Chapter X (5)

When I had been a year and a half in England, the captain, who had made another voyage to India and back, thinking that time had alleviated a little the sorrow of Atkinson's relations, prevailed upon my friends who had the care of me in England, to let him introduce me to Atkinson's mother and sister. Jenny was no more; she had died in the interval, and I never saw her. Grief for his death had brought on a consumption, of which she lingered about a twelvemonth, and then expired. But in the mother and the sisters of this excellent young man, I have found the most valuable friends which I possess on this side the great ocean. They received me from the captain as the little _protégée_ of Atkinson, and from them I have learned passages of his former life, and this in particular, that the illness of which he died was brought on by a wound of which he never quite recovered, which he got in the desperate attempt, when he was quite a boy, to defend his captain against a superior force of the enemy which had boarded him, and which, by his premature valour inspiriting the men, they finally succeeded in repulsing. This was that Atkinson, who, from his pale and feminine appearance, was called Betsy. This was he whose womanly care of me got him the name of a woman, who, with more than female attention, condescended to play the hand-maid to a little unaccompanied orphan, that fortune had cast upon the care of a rough sea captain, and his rougher crew.

THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS

Showing how notably
the Queen made her tarts,
and how scurvily
the Knave stole them away,
with other particulars belonging thereunto

Printed for Thomas Hodgkins Hanway Street November 18 1805.

High on a Throne of state is seen
She whom all Hearts own for their Queen.
Three Pages are in waiting by;
He with the umbrella is her Spy,
To spy out rogueries in the dark,
And smell a rat as you shall mark.

The Queen here by the King's commands,
Who does not like Cook's dirty hands,
Makes the court-pastry all herself.
Pambo the knave, that roguish elf,
Watches each sugary sweet ingredient,
And slily thinks of an expedient.

Now first of May does summer bring,
How bright and fine is every thing!
After their dam the chickens run,
The green leaves glitter in the sun,
While youths and maids in merry dance
Round rustic maypoles do advance.

When Kings and Queens ariding go,
Great Lords ride with them for a show
With grooms & courtiers, a great store;
Some ride behind, & some before.
Pambo the first of these does pass,
And for more state rides on an Ass.

Thieves! Thieves! holla, you knavish Jack,
Cannot the good Queen turn her back,
But you must be so nimble hasty
To come and steal away her pastry
You think you're safe, there's one fees all,
And understands, though he's but small

How like a thievish Jack he looks!
I wish for my part all the cooks
Would come and baste him with a ladle
As long as ever they were able,
To keep his fingers ends from itching
After sweet things in the Queen's kitchen.

Behold the King of Hearts how gruff
The monarch stands, how square, how bluff!
When our eighth Harry rul'd this land,
Just like this King did Harry stand;
And just so amorous, sweet, and willing,
As this Queen stands, stood Anna Bullen.

The meat removed and dinner done,
The knives are wip'd and cheese put on.
The King aloud for Tarts does bawl,
Tarts, tarts, resound through all the Hall.
Pambo with tears denies the Fact,
But Mungo saw him in the act.

Behold the due reward of sin,
See what a plight rogue Pambo's in.
The King lays on his blows so stout,
The Tarts for fear come tumbling out
O King! be merciful as just,
You'll beat poor Pambo into dust

How like he looks to a dog that begs
In abject sort upon two legs!
Good Mr. Knave, give me my due,
I like a tart as well as you,
But I would starve on good roast Beef,
Ere I would look so like a thief.

The Knave brings back the tarts he stole.
The Queen swears, that is not the whole.
What should poor Pambo do? hard prest
Owns he has eaten up the rest.
The King takes back, as lawful debt,
Not all, but all that he can get.

Lo! Pambo prostrate on the floor
Vows he will be a thief no more.
O King your heart no longer harden,
You've got the tarts, give him his pardon.
The best time to forgive a sinner
Is always after a good dinner.

"How say you Sir? tis all a joke--
Great Kings love tarts like other folk!"
If for a truth you'll not receive it,
Pray, view the picture, and believe it.
Sly Pambo too has got a share,
And eats it snug behind the chair.

Their Majesties so well have fed,
The tarts have got up in their head.
"Or may be 'twas the wine!"--hush, gipsey!
Great Kings & Queens indeed get tipsey!
Now, Pambo, is the time for you:
Beat little Tell-Tale black & blue.

POETRY FOR CHILDREN

(_1808-1809. Text of 1809_)

ENVY

This rose-tree is not made to bear
The violet blue, nor lily fair,
Nor the sweet mignionet:
And if this tree were discontent,
Or wish'd to change its natural bent,
It all in vain would fret.

