Chapter IX: Part II (5)

Forthwith alighting on the ground,
'Whence comes,' said I, 'that piteous moan?'
And there a little girl I found,
Sitting behind the chaise alone.

'My cloak!' no other word she spake,
But loud and bitterly she wept,
As if her innocent heart would break;
And down from off her seat she leapt.

'What ails you, child?'--she sobb'd, 'Look here!'
I saw it in the wheel entangled,
A weather-beaten rag as e'er
From any garden scarecrow dangled.

There, twisted between nave and spoke,
It hung, nor could at once be freed;
But our joint pains unloosed the cloak,
A miserable rag indeed!

'And whither are you going, child,
To-night, along these lonesome ways?'
'To Durham,' answer'd she, half wild--
'Then come with me into the chaise.'

Insensible to all relief
Sat the poor girl, and forth did send
Sob after sob, as if her grief
Could never, never have an end.

'My child, in Durham do you dwell?'
She check'd herself in her distress,
And said, 'My name is Alice Fell;
I'm fatherless and motherless.

'And I to Durham, sir, belong.'
Again, as if the thought would choke
Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
And all was for her tatter'd cloak!

The chaise drove on; our journey's end
Was nigh; and, sitting by my side,
As if she had lost her only friends,
She wept, nor would be pacified.

Up to the tavern door we post;
Of Alice and her grief I told;
And I gave money to the host,
To buy a new cloak for the old:

'And let it be of duffil grey,
As warm a cloak as man can sell!'
Proud creature was she the next day,
The little orphan, Alice Fell!

_W. Wordsworth_

CLVII

_THE FIRST SWALLOW_

The gorse is yellow on the heath,
The banks with speedwell flowers are gay,
The oaks are budding, and, beneath,
The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,
The silver wreath, of May.

The welcome guest of settled Spring,
The swallow, too, has come at last;
Just at sunset, when thrushes sing,
I saw her dash with rapid wing,
And hail'd her as she past.

Come, summer visitant, attach
To my reed roof your nest of clay,
And let my ear your music catch,
Low twittering underneath the thatch
At the grey dawn of day.

_C. Smith_

CLVIII

_THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD_

They grew in beauty side by side,
They fill'd one home with glee;--
Their graves are sever'd far and wide,--
By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow:
She had each folded flower in sight,--
Where are those dreamers now?

One, midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid--
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one--
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where Southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain:
He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one--o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest who play'd
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee;

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth!--
Alas for love! if _thou_ wert all,
And naught beyond, O, Earth!

_F. Hemans_

CLIX

_THE THRUSH'S NEST_

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush,
That overhung a mole-hill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound
With joy; and oft, an unintruding guest,
I watch'd her secret toils from day to day,
How true she warp'd the moss to form her nest,
And modell'd it within with wool and clay.
And bye and bye, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers,
Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue;
And there I witness'd, in the summer hours,
A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

_J. Clare_

CLX

_THE LAST OF THE FLOCK_

1

In distant countries have I been,
And yet I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full grown,
Weep in the public roads alone;
But such a one, on English ground,
And in the broad highway I met;
Along the broad highway he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet;
Sturdy he seem'd, though he was sad;
And in his arms a lamb he had.

2

He saw me, and he turn'd aside,
As if he wish'd himself to hide:
And with his coat did then essay
To wipe those briny tears away.
I follow'd him and said, 'My friend,
What ails you! wherefore weep you so?'
--'Shame on me, sir! this lusty lamb,
He makes my tears to flow.
To-day I fetch'd him from the rock;
He is the last of all my flock.

3

'When I was young, a single man,
And after youthful follies ran,
Though little given to care and thought,
Yet so it was, an ewe I bought;
And other sheep from her I raised,
As healthy sheep as you might see;
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;
Of sheep I number'd a full score,
And every year increas'd my store.

4

'Year after year my stock it grew;
And from this one, this single ewe,
Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
As fine a flock as ever grazed!
Upon the Quantock Hills they fed;
They throve, and we at home did thrive:
--This lusty lamb of all my store
Is all that is alive;
And now I care not if we die,
And perish all of poverty.

