty-one.
And see my little Jessy, first of all; She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes: Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise; Now by the bed her petticoat glides down, And when did woman look the worse in none? I have heard since who paid for many a gown, In the brave days when I was twenty-one.
One jolly evening, when my friends and I Made happy music with our songs and cheers, A shout of triumph mounted up thus high, And distant cannon opened on our ears: We rise,—we join in the triumphant strain,— Napoleon conquers—Austerlitz is won— Tyrants shall never tread us down again, In the brave days when I was twenty-one.
Let us begone—the place is sad and strange— How far, far off, these happy times appear; All that I have to live I'd gladly change For one such month as I have wasted here— To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power, From founts of hope that never will outrun, And drink all life's quintessence in an hour, Give me the days when I was twenty-one!
William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne.
We twa hae rin about the braes, And pu'd the gowans fine; But we've wandered monie a weary fit Sin' auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae mornin' sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roared Sin' auld lang syne.
And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught For auld lang syne.
And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine, And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne!
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again, just for to-night! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;— Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years! I am so weary of toil and of tears,— Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,— Take them, and give me my childhood again! I have grown weary of dust and decay,— Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; Weary of sowing for others to reap;— Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you! Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between: Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain, Long I to-night for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep;— Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Over my heart, in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shone; No other worship abides and endures,— Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours: None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;— Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold. Fall on your shoulders again as of old; Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Shading my faint eyes away from the light; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;— Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listened your lullaby song: Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream. Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep;— Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well— The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well— The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet would tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. And now, far removed from the loved habitation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well— The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!
Samuel Woodworth [1785-1842]
Lithe and long as the serpent train, Springing and clinging from tree to tree, Now darting upward, now down again, With a twist and a twirl that are strange to see; Never took serpent a deadlier hold, Never the cougar a wilder spring, Strangling the oak with the boa's fold, Spanning the beach with the condor's wing.
Yet no foe that we fear to seek,— The boy leaps wild to thy rude embrace; Thy bulging arms bear as soft a cheek As ever on lover's breast found place; On thy waving train is a playful hold Thou shalt never to lighter grasp persuade; While a maiden sits in thy drooping fold, And swings and sings in the noonday shade!
O giant strange of our Southern woods! I dream of thee still in the well-known spot, Though our vessel strains o'er the ocean floods, And the Northern forest beholds thee not; I think of thee still with a sweet regret, As the cordage yields to my playful grasp,— Dost thou spring and cling in our woodlands yet? Does the maiden still swing in thy giant clasp?
William Gilmore Simms [1806-1870]
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep, And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know Before we could remember anything but the eyes Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise; But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle, And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore, When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore, Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide That gazed back at me so gay and glorified, It made me love myself as I leaped to caress My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness. But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days When the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways, How pleasant was the journey down the old dusty lane, Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole They was lots o' fun on hand at the old swimmin'-hole. But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.
Thare the bulrushes growed, and the cattails so tall, And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all; And it mottled the worter with amber and gold Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled; And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky, Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle As it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place, The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face; The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot. And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be— But never again will theyr shade shelter me! And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul, And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.
James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]
I've wandered to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree, Upon the schoolhouse playground, that sheltered you and me; But none were there to greet me, Tom; and few were left to know, Who played with us upon that green some forty years ago.
The grass is just as green, Tom; barefooted boys at play Were sporting, just as we did then, with spirits just as gay. But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o'er with snow, Afforded us a sliding-place some forty years ago.
The old schoolhouse is altered some; the benches are replaced By new ones, very like the same our jackknives once defaced; But the same old bricks are in the wall, the bell swings to and fro; Its music's just the same, dear Tom, 'twas forty years ago.
The boys were playing some old game, beneath that same old tree; I have forgot the name just now—you've played the same with me, On that same spot; 'twas played with knives, by throwing so and so; The loser had a task to do, there, forty years ago.
The river's running just as still; the willows on its side Are larger than they were, Tom; the stream appears less wide; But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau, And swung our sweethearts—pretty girls—just forty years ago.