And should it fret, you would suppose
It ne'er had seen its own red rose,
Nor after gentle shower
Had ever smell'd it rose's scent,
Or it could ne'er be discontent
With its own pretty flower.

Like such a blind and senseless tree
As I've imagin'd this to be,
All envious persons are:
With care and culture all may find
Some pretty flower in their own mind,
Some talent that is rare.

THE REAPER'S CHILD

If you go to the field where the Reapers now bind
The sheaves of ripe corn, there a fine little lass,
Only three months of age, by the hedge-row you'll find,
Left alone by its mother upon the low grass.

While the mother is reaping, the infant is sleeping;
Not the basket that holds the provision is less
By the hard-working Reaper, than this little sleeper,
Regarded, till hunger does on the babe press.

Then it opens its eyes, and it utters loud cries,
Which its hard-working mother afar off will hear;
She comes at its calling, she quiets its squalling,
And feeds it, and leaves it again without fear.

When you were as young as this field-nursed daughter,
You were fed in the house, and brought up on the knee;
So tenderly watched, thy fond mother thought her
Whole time well bestow'd in nursing of thee.

THE RIDE

Lately an Equipage I overtook,
And help'd to lift it o'er a narrow brook.
No horse it had except one boy, who drew
His sister out in it the fields to view.
O happy town-bred girl, in fine chaise going
For the first time to see the green grass growing.
This was the end and purport of the ride
I learn'd, as walking slowly by their side
I heard their conversation. Often she--
"Brother, is this the country that I see?"
The bricks were smoking, and the ground was broke,
There were no signs of verdure when she spoke.
He, as the well-inform'd delight in chiding
The ignorant, these questions still deriding,
To his good judgment modestly she yields;
Till, brick-kilns past, they reach'd the open fields.
Then as with rapt'rous wonder round she gazes
On the green grass, the butter-cups, and daisies,
"This is the country sure enough," she cries;
"Is't not a charming place?" The boy replies,
"We'll go no further." "No," says she, "no need;
No finer place than this can be indeed."
I left them gathering flow'rs, the happiest pair
That ever London sent to breathe the fine fresh air,

THE BUTTERFLY

SISTER

Do, my dearest brother John, Let that Butterfly alone.

BROTHER

What harm now do I do?
You're always making such a noise--

SISTER

O fie, John; none but naughty boys
Say such rude words as you.

BROTHER

Because you're always speaking sharp: On the same thing you always harp. A bird one may not catch, Nor find a nest, nor angle neither, Nor from the peacock pluck a feather, But you are on the watch To moralise and lecture still.

SISTER

And ever lecture, John, I will, When such sad things I hear. But talk not now of what is past; The moments fly away too fast, Though endlessly they seem to last To that poor soul in fear.

BROTHER

Well, soon (I say) I'll let it loose; But, sister, you talk like a goose, There's no soul in a fly.

SISTER

It has a form and fibres fine, Were temper'd by the hand divine Who dwells beyond the sky. Look, brother, you have hurt its wing-- And plainly by its fluttering You see it's in distress, Gay painted Coxcomb, spangled Beau, A Butterfly is call'd you know, That's always in full dress: The finest gentleman of all Insects he is--he gave a Ball, You know the Poet wrote. Let's fancy this the very same, And then you'll own you've been to blame To spoil his silken coat.

BROTHER

Your dancing, spangled, powder'd Beau, Look, through the air I've let him go: And now we're friends again. As sure as he is in the air, From this time, Ann, I will take care, And try to be humane.

THE PEACH

Mamma gave us a single Peach,
She shar'd it among seven;
Now you may think that unto each
But a small piece was given.

Yet though each share was very small,
We own'd when it was eaten,
Being so little for us all
Did its fine flavour heighten.

The tear was in our parent's eye,
It seem'd quite out of season;
When we ask'd wherefore she did cry,
She thus explain'd the reason.

"The cause, my children, I may say,
Was joy, and not dejection;
The Peach, which made you all so gay,
Gave rise to this reflection:

"It's many a mother's lot to share,
Seven hungry children viewing,
A morsel of the coarsest fare,
As I this Peach was doing."

CHUSING A NAME

I have got a new-born sister;
I was nigh the first that kiss'd 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 nam'd as yet
Are so good as Margaret.
Emily is neat and fine.
What do you think of Caroline?
How I'm puzzled and perplext
What to chuse or think of next!
I am in a little fever.
Lest the name that I shall give her
Should disgrace her or defame her
I will leave Papa to name her.