5

'Six children, sir, had I to feed;
Hard labour, in a time of need!
My pride was tamed, and in our grief,
I of the parish ask'd relief,
They said I was a wealthy man;
My sheep upon the uplands fed,
And it was fit that thence I took
Whereof to buy us bread.
'Do this; how can we give to you,'
They cried, 'what to the poor is due?'

6

'I sold a sheep, as they had said,
And bought my little children bread,
And they were healthy with their food;
For me--it never did me good.
A woful time it was for me,
To see the end of all my gains,
The pretty flock which I had rear'd
With all my care and pains,
To see it melt like snow away--
For me it was a woful day.

7

Another still! and still another!
A little lamb, and then its mother!
It was a vein that never stopp'd--
Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd,
Till thirty were not left alive;
They dwindled, dwindled, one by one;
And I may say that many a time
I wish'd they all were gone;
Reckless of what might come at last,
Were but the bitter struggle past.

8

To wicked deeds I was inclined,
And wicked fancies cross'd my mind;
And every man I chanced to see,
I thought he knew some ill of me.
No peace, no comfort could I find,
No ease within doors or without;
And crazily and wearily
I went my work about;
And oft was moved to flee from home
And hide my head where wild beasts roam.

9

'Sir, 'twas a precious flock to me,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store
I loved my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time;
God cursed me in my sore distress;
I pray'd, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;
And every week, and every day,
My flock it seem'd to melt away;
They dwindled, sir, sad sight to see
From ten to five, from five to three,
A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;
And then at last from three to two;
And, of my fifty, yesterday
I had but only one:
And here it lies upon my arm,
Alas, and I have none;
To-day I fetch'd it from the rock--
It is the last of all my flock.'

_W. Wordsworth_

CLXI

_THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST_

Little Ellie sits alone
'Mid the beeches of a meadow,
By a stream-side on the grass;
And the trees are showering down
Doubles of their leaves in shadow
On her shining hair and face.

She has thrown her bonnet by;
And her feet she has been dipping
In the shallow waters' flow--
Now she holds them nakedly
In her hands, all sleek and dripping,
While she rocketh to and fro.

Little Ellie sits alone,
And the smile she softly useth
Fills the silence like a speech:
While she thinks what shall be done,
And the sweetest pleasure chooseth
For her future, within reach.

Little Ellie in her smile
Chooseth--'I will have a lover,
Riding on a steed of steeds!
He shall love me without guile;
And to _him_ I will discover
That swan's nest among the reeds.

'And the steed it shall be red-roan,
And the lover shall be noble,
With an eye that takes the breath,
And the lute he plays upon
Shall strike ladies into trouble,
As his sword strikes men to death.

'And the steed it shall be shod
All in silver, housed in azure,
And the mane shall swim the wind;
And the hoofs along the sod
Shall flash onward and keep measure,
Till the shepherds look behind.

'He will kiss me on the mouth
Then, and lead me as a lover,
Through the crowds that praise his deeds;
And, when soul-tied by one troth,
Unto _him_ I will discover
That swan's nest among the reeds.'

Little Ellie, with her smile
Not yet ended, rose up gaily,--
Tied the bonnet, donn'd the shoe,
And went homeward round a mile,
Just to see, as she did daily,
What more eggs were with the two.

Pushing through the elm-tree copse,
Winding by the stream, light-hearted,
Where the osier pathway leads--
Past the boughs she stoops and stops:
Lo! the wild swan had deserted,
And a rat had gnaw'd the reeds.

Ellie went home sad and slow.
If she found the lover ever,
With his red-roan steed of steeds,
Sooth I know not! but I know
She could never show him--never,
That swan's nest among the reeds.

_E. B. Browning_

CLXII

_SONG_

I wander'd by the brook-side,
I wander'd by the mill,--
I could not hear the brook flow,
The noisy wheel was still;
There was no burr of grasshopper,
Nor chirp of any bird;
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree,
I watch'd the long, long shade.
And as it grew still longer
I did not feel afraid;
For I listen'd for a foot-fall,
I listen'd for a word,--
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,--no, he came not;
The night came on alone;
The little stars sat one by one
Each on his golden throne;
The evening air pass'd by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirr'd,--
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing,
When some one stood behind;
A hand was on my shoulder,
I knew its touch was kind:
It drew me nearer, nearer;
We did not speak a word,--
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

_R. M. Milnes_

CLXIII

_TIMOTHY_

Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!
Not a soul in the village this morning will stay:
The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.'