The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech, Is very low—'twas then so high that we could scarcely reach; And, kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so, To see how sadly I am changed since forty years ago.
Near by that spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name, Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same; Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 'twas dying sure but slow, Just as she died, whose name you cut, some forty years ago.
My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came to my eyes; I thought of her I loved so well, those early broken ties; I visited the old churchyard, and took some flowers to strow Upon the graves of those we loved some forty years ago.
Some are in the churchyard laid, some sleep beneath the sea, And none are left of our old class, excepting you and me; But when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go, I hope we'll meet with those we loved some forty years ago.
Unknown [Sometimes called "Twenty Years Ago." Claimed for A. J. Gault (1818-1903) by his family]
Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,— Sweet Alice whose hair was so Brown, Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown? In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and alone, They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray, And Alice lies under the stone.
Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, Which stood at the foot of the hill, Together we've lain in the noonday shade, And listened to Appleton's mill. The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, The rafters have tumbled in, And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze Has followed the olden din.
Do you mind of the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt. At the edge of the pathless wood, And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs, Which nigh by the doorstep stood? The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, The tree you would seek for in vain; And where once the lords of the forest waved Are grass and the golden grain.
And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, With the master so cruel and grim, And the shaded nook in the running brook Where the children went to swim? Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, The spring of the brook is dry, And of all the boys who were schoolmates then There are only you and I.
There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, They have changed from the old to the new; But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth, There never was change in you. Twelvemonths twenty have passed, Ben Bolt, Since first we were friends—yet I hail Your presence a blessing, your friendship a truth, Ben Bolt of the salt-sea gale.
Thomas Dunn English [1819-1902]
Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on, To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]
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TO LITTLE RENEE ON FIRST SEEING HER LYING IN HER CRADLE
"JOHNNY SHALL HAVE A NEW BONNET"
THE CITY MOUSE AND THE GARDEN MOUSE
"WHEN GOOD KING ARTHUR RULED THIS LAND"
THE OWL, THE EEL AND THE WARMING-PAN
THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF COCK ROBIN
"GOLDEN SLUMBERS KISS YOUR EYES"
MOTHER-SONG FROM "PRINCE LUCIFER"
"HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE"
THE REFORMATION OF GODFREY GORE
HOW THE LITTLE KITE LEARNED TO FLY
THE STORY OF AUGUSTUS, WHO WOULD NOT HAVE ANY SOUP
THE STORY OF LITTLE SUCK-A-THUMB
WRITTEN IN A LITTLE LADY'S LITTLE ALBUM
"WHAT DOES LITTLE BIRDIE SAY?"
SIR LARK AND KING SUN: A PARABLE
GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP
"GOD REST YOU MERRY, GENTLEMEN"
"WHILE SHEPHERDS WATCHED THEIR FLOCKS BY NIGHT"
"BRIGHTEST AND BEST OF THE SONS OF THE MORNING"
ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY
"OH! WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE THEIR HEADS?"
THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T. C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS
ON THE PICTURE OF A "CHILD TIRED OF PLAY"
TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME
TO PETRONILLA WHO HAS PUT UP HER HAIR
STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA
ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR
"BEFORE THE BEGINNING OF YEARS"
ODE ON THE INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY
"WHEN THAT I WAS AND A LITTLE TINY BOY"
OF THE LAST VERSES IN THE BOOK
THE WORLD I AM PASSING THROUGH
Happy those early days, when I
LANGSYNE, WHEN LIFE WAS BONNIE"
THE TRIUMPH OF FORGOTTEN THINGS
"AH, HOW SWEET IT IS TO LOVE!"