CRUMBS TO THE BIRDS

A bird appears a thoughtless thing,
He's ever living on the wing,
And keeps up such a carolling,
That little else to do but sing
A man would guess had he.

No doubt he has his little cares,
And very hard he often fares,
The which so patiently he bears,
That, list'ning to those cheerful airs,
Who knows but he may be

In want of his next meal of seeds?
I think for _that_ his sweet song pleads.
If so, his pretty art succeeds.
I'll scatter there among the weeds
All the small crumbs I see.

THE ROOK AND THE SPARROWS

A little boy with crumbs of bread
Many a hungry sparrow fed.
It was a child of little sense,
Who this kind bounty did dispense;
For suddenly it was withdrawn,
And all the birds were left forlorn,
In a hard time of frost and snow,
Not knowing where for food to go.
He would no longer give them bread,
Because he had observ'd (he said)
That sometimes to the window came
A great blackbird, a rook by name,
And took away a small bird's share.
So foolish Henry did not care
What became of the great rook,
That from the little sparrows took,
Now and then, as 'twere by stealth,
A part of their abundant wealth;
Nor ever more would feed his sparrows.
_Thus ignorance a kind heart narrows._
I wish I had been there; I would
Have told the child, rooks live by food
In the same way that sparrows do.
I also would have told him too,
Birds act by instinct, and ne'er can
Attain the rectitude of man.
Nay that even, when distress
Does on poor human nature press,
We need not be too strict in seeing
The failings of a fellow being.

DISCONTENT AND QUARRELLING

JANE

Miss Lydia every day is drest Better than I am in my best White cambric-muslin frock. I wish I had one made of clear Work'd lawn, or leno very dear.-- And then my heart is broke

Almost to think how cheap my doll Was bought, when hers cost--yes, cost full A pound, it did, my brother; Nor has she had it weeks quite five, Yet, 'tis as true as I'm alive, She's soon to have another.

ROBERT

O mother, hear my sister Jane, How foolishly she does complain, And teaze herself for nought. But 'tis the way of all her sex, Thus foolishly themselves to vex. Envy's a female fault.

JANE

O brother Robert, say not so; It is not very long ago, Ah! brother, you've forgot, When speaking of a boy you knew, Remember how you said that you Envied his happy lot.

ROBERT

Let's see, what were the words I spoke? Why, may be I was half in joke-- May be I just might say-- Besides that was not half so bad; For Jane, I only said he had More time than I to play.

JANE

O _may be, may be_, very well: And may be, brother, I don't tell Tales to mamma like you.

MOTHER

O cease your wrangling, cease, my dears; You would not wake a mother's fears Thus, if you better knew.

REPENTANCE AND RECONCILIATION

JANE

Mamma is displeased and looks very grave,
And I own, brother, I was to blame
Just now when I told her I wanted to have,
Like Miss Lydia, a very fine _name_.
'Twas foolish, for, Robert, Jane sounds very well,
When mamma says, "I love my good Jane."
I've been lately so naughty, I hardly can tell
If she ever will say so again.

ROBERT

We are each of us foolish, and each of us young,
And often in fault and to blame.
Jane, yesterday I was too free with my tongue,
I acknowledge it now to my shame.
For a speech in my good mother's hearing I made,
Which reflected upon her whole sex;
And now like you, Jenny, I am much afraid
That this might my dear mother vex.

JANE

But yet, brother Robert, 'twas not quite so bad
As that naughty reflection of mine,
When I grumbled because Liddy Bellenger had
Dolls and dresses expensive and fine.
For then 'twas of her, her own self, I complain'd;
Since mamma does provide all I have.

MOTHER

Your repentance, my children, I see is unfeign'd,
You are now my good Robert, and now my good Jane;
And if you never will be naughty again,
Your fond mother will never look grave.

NEATNESS IN APPAREL

In your garb and outward clothing
A reserved plainness use;
By their neatness more distinguish'd
Than the brightness of their hues.

All the colours in the rainbow
Serve to spread the peacock's train;
Half the lustre of his feathers
Would turn twenty coxcombs vain.

Yet the swan that swims in rivers,
Pleases the judicious sight;
Who, of brighter colours heedless,
Trusts alone to simple white.

Yet all other hues, compared
With his whiteness, show amiss;
And the peacock's coat of colours
Like a fool's coat looks by his.

THE NEW-BORN INFANT

Whether beneath sweet beds of roses,
As foolish little Ann supposes,
The spirit of a babe reposes
Before it to the body come;
Or, as philosophy more wise
Thinks, it descendeth from the skies,--
We know the babe's now in the room.

