Chapter XI: Part I: Poems of Youth and Age (7)

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]

THE BAREFOOT BOY

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]

THE HERITAGE

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]

LETTY'S GLOBE 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]

DOVE'S NEST

"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]

THE ORACLE

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-

TO A LITTLE GIRL

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

TO A LITTLE GIRL

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]

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON 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]

A NEW POET

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-

TO LAURA W--, TWO YEARS OLD

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]

TO ROSE

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]

TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY

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]

THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T. C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS

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]

TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE 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]

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY 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]

EX ORE INFANTIUM

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]

OBITUARY

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]

THE CHILD'S HERITAGE

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 GIRL OF POMPEII

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-

ON THE PICTURE OF A "CHILD TIRED OF PLAY"

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]

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN

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]

CHILDREN'S SONG

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-

THE MITHERLESS BAIRN

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]

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN

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]

THE SHADOW-CHILD

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

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]

DUTY

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]

LUCY GRAY 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]

IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL 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"

"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]

THE TOYS

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]

A SONG OF TWILIGHT

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

LITTLE BOY BLUE

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.