Of coats and of jackets, grey, scarlet, and green,
On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;
With their comely blue aprons and caps white as snow,
The girls on the hills make a holiday show.

Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before,
Fill'd the funeral basin at Timothy's door;
A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past;
One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last.

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark! away!
Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut,
With a leisurely motion, the door of his hut.

Perhaps to himself at that moment he said;
'The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead.'
But of this, in my ears, not a word did he speak;
And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.

_W. Wordsworth_

CLXIV

_THE SLEEPING BEAUTY_

1--THE MAGIC SLEEP

1

Year after year unto her feet,
She lying on her couch alone,
Across the purple coverlet,
The maiden's jet-black hair has grown,
On either side her tranced form
Forth streaming from a braid of pearl:
The slumbrous light is rich and warm,
And moves not on the rounded curl.

2

The silk star-broider'd coverlid
Unto her limbs itself doth mould,
Languidly ever; and, amid
Her full black ringlets downward roll'd,
Glows forth each softly shadow'd arm
With bracelets of the diamond bright:
Her constant beauty doth inform
Stillness with love, and day with light.

3

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard
In palace chambers far apart.
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd,
That lie upon her charmed heart.
She sleeps: on either hand upswells
The gold-fringed pillow lightly press'd:
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells
A perfect form in perfect rest.

II--THE FAIRY PRINCE'S ARRIVAL

1

A touch, a kiss! the charm was snapt,
There rose a noise of striking clocks,
And feet that ran and doors that clapt,
And barking dogs, and crowing cocks;
A fuller light illumin'd all,
A breeze through all the garden swept,
A sudden hubbub shook the hall,
And sixty feet the fountain leapt.

2

The hedge broke in, the banner blew,
The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd,
The fire shot up, the martin flew,
The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd,
The maid and page renew'd their strife,
The palace bang'd and buzz'd and clackt,
And all the long pent stream of life
Dash'd downward in a cataract.

3

And last with these the king awoke,
And in his chair himself uprear'd,
And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke,
'By holy rood, a royal beard!
How say you? we have slept, my lords.
My beard has grown into my lap.'
The barons swore, with many words,
'Twas but an after-dinner's nap.

4

'Pardy,' return'd the king, 'but still
My joints are something stiff or so.
My Lord, and shall we pass the bill
I mention'd half an hour ago?'
The chancellor sedate and vain
In courteous words return'd reply:
But dallied with his golden chain,
And, smiling, put the question by.

_A. Tennyson_

CLXV

_CHORAL SONG OF ILLYRIAN PEASANTS_

Up! up! ye dames, ye lasses gay!
To the meadows trip away.
Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,
And scare the small birds from the corn.
Not a soul at home may stay:
For the shepherds must go
With lance and bow
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Leave the hearth and leave the house
To the cricket and the mouse:
Find grannam out a sunny seat,
With babe and lambkin at her feet.
Not a soul at home may stay:
For the shepherds must go
With lance and bow
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

_S. T. Coleridge_

CLXVI

_THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB_

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold,
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever were still.

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
But through them there roll'd not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail,
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

_Lord Byron_

CLXVII

_THE WIDOW BIRD_

A widow bird sate mourning for her love
Upon a wintry bough;
The frozen wind crept on above,
The freezing stream below.

There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
No flower upon the ground,
And little motion in the air
Except the mill-wheel's sound.