And that is all which is quite clear,
Ev'n to philosophy, my dear.
The God that made us can alone
Reveal from whence a spirit's brought
Into young life, to light, and thought;
And this the wisest man must own.

We'll now talk of the babe's surprise,
When first he opens his new eyes,
And first receives delicious food.
Before the age of six or seven,
To mortal children is not given
Much reason; or I think he would

(And very naturally) wonder
What happy star he was born under,
That he should be the only care
Of the dear sweet-food-giving lady,
Who fondly calls him her own baby,
Her darling hope, her infant heir.

MOTES IN THE SUN-BEAMS

The motes up and down in the sun
Ever restlessly moving we see;
Whereas the great mountains stand still,
Unless terrible earthquakes there be.

If these atoms that move up and down
Were as useful as restless they are,
Than a mountain I rather would be
A mote in the sun-beam so fair.

THE BOY AND SNAKE

Henry was every morning fed
With a full mess of milk and bread.
One day the boy his breakfast took,
And eat it by a purling brook
Which through his mother's orchard ran.
From that time ever when he can
Escape his mother's eye, he there
Takes his food in th' open air.
Finding the child delight to eat
Abroad, and make the grass his seat,
His mother lets him have his way.
With free leave Henry every day
Thither repairs, until she heard
Him talking of a fine _grey bird_.
This pretty bird, he said, indeed,
Came every day with him to feed,
And it lov'd him, and lov'd his milk,
And it was smooth and soft like silk.
His mother thought she'd go and see
What sort of bird this same might be.
So the next morn she follows Harry,
And carefully she sees him carry
Through the long grass his heap'd-up mess.
What was her terror and distress,
When she saw the infant take
His bread and milk close to a snake!
Upon the grass he spreads his feast,
And sits down by his frightful guest,
Who had waited for the treat;
And now they both begin to eat.
Fond mother! shriek not, O beware
The least small noise, O have a care--
The least small noise that may be made,
The wily snake will be afraid--
If he hear the lightest sound,
He will inflict th' envenom'd wound.
She speaks not, moves not, scarce does breathe,
As she stands the trees beneath;
No sound she utters; and she soon
Sees the child lift up its spoon,
And tap the snake upon the head,
Fearless of harm; and then he said,
As speaking to familiar mate,
"Keep on your own side, do, Grey Pate:"
The snake then to the other side,
As one rebuked, seems to glide;
And now again advancing nigh,
Again she hears the infant cry,
Tapping the snake, "Keep further, do;
Mind, Grey Pate, what I say to you."
The danger's o'er--she sees the boy
(O what a change from fear to joy!)
Rise and bid the snake "good-bye;"
Says he, "Our breakfast's done, and I
Will come again to-morrow day:"
Then, lightly tripping, ran away.

THE FIRST TOOTH

SISTER

Through the house what busy joy,
Just because the infant boy
Has a tiny tooth to show.
I have got a double row,
All as white, and all as small;
Yet no one cares for mine at all.
He can say but half a word,
Yet that single sound's preferr'd
To all the words that I can say
In the longest summer day.
He cannot walk, yet if he put
With mimic motion out his foot,
As if he thought, he were advancing,
It's prized more than my best dancing.

BROTHER

Sister, I know, you jesting are,
Yet O! of jealousy beware.
If the smallest seed should be
In your mind of jealousy,
It will spring, and it will shoot,
Till it bear the baneful fruit.
I remember you, my dear,
Young as is this infant here.
There was not a tooth of those
Your pretty even ivory rows,
But as anxiously was watched,
Till it burst its shell new hatched,
As if it a Phoenix were,
Or some other wonder rare.
So when you began to walk--
So when you began to talk--
As now, the same encomiums past.
'Tis not fitting this should last
Longer than our infant days;
A child is fed with milk and praise.

TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED

(_Text of 1818_)

Smiling river, smiling river,
On thy bosom sun-beams play;
Though they're fleeting and retreating,
Thou hast more deceit than they.

In thy channel, in thy channel,
Choak'd with ooze and grav'lly stones,
Deep immersed and unhearsed,
Lies young Edward's corse: his bones

Ever whitening, ever whitening,
As thy waves against them dash;
What thy torrent, in the current,
Swallow'd, now it helps to wash.

As if senseless, as if senseless
Things had feeling in this case;
What so blindly, and unkindly,
It destroy'd, it now does grace.

THE FIRST OF APRIL

"Tell me what is the reason you hang down your head;
From your blushes I plainly discern,
You have done something wrong. Ere you go up to bed,
I desire that the truth I may learn."

"O mamma, I have long'd to confess all the day
What an ill-natured thing I have done;
I persuaded myself it was only in play,
But such play I in future will shun.