"O, LOVE IS NOT A SUMMER MOOD"
"LOVE ONCE WAS LIKE AN APRIL DAWN"
"FAIR IS MY LOVE FOR APRIL'S IN HER FACE"
DAMELUS' SONG OF HIS DIAPHENIA
ON CHLORIS WALKING IN THE SNOW
"THERE IS A LADY SWEET AND KIND"
TO CYNTHIA ON CONCEALMENT OF HER BEAUTY
"TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE"
"O MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET"
"MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET"
JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUNBLANE
"IF SHE BE MADE OF WHITE AND RED"
VILLANELLE OF HIS LADY'S TREASURES
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD
"WRONG NOT, SWEET EMPRESS OF MY HEART"
"THERE IS NONE, O NONE BUT YOU"
"WERE MY HEART AS SOME MEN'S ARE"
TO A LADY ASKING HIM HOW LONG HE WOULD LOVE HER
TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING
"HOW CAN THE HEART FORGET HER"
TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA
"LOVE NOT ME FOR COMELY GRACE"
"WHEN, DEAREST, I BUT THINK OF THEE"
"LOVE IN THY YOUTH, FAIR MAID"
"O NANCY! WILT THOU GO WITH ME"
"O WERE MY LOVE YON LILAC FAIR"
"BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS"
ARE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING SPIRITS?
"OR EVER THE KNIGHTLY YEARS WERE GONE"
"BE YE IN LOVE WITH APRIL-TIDE"
"MY HEART SHALL BE THY GARDEN"
"I LOVE MY LIFE, BUT NOT TOO WELL"
"TAKE, O TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY"
"COME, CHLOE, AND GIVE ME SWEET KISSES"
"I FEAR THY KISSES, GENTLE MAIDEN"
Alfred Perceval Graves [1846-1931]
"I ASKED MY FAIR, ONE HAPPY DAY"
"THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING"
"WHERE BE YOU GOING, YOU DEVON MAID"
"OWRE THE MUIR AMANG THE HEATHER"
"THE DULE'S I' THIS BONNET O' MINE"
THE CONSTANT SWAIN AND VIRTUOUS MAID
"LOVE WHO WILL, FOR I'LL LOVE NONE"
DISPRAISE OF LOVE, AND LOVERS' FOLLIES
WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS
"I LATELY VOWED, BUT 'TWAS IN HASTE"
WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN
"ALONG THE FIELD AS WE CAME BY"
"THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES"
"TRIPPING DOWN THE FIELD-PATH"
Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]
"NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE"
"A LITTLE WHILE I FAIN WOULD LINGER YET"
NON SUM QUALIS ERAM BONAE SUB REGNO CYNARAE
"WHEN MY BELOVED SLEEPING LIES"
TO LUCASTA, GOING BEYOND THE SEAS
SONG TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY, GOING OUT OF THE TOWN IN THE SPRING
"MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR"
"LOUDOUN'S BONNIE WOODS AND BRAES"
"O SWALLOW, SWALLOW, FLYING SOUTH"
THE LOVER THINKS OF HIS LADY IN THE NORTH
"FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER"
"LOVE CAME BACK AT FALL O' DEW"
"GRANDMITHER, THINK NOT I FORGET"
"MOTHER, I CANNOT MIND MY WHEEL"
"WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY"
"SHE WAS YOUNG AND BLITHE AND FAIR"
THE SONG OF THE KING'S MINSTREL
THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW
ON A PICTURE BY POUSSIN REPRESENTING
"OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM"
"HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD"
SARRAZINE'S SONG TO HER DEAD LOVER
"WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME"
"LYDIA IS GONE THIS MANY A YEAR"
"THE LITTLE ROSE IS DUST, MY DEAR"
"WHEN DEATH TO EITHER SHALL COME"
"IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE, MY LOVE"
"O, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR!"