_P. B. Shelley_

CLXVIII

_DORA_

With farmer Allan at the farm abode
William and Dora. William was his son,
And she his niece. He often look'd at them,
And often thought, 'I'll make them man and wife.'
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,
And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because
He had been always with her in the house,
Thought not of Dora.
Then there came a day
When Allan call'd his son, and said: 'My son,
I married late, but I would wish to see
My grandchild on my knees before I die:
And I have set my heart upon a match.
Now therefore look to Dora; she is well
To look to; thrifty too, beyond her age.
She is my brother's daughter: he and I
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred
His daughter Dora: take her for your wife;
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day,
For many years.' But William answer'd short:
'I cannot marry Dora; by my life,
I will not marry Dora.' Then the old man
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:
'You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!
But in my time a father's word was law,
And so it shall be now for me. Look to't;
Consider, William; take a month to think,
And let me have an answer to my wish;
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack
And nevermore darken my doors again!'
But William answer'd madly, bit his lips,
And broke away. The more he look'd at her
The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before
The month was out he left his father's house,
And hired himself to work within the fields;
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed
A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.
Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd
His niece and said: 'My girl, I love you well;
But if you speak with him that was my son,
Or change a word with her he calls his wife,
My home is none of yours. My will is law.'
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,
'It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change.'
And days went on, and there was born a boy
To William; then distresses came on him;
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate,
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not.
But Dora stored what little she could save,
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know
Who sent it; till at last a fever seized
On William, and in harvest-time he died.
Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:
'I have obey'd my uncle until now,
And I have sinn'd, for it was all through me
This evil came on William at the first.
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,
And for your sake, the woman that he chose,
And for this orphan, I am come to you:
You know there has not been for these five years
So full a harvest: let me take the boy,
And I will set him in my uncle's eye
Among the wheat; that, when his heart is glad
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy,
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.'
And Dora took the child, and went her way
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound
That was unsown, where many poppies grew.
Far off the farmer came into the field
And spied her not; for none of all his men
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child;
And Dora would have risen and gone to him,
But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
But when the morrow came, she rose and took
The child once more, and sat upon the mound;
And made a little wreath of all the flowers
That grew about, and tied it on his hat
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field
He spied her, and he left his men at work
And came and said, 'Where were you yesterday?
Whose child is that? what are you doing here?'
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,
And answer'd softly, 'This is William's child.'
'And did I not,' said Allan, 'did I not
Forbid you, Dora?' Dora said again:
'Do with me as you will, but take the child
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.'
And Allan said: 'I see it is a trick
Got up betwixt you and the woman there.
I must be taught my duty, and by you!
You knew my word was law, and yet you dared
To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy;
But go you hence, and never see me more.'
So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands,
And the boy's cry came to her from the field.
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head,
Remembering the day when first she came,
And all the things that had been. She bow'd down
And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd,
And the sun fell and all the land was dark.
Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise
To God that help'd her in her widowhood.
And Dora said: 'My uncle took the boy;
But, Mary, let me live and work with you:
He says that he will never see me more.'
Then answer'd Mary, 'This shall never be,
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight
His mother: therefore thou and I will go,
And I will have my boy, and bring him home;
And I will beg of him to take thee back;
And if he will not take thee back again,
Then thou and I will live within one house,
And work for William's child until he grows
Of age to help us.'
So the women kiss'd
Each other, and set out and reach'd the farm.
The door was off the latch; they peep'd and saw
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,
Like one that loved him: and the lad stretch'd out
And babbled for the golden seal that hung
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.
Then they came in; but when the boy beheld
His mother, he cried out to come to her:
And Allan sat him down, and Mary said:
'O Father!--if you let me call me so--
I never came a-begging for myself,
Or William, or this child; but now I come
For Dora: take her back; she loves you well;
O Sir, when William died, he died at peace
With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said,
He could not ever rue his marrying me.
I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said
That he was wrong to cross his father thus:
"God bless him!" he said, "and may he never know
The troubles I have gone through!" then he turn'd
His face and pass'd--unhappy that I am!
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you
Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight
His father's memory; and take Dora back,
And let all this be as it was before.'
So Mary said, and Dora hid her face
By Mary. There was silence in the room,
And all at once the old man burst in sobs:--
'I have been to blame--to blame! I have kill'd my son!
I have kill'd him--but I loved him--my dear son!
May God forgive me!--I have been to blame.
Kiss me, my children!'
Then they clung about
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times,
And all the man was broken with remorse;
And all his love came back a hundredfold;
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child,
Thinking of William.
So those four abode
Within one house together; and as years
Went forward, Mary took another mate;
But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