"The least of the ladies that live at the school,
Her whose eyes are so pretty and blue,
Ah! would you believe it? an April fool
I have made her, and call'd her so too.

"Yet the words almost choak'd me; and, as I spoke low,
I have hopes that she might them not hear.
I had wrapt up some rubbish in paper, and so,
The instant the school-girls drew near,

"I presented it with a fine bow to the child,
And much her acceptance I press'd;
When she took it, and thank'd me, and gratefully smil'd,
I never felt half so distress'd.

"No doubt she concluded some sweetmeats were there,
For the paper was white and quite clean,
And folded up neatly, as if with great care.
O what a rude boy I have been!

"Ever since I've been thinking how vex'd she will be,
Ever since I've done nothing but grieve.
If a thousand young ladies a walking I see,
I will never another deceive."

CLEANLINESS

Come my little Robert near--
Fie! what filthy hands are here--
Who that e'er could understand
The rare structure of a hand,
With its branching fingers fine,
Work itself of hands divine,
Strong, yet delicately knit,
For ten thousand uses fit,
Overlaid with so clear skin
You may see the blood within,
And the curious palm, disposed
In such lines, some have supposed
You may read the fortunes there
By the figures that appear--
Who this hand would chuse to cover
With a crust of dirt all over,
Till it look'd in hue and shape
Like the fore-foot of an Ape?
Man or boy that works or plays
In the fields or the highways
May, without offence or hurt,
From the soil contract a dirt,
Which the next clear spring or river
Washes out and out for ever--
But to cherish stains impure,
Soil deliberate to endure,
On the skin to fix a stain
Till it works into the grain,
Argues a degenerate mind,
Sordid, slothful, ill inclin'd,
Wanting in that self-respect
Which does virtue best protect.

All-endearing Cleanliness,
Virtue next to Godliness,
Easiest, cheapest, needful'st duty,
To the body health and beauty,
Who that's human would refuse it,
When a little water does it?

THE LAME BROTHER

My parents sleep both in one grave;
My only friend's a brother.
The dearest things upon the earth
We are to one another.

A fine stout boy I knew him once,
With active form and limb;
Whene'er he leap'd, or jump'd, or ran,
O I was proud of him!

He leap'd too far, he got a hurt,
He now does limping go.--
When I think on his active days,
My heart is full of woe.

He leans on me, when we to school
Do every morning walk;
I cheer him on his weary way,
He loves to hear my talk:

The theme of which is mostly this,
What things he once could do.
He listens pleas'd--then sadly says,
"Sister, I lean on you."

Then I reply, "Indeed you're not
Scarce any weight at all.--
And let us now still younger years
To memory recall.

"Led by your little elder hand,
I learn'd to walk alone;
Careful you us'd to be of me,
My little brother John.

"How often, when my young feet tir'd,
You've carried me a mile!--
And still together we can sit,
And rest a little while.

"For our kind master never minds,
If we're the very last;
He bids us never tire ourselves
With walking on too fast."

GOING INTO BREECHES

Joy to Philip, he this day
Has his long coats cast away,
And (the childish season gone)
Puts the manly breeches on.
Officer on gay parade,
Red-coat in his first cockade,
Bridegroom in his wedding trim,
Birthday beau surpassing him,
Never did with conscious gait
Strut about in half the state,
Or the pride (yet free from sin)
Of my little MANIKIN:
Never was there pride, or bliss,
Half so rational as his.
Sashes, frocks, to those that need 'em--
Philip's limbs have got their freedom--
He can run, or he can ride,
And do twenty things beside,
Which his petticoats forbad:
Is he not a happy lad?
Now he's under other banners,
He must leave his former manners;
Bid adieu to female games,
And forget their very names,
Puss in Corners, Hide and Seek,
Sports for girls and punies weak!
Baste the Bear he now may play at,
Leap-frog, Foot-ball, sport away at,
Show his skill and strength at Cricket,
Mark his distance, pitch his wicket,
Run about in winter's snow
Till his cheeks and fingers glow,
Climb a tree, or scale a wall,
Without any fear to fall.
If he get a hurt or bruise,
To complain he must refuse,
Though the anguish and the smart
Go unto his little heart,
He must have his courage ready,
Keep his voice and visage steady,
Brace his eye-balls stiff as drum,
That a tear may never come,
And his grief must only speak
From the colour in his cheek.
This and more he must endure,
Hero he in miniature!
This and more must now be done
Now the breeches are put on.

NURSING

O hush, my little baby brother;
Sleep, my love, upon my knee.
What though, dear child, we've lost our mother;
That can never trouble thee.