"WERE I AS BASE AS IS THE LOWLY PLAIN"
TO ONE WHO WOULD MAKE A CONFESSION
"WERE BUT MY SPIRIT LOOSED UPON THE AIR"
"HERE IS THE PLACE WHERE LOVELINESS KEEPS HOUSE"
"IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE"
"WHEN DAFFODILS BEGIN TO PEER"
"WHEN SPRING COMES BACK TO ENGLAND"
"WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN"
WOOD AND FIELD AND RUNNING BROOK
I DO NOT COUNT THE HOURSS I SPEND
"WHEN IN THE WOODS I WANDER ALL ALONE"
"THE GIRT WOAK TREE THAT'S IN THE DELL"
THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE
"I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD"
TO DAISIES, NOT TO SHUT SO SOON
TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW
ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET
TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET
"O NIGHTINGALE! THOU SURELY ART"
TO A SWALLOW BUILDING UNDER OUR EAVES
"WITH SHIPS THE SEA WAS SPRINKLED"
"A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA"
"ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP"
AN ODE TO MASTER ANTHONY STAFFORD
"THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN"
"TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY PENT"
"I FEAR NO POWER A WOMAN WIELDS"
FAMILIAR VERSE, AND POEMS HUMOROUS AND SATIRIC
THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN
A TERNARIE OF LITTLES, UPON A PIPKIN OF JELLY SENT TO A LADY
ON AN INTAGLIO HEAD OF MINERVA
TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING
TO A PAIR OF EGYPTIAN SLIPPERS
ON THE FLY-LEAF OF A BOOK OF OLD PLAYS
THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN
ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH
THE SYCOPHANTIC FOX AND THE GULLIBLE RAVEN
THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER
VILLON'S STRAIGHT TIP TO ALL CROSS COVES
THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH
UP AT A VILLA—DOWN IN THE CITY
AN ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS
THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE, OR THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY"
THE BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT
THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS
"AS LIKE THE WOMAN AS YOU CAN"
THE WOMAN WITH THE SERPENT'S TONGUE
THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE
FRAGMENT IN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH
THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL
|
|
A LITTLE WHILE I FAIN WOULD LINGER YET
A TERNARIE OF LITTLES, UPON A PIPKIN OF JELLY SENT TO A LADY
Alfred Perceval Graves [1846-1931]
AN ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS
AN ODE TO MASTER ANTHONY STAFFORD
ARE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING SPIRITS?
BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS
BRIGHTEST AND BEST OF THE SONS OF THE MORNING
COME, CHLOE, AND GIVE ME SWEET KISSES
DAMELUS' SONG OF HIS DIAPHENIA
DISPRAISE OF LOVE, AND LOVERS' FOLLIES
Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]
FAIR IS MY LOVE FOR APRIL'S IN HER FACE
FAMILIAR VERSE, AND POEMS HUMOROUS AND SATIRIC
FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER
FRAGMENT IN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH
GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP
GOLDEN SLUMBERS KISS YOUR EYES
GRANDMITHER, THINK NOT I FORGET
Happy those early days, when I
HERE IS THE PLACE WHERE LOVELINESS KEEPS HOUSE
HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD
HOW THE LITTLE KITE LEARNED TO FLY
I ASKED MY FAIR, ONE HAPPY DAY
I DO NOT COUNT THE HOURSS I SPEND
I FEAR NO POWER A WOMAN WIELDS
I FEAR THY KISSES, GENTLE MAIDEN
I LATELY VOWED, BUT 'TWAS IN HASTE
I LOVE MY LIFE, BUT NOT TOO WELL
IF SHE BE MADE OF WHITE AND RED
IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE, MY LOVE
IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE
JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUNBLANE
JOHNNY SHALL HAVE A NEW BONNET
LANGSYNE, WHEN LIFE WAS BONNIE
LOUDOUN'S BONNIE WOODS AND BRAES
LOVE ONCE WAS LIKE AN APRIL DAWN
LOVE WHO WILL, FOR I'LL LOVE NONE
LYDIA IS GONE THIS MANY A YEAR
MOTHER, I CANNOT MIND MY WHEEL
MOTHER-SONG FROM "PRINCE LUCIFER
MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET
MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR
NON SUM QUALIS ERAM BONAE SUB REGNO CYNARAE
O NIGHTINGALE! THOU SURELY ART
O SWALLOW, SWALLOW, FLYING SOUTH
O, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR!