_A. Tennyson_

CLXIX

_A WITCH_

_Spoken by a Countryman_

There's that old hag Moll Brown, look, see, just past!
I wish the ugly sly old witch
Would tumble over in the ditch;
I wouldn't pick her out not very fast.
I don't think she's belied, 'tis clear's the sun
That she's a witch if ever there was one.
Yes, I do know just hereabout of two
Or three folk that have learnt what Moll can do.
She did, one time, a pretty deal of harm
To Farmer Gruff's folks, down at Lower Farm.
One day, you know, they happen'd to offend her,
And not a little to their sorrow,
Because they would not give or lend her
The thing she came to beg or borrow;
And so, you know, they soon began to find
That she'd a-left her evil wish behind.
She soon bewitch'd them; and she had such power,
That she did make their milk and ale turn sour,
And addle all the eggs their fowls did lay;
They couldn't fetch the butter in the churn,
And cheeses soon began to turn
All back again to curds and whey.
The little pigs a-running with the sow
Did sicken somehow, nobody knew how,
And fall, and turn their snouts towards the sky,
And only give one little grunt and die;
And all the little ducks and chicken
Were death-struck while they were a-pickin'
Their food, and fell upon their head,
And flapp'd their wings and dropp'd down dead.
They couldn't fat the calves; they wouldn't thrive;
They couldn't save their lambs alive;
Their sheep all took the rot and gave no wool;
Their horses fell away to skin and bones,
And got so weak they couldn't pull
A half a peck of stones;
The dog got dead-alive and drowsy,
The cat fell sick and wouldn't mousey;
And if the wretched souls went up to bed
The hag did come and ride them all half dead.
They used to keep her out o' the house 'tis true,
A-nailing up at door a horse's shoe;
And I've a-heard the farmer's wife did try
To drive a needle or a pin
In through her old hard wither'd skin
And draw her blood, a-coming by;
But she could never fetch a drop,
She bent the pin and broke the needle's top
Against her skin, you know, and that, in course,
Did only make the hag bewitch them worse.

_W. Barnes_

CLXX

_NURSERY RHYMES_

1

Jenny Wren fell sick;
Upon a merry time,
In came Robin Redbreast,
And brought her sops of wine

Eat well of the sop, Jenny,
Drink well of the wine;
Thank you Robin kindly,
You shall be mine.

Jenny she got well,
And stood upon her feet,
And told Robin plainly
She loved him not a bit.

Robin, being angry,
Hopp'd on a twig,
Saying, Out upon you,
Fye upon you, bold-faced jig!

2

There were three jovial Welshmen,
As I have heard them say,
And they would go a-hunting
Upon St. David's day.

All the day they hunted,
And nothing could they find,
But a ship a-sailing,
A-sailing with the wind.

One said it was a ship,
The other he said, nay;
The third said it was a house,
With the chimney blown away.

And all night they hunted,
And nothing could they find,
But the moon a-gliding,
A-gliding with the wind.

One said it was the moon,
The other he said, nay;
The third said it was a cheese,
And half o't cut away.

3

There was an old woman, as I've heard tell,
She went to market her eggs for to sell;
She went to market all on a market day;
And she fell asleep on the king's highway.

There came by a pedlar whose name was Stout,
He cut her petticoats all round about;
He cut her petticoats up to the knees,
Which made the old woman to shiver and freeze.

When this little woman first did wake,
She began to shiver and she began to shake.
She began to wonder and she began to cry,
'Lauk-a-mercy on me, this is none of I:

'But if it be I, as I do hope it be,
I've a little dog at home, and he'll know me;
If it be I, he'll wag his little tail,
And if it be not I, he'll loudly bark and wail!'

Home went the little woman all in the dark,
Up got the little dog, and he began to bark;
He began to bark, so she began to cry,
'Lauk-a-mercy on me, this is none of I!'

4

If all the world was apple-pie,
And all the sea was ink,
And all the trees were bread and cheese,
What should we have to drink?

5

There was a little boy and a little girl
Lived in an alley;
Says the little boy to the little girl,
'Shall I, oh! shall I?'

Says the little girl to the little boy,
'What shall we do?'
Says the little boy to the little girl,
'I will kiss you!'