You are but ten weeks old to-morrow;
What can you know of our loss?
The house is full enough of sorrow.
Little baby, don't be cross.

Peace, cry not so, my dearest love;
Hush, my baby-bird, lie still.--
He's quiet now, he does not move,
Fast asleep is little Will.

My only solace, only joy,
Since the sad day I lost my mother,
Is nursing her own Willy boy,
My little orphan brother.

THE TEXT

One Sunday eve a grave old man,
Who had not been at church, did say,
"Eliza, tell me, if you can,
What text our Doctor took to-day?"

She hung her head, she blush'd for shame,
One single word she did not know,
Nor verse nor chapter she could name,
Her silent blushes told him so.

Again said he, "My little maid,
What in the sermon did you hear;
Come tell me that, for that may aid
Me to find out the text, my dear."

A tear stole down each blushing cheek,
She wish'd she better had attended;
She sobbing said, when she could speak,
She heard not till 'twas almost ended.

"Ah! little heedless one, why what
Could you be thinking on? 'tis clear
Some foolish fancies must have got
Possession of your head, my dear.

"What thoughts were they, Eliza, tell,
Nor seek from me the truth to smother."--
"O I remember very well,
I whisper'd something to my brother.

"I said, 'Be friends with me, dear Will;'
We quarrell'd, Sir, at the church door,--
Though he cried, 'Hush, don't speak, be still,'
Yet I repeated these words o'er

"Sev'n or eight times, I have no doubt.
But here comes William, and if he
The good things he has heard about
Forgets too, Sir, the fault's in me."

"No, Sir," said William, "though perplext
And much disturbed by my sister,
I in this matter of the text,
I thank my memory, can assist her.

"I have, and pride myself on having,
A more retentive head than she."--
Then gracefully his right hand waving,
He with no little vanity

Recited gospel, chapter, verse--
I should be loth to spoil in metre
All the good words he did rehearse,
As spoken by our Lord to Peter.

But surely never words from heaven
Of peace and love more full descended;
That we should seventy times seven
Forgive our brother that offended.

In every point of view he plac'd it,
As he the Doctor's self had been,
With emphasis and action grac'd it:
But from his self-conceit 'twas seen

Who had brought home the words, and who had
A little on the meaning thought;
Eliza now the old man knew had
Learn'd that which William never caught.

Without impeaching William's merit,
His head but served him for the letter,
Hers miss'd the words, but kept the spirit;
Her memory to her heart was debtor.

THE END OF MAY

"Our Governess is not in school,
So we may talk a bit;
Sit down upon this little stool,
Come, little Mary, sit:

"And, my dear play-mate, tell me why
In dismal black you're drest?
Why does the tear stand in your eye?
With sobs why heaves your breast?

"When we're in grief, it gives relief
Our sorrows to impart;
When you've told why, my dear, you cry,
'Twill ease your little heart."

"O, it is trouble very bad
Which causes me to weep;
All last night long we were so sad,
Not one of us could sleep.

"Beyond the seas my father went,
'Twas very long ago;
And he last week a letter sent
(I told you so, you know)

"That he was safe in Portsmouth bay,
And we should see him soon,
Either the latter end of May,
Or by the first of June.

"The end of May was yesterday,
We all expected him;
And in our best clothes we were drest,
Susan, and I, and Jim.

"O how my poor dear mother smil'd,
And clapt her hands for joy;
She said to me, 'Come here, my child,
And Susan, and my boy.

"'Come all, and let us think,' said she,
'What we can do to please
Your father, for to-day will he
Come home from off the seas.

"'That you have won, my dear young son,
A prize at school, we'll tell,
Because you can, my little man,
In writing all excel;

"'And you have made a poem, nearly
All of your own invention:
Will not your father love you dearly,
When this to him I mention?

"'Your sister Mary, she can say
Your poetry by heart;
And to repeat your verses may
Be little Mary's part,

"'Susan, for you, I'll say you do
Your needlework with care,
And stitch so true the wristbands new,
Dear father's soon to wear!'

"'O hark!' said James; 'I hear one speak;
'Tis like a seaman's voice.'--
Our mother gave a joyful shriek;
How did we all rejoice!

"'My husband's come!' 'My father's here!
But O, alas, it was not so;
It was not as we said:
A stranger seaman did appear,
On his rough cheek there stood a tear,
For he brought to us a tale of woe,
Our father dear was dead."