ODE ON THE INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY
OF THE LAST VERSES IN THE BOOK
OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM
OH! WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE THEIR HEADS?
ON A PICTURE BY POUSSIN REPRESENTING
ON AN INTAGLIO HEAD OF MINERVA
ON CHLORIS WALKING IN THE SNOW
ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH
ON THE FLY-LEAF OF A BOOK OF OLD PLAYS
ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET
ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY
ON THE PICTURE OF A "CHILD TIRED OF PLAY
ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR
OR EVER THE KNIGHTLY YEARS WERE GONE
OWRE THE MUIR AMANG THE HEATHER
ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP
SARRAZINE'S SONG TO HER DEAD LOVER
SHE WAS YOUNG AND BLITHE AND FAIR
SIR LARK AND KING SUN: A PARABLE
SONG TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY, GOING OUT OF THE TOWN IN THE SPRING
STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA
TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE
THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH
THE BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT
THE CITY MOUSE AND THE GARDEN MOUSE
THE CONSTANT SWAIN AND VIRTUOUS MAID
THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS
THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE, OR THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY
THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF COCK ROBIN
THE DULE'S I' THIS BONNET O' MINE
THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN
THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER
THE GIRT WOAK TREE THAT'S IN THE DELL
THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL
THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW
THE LITTLE ROSE IS DUST, MY DEAR
THE LOVER THINKS OF HIS LADY IN THE NORTH
THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN
THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN
THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD
THE OWL, THE EEL AND THE WARMING-PAN
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T. C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS
THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE
THE REFORMATION OF GODFREY GORE
THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE
THE SONG OF THE KING'S MINSTREL
THE STORY OF AUGUSTUS, WHO WOULD NOT HAVE ANY SOUP
THE STORY OF LITTLE SUCK-A-THUMB
THE SYCOPHANTIC FOX AND THE GULLIBLE RAVEN
THE TRIUMPH OF FORGOTTEN THINGS
THE WOMAN WITH THE SERPENT'S TONGUE
THE WORLD I AM PASSING THROUGH
THERE IS A LADY SWEET AND KIND
TO A LADY ASKING HIM HOW LONG HE WOULD LOVE HER
TO A PAIR OF EGYPTIAN SLIPPERS
TO A SWALLOW BUILDING UNDER OUR EAVES
TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING
TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING
TO CYNTHIA ON CONCEALMENT OF HER BEAUTY
TO DAISIES, NOT TO SHUT SO SOON
TO LITTLE RENEE ON FIRST SEEING HER LYING IN HER CRADLE
TO LUCASTA, GOING BEYOND THE SEAS
TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY PENT
TO ONE WHO WOULD MAKE A CONFESSION
TO PETRONILLA WHO HAS PUT UP HER HAIR
TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW
TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA
TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET
TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME
UP AT A VILLA—DOWN IN THE CITY
VILLANELLE OF HIS LADY'S TREASURES
VILLON'S STRAIGHT TIP TO ALL CROSS COVES
WERE BUT MY SPIRIT LOOSED UPON THE AIR
WERE I AS BASE AS IS THE LOWLY PLAIN
WERE MY HEART AS SOME MEN'S ARE
WHEN DEATH TO EITHER SHALL COME
WHEN GOOD KING ARTHUR RULED THIS LAND
WHEN IN THE WOODS I WANDER ALL ALONE
WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY
WHEN SPRING COMES BACK TO ENGLAND
WHEN THAT I WAS AND A LITTLE TINY BOY
WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN
WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN
WHEN, DEAREST, I BUT THINK OF THEE
WHERE BE YOU GOING, YOU DEVON MAID
WHILE SHEPHERDS WATCHED THEIR FLOCKS BY NIGHT
WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS
WITH SHIPS THE SEA WAS SPRINKLED
WOOD AND FIELD AND RUNNING BROOK
WRITTEN IN A LITTLE LADY'S LITTLE ALBUM
WRONG NOT, SWEET EMPRESS OF MY HEART
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