CLXXI

_THE AGE OF CHILDREN HAPPIEST_

_if they had still wit to understand it_

Laid in my quiet bed in study as I were
I saw within my troubled head a heap of thoughts appear,
And every thought did show so lively in mine eyes,
That now I sigh'd, and then I smiled, as cause of thoughts did rise.
I saw the little boy, in thought how oft that he
Did wish of God, to 'scape the rod, a tall young man to be,
The young man eke that feels his bones with pain opprest,
How he would be a rich old man, to live and lie at rest!
The rich old man that sees his end draw on so sore,
How would he be a boy again to live so much the more.
Whereat full oft I smiled, to see how all those three,
From boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and change degree.

_Earl of Surrey_

CLXXII

_THE NOBLE NATURE_

It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere;
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night--
It was the plant and flower of Light.
In small proportions we just beauty see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.

_B. Jonson_

CLXXIII

_THE RAINBOW_

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.

_W. Wordsworth_

INDEX OF WRITERS

Allingham, W., XLIV, LVII, LXXXI
Arnold, M., XXXIV

Barbauld, A. L., LXI
Barnefield, R., LXXXIII
Barnes, W., XXI, LXX, CLXIX
Beddoes, T. L., CXXIV
Blake, W., I, LXXIX
Bourne, V., CL
Browning, E. B., CLXI
Browning, R., XXVII, L, LXXVIII
Bruce, M., XXX
Bryant, W. C., CXLI
Byron, Lord, CLXVI

Campbell, T., LXVII, LXXXVIII, LXXXIX, XCI, CVI, CXXI, CXXIII
Chatterton, T., CXVIII
Cibber, C., LXIX
Clare, J., CLIX
Coleridge, S. T., IV, XXIX, XXXVIII, CLXV
Cornwall, B., VI, XLIII, LVIII
Cowley, A., LXII
Cowper, W., XIII, XXXVI, XLIX, LXXV, XC, CXXII, CXXVII, CXXXVIII,
CXL, CLI
Cunningham, J., CXXVI

Dibdin, XLII, LXXVII, XCII, CXX
Delone, T., CXIV
Dobell, S., XL
Drayton, M., IX, XXIV

Emerson, R. W., LXV

Fletcher, J., LXVI

Garnett, R., XLVIII, XCVIII
Gay, J., LXXXV, CVII, CXXXVI, CXLIX
Goldsmith, O., CXIX
Gray, T., LXXXIV

Hemans, F., XXV, CIII, CLVIII
Herrick, R., CII
Hood, T., LI
Hughes, J., CXLVII
Hunt, Leigh, XIV, LIII, XCV

Jenner, E., XXVI
Jonson, B., CLXXII

Keats, J., XV, LXVIII
Keble, J., XXVIII
Kingsley, C., XXXV, CLV

Lloyd, R., LXXVI
Longfellow, H. W., XII, XLV, LII
Lowell, J. R., CXIII

Macaulay, Lord, XLI
MacDonald, G., CXVII
Marlowe, C., VII
Milnes, R. M., CLXII
Milton, J., II
Moore, T., XLVI
Moultrie, J., XXXII

Nash, T., CXI

Peacock, T. L., CLII
Poe, E. A., XCVII

Read, T. B., LX
Rogers, S., CXXVIII

Scott, Sir W., XXXIII, XLVII, CI, CXXXIII, CLIII
Shakespeare, W., III, X, XVI, XXXVII, XXXIX, CV, CXXX, CXXXII
Shelley, P. B., XCVI, CLXVII
Shenstone, W., LXIII
Skelton, J., CXLIV
Smith, C., CLVII
Southey, R., XVII, LXXIII, LXXXVI, XCIII, CIV, CVIII, CXLVIII
Surrey, Earl of, CLXXI
Swift, J., CXXIX

Tennyson, A., V, LXIV, LXXXVII, C, CLXIV, CLXVIII
Tickell, T., LIV

Wordsworth, W., VIII, XI, XVIII, XXIII, LV, LIX, LXXI, XCIV,
XCIX, CXXV, CXXXIV, CXLV, CLVI, CLX, CLXIII, CLXXIII

Old Ballads, XIX, XX, XXXI, LVI, LXXX, LXXXII, CIX, CX, CXII,
CXVI, CXXXI, CXXXV, CXXXVII, CXXXIX, CXLII, CXLIII, CXLVI, CLIV

Old Songs, XXII, LXXII, LXXIV, CXV

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