FEIGNED COURAGE

Horatio, of ideal courage vain,
Was flourishing in air his father's cane,
And, as the fumes of valour swell'd his pate,
Now thought himself _this_ Hero, and now _that_:
"And now," he cried, "I will Achilles be;
My sword I brandish; see, the Trojans flee.
Now I'll be Hector, when his angry blade
A lane through heaps of slaughter'd Grecians made!
And now by deeds still braver I'll evince,
I am no less than Edward the Black Prince.--
Give way, ye coward French:--" as thus he spoke,
And aim'd in fancy a sufficient stroke
To fix the fate of Cressy or Poictiers;
(The Muse relates the Hero's fate with tears)
He struck his milk-white hand against a nail,
Sees his own blood, and feels his courage fail.
Ah! where is now that boasted valour flown,
That in the tented field so late was shown!
Achilles weeps, Great Hector hangs the head,
And the Black Prince goes whimpering to bed.

THE BROKEN DOLL

An infant is a selfish sprite;
But what of that? the sweet delight
Which from participation springs,
Is quite unknown to these young things.
We elder children then will smile
At our dear little John awhile,
And bear with him, until he see
There is a sweet felicity
In pleasing more than only one
Dear little craving selfish John.

He laughs, and thinks it a fine joke,
That he our new wax doll has broke.
Anger will never teach him better;
We will the spirit and the letter
Of courtesy to him display,
By taking in a friendly way
These baby frolics, till he learn
True sport from mischief to discern.

Reproof a parent's province is;
A sister's discipline is this,
By studied kindness to effect
A little brother's young respect.
What is a doll? a fragile toy.
What is its loss? if the dear boy,
Who half perceives he's done amiss,
Retain impression of the kiss
That follow'd instant on his cheek;
If the kind loving words we speak
Of "Never mind it," "We forgive,"
If these in his short memory live
Only perchance for half a day--
Who minds a doll--if that should lay
The first impression in his mind
That sisters are to brothers kind?
For thus the broken doll may prove
Foundation to fraternal love.

THE DUTY OF A BROTHER

Why on your sister do you look,
Octavius, with an eye of scorn,
As scarce her presence you could brook?--
Under one roof you both were born.

Why, when she gently proffers speech,
Do you ungently turn your head?
Since the same sire gave life to each;
With the same milk ye both were fed.

Such treatment to a female, though
A perfect stranger she might be,
From you would most unmanly show;
In you to her 'tis worse to see.

When any ill-bred boys offend her,
Showing their manhood by their sneers,
It is your business to defend her
'Gainst their united taunts and jeers.

And not to join the illiberal crew
In their contempt of female merit;
What's bad enough in them, from you
Is want of goodness, want of spirit.

What if your rougher out-door sports
Her less robustious spirits daunt;
And if she join not the resorts,
Where you and your wild playmates haunt:

Her milder province is at home;
When your diversions have an end,
When over-toil'd from play you come,
You'll find in her an in-doors friend.

Leave not your sister to another;
As long as both of you reside
In the same house, who but her brother
Should point her books, her studies guide?

If Nature, who allots our cup,
Than her has made you stronger, wiser;
It is that you, as you grow up,
Should be her champion, her adviser.

It is the law that Hand intends,
Which fram'd diversity of sex;
The man the woman still defends,
The manly boy the girl protects.

WASPS IN A GARDEN

The wall-trees are laden with fruit;
The grape, and the plum, and the pear,
The peach, and the nect'rine, to suit
Ev'ry taste in abundance, are there.

Yet all are not welcome to taste
These kind bounties of nature; for one
From her open-spread table must haste,
To make room for a more favour'd son:

As that wasp will soon sadly perceive,
Who has feasted awhile on a plum;
And, his thirst thinking now to relieve,
For a sweet liquid draught he is come.

He peeps in the narrow-mouth'd glass,
Which depends from a branch of the tree;
He ventures to creep down,--alas!
To be drown'd in that delicate sea.

"Ah say," my dear friend, "is it right,
These glass bottles are hung upon trees:
'Midst a scene of inviting delight,
Should we find such mementoes as these?"

"From such sights," said my friend, "we may draw
A lesson, for look at that bee;
Compar'd with the wasp which you saw,
He will teach us what we ought to be.

"He in safety industriously plies
His sweet honest work all the day,
Then home with his earnings he flies;
Nor in thieving his time wastes away."--

"O hush, nor with _fables_ deceive,"
I replied; "which, though pretty, can ne'er
Make me cease for that insect to grieve,
Who in agony still does appear.

"If a _simile_ ever you need,
You are welcome to make a wasp do;
But you ne'er should mix fiction indeed
With things that are serious and true."

WHAT IS FANCY?

SISTER

I am to write three lines, and you
Three others that will rhyme.
There--now I've done my task.

BROTHER

Three stupid lines as e'er I knew.
When you've the pen next time,
Some Question of me ask.

SISTER

Then tell me, brother, and pray mind,
Brother, you tell me true:
What sort of thing is _fancy_?

BROTHER

By all that I can ever find,
'Tis something that is very new,
And what no dunces _can see_.

SISTER

That is not half the way to tell
What _fancy_ is about;
So pray now tell me more.

BROTHER

Sister, I think 'twere quite as well
That you should find it out;
So think the matter o'er.

SISTER

It's what comes in our heads when we
Play at "Let's make believe,"
And when we play at "Guessing."

BROTHER

And I have heard it said to be
A talent often makes us grieve,
And sometimes proves a blessing.

ANGER

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 cherish'd wrath.
In the purlieus of his path,
In the cold, or in the warm,
Mean him good, or mean him harm,
Whensoever fate may bring you,
The vile snake will _always sting you_.

BLINDNESS

In a stage-coach, where late I chanc'd to be,
A little quiet girl my notice caught;
I saw she look'd at nothing by the way,
Her mind seem'd busy on some childish thought.

I with an old man's courtesy address'd
The child, and call'd her pretty dark-eyed maid
And bid her turn those pretty eyes and see
The wide extended prospect. "Sir," she said,

"I cannot see the prospect, I am blind."
Never did tongue of child utter a sound
So mournful, as her words fell on my ear.
Her mother then related how she found

Her child was sightless. On a fine bright day
She saw her lay her needlework aside,
And, as on such occasions mothers will,
For leaving off her work began to chide.

"I'll do it when 'tis day-light, if you please;
I cannot work, Mamma, now it is night."
The sun shone bright upon her when she spoke,
And yet her eyes receiv'd no ray of light.

THE MIMIC HARLEQUIN

"I'll _make believe_, and fancy something strange:
I will suppose I have the power to change
And make all things unlike to what they were,
To jump through windows and fly through the air,
And quite confound all places and all times,
Like Harlequins we see in Pantomimes.
These thread-papers my wooden sword must be,
Nothing more like one I at present see.
And now all round this drawing-room I'll range
And every thing I look at I will change.
Here's Mopsa, our old cat, shall be a bird;
To a Poll Parrot she is now transferr'd.
Here's Mamma's work-bag, now I will engage
To whisk this little bag into a cage;
And now, my pretty Parrot, get you in it,
Another change I'll shew you in a minute."

"O fie, you naughty child, what have you done?
There never was so mischievous a son.
You've put the cat among my work, and torn
A fine lac'd cap that I but once have worn."

WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF A CHILD'S MEMORANDUM-BOOK

My neat and pretty book, when I thy small lines see,
They seem for any use to be unfit for me.
My writing, all misshaped, uneven as my mind,
Within this narrow space can hardly be confin'd.
Yet I will strive to make my hand less aukward look;
I would not willingly disgrace thee, my neat book!
The finest pens I'll use, and wond'rous pains I'll take,
And I these perfect lines my monitors will make.
And every day I will set down in order due,
How that day wasted is; and should there be a few
At the year's end that shew more goodly to the sight,
If haply here I find some days not wasted quite,
If a small portion of them I have pass'd aright,
Then shall I think the year not wholly was misspent,
And that my Diary has been by some good Angel sent.

MEMORY

"For gold could Memory be bought,
What treasures would she not be worth!
If from afar she could be brought,
I'd travel for her through the earth!"

This exclamation once was made
By one who had obtain'd the name
Of young forgetful Adelaide:
And while she spoke, lo! Memory came.

If Memory indeed it were,
Or such it only feign'd to be--
A female figure came to her,
Who said, "My name is Memory:

"Gold purchases in me no share,
Nor do I dwell in distant land;
Study, and thought, and watchful care,
In every place may me command.

"I am not lightly to be won;
A visit only now I make:
And much must by yourself be done,
Ere me you for an inmate take.

"The only substitute for me
Was ever found, is call'd a pen:
The frequent use of that will be
The way to make me come again."

THE REPROOF

Mamma heard me with scorn and pride
A wretched beggar boy deride.
"Do you not know," said I, "how mean
It is to be thus begging seen?
If for a week I were not fed,
I'm sure I would not beg my bread."
And then away she saw me stalk
With a most self-important walk.
But meeting her upon the stairs,
All these my consequential airs
Were chang'd to an entreating look.
"Give me," said I, "the Pocket Book,
Mamma, you promis'd I should have."
The Pocket Book to me she gave;
After reproof and counsel sage,
She bade me write in the first page
This naughty action all in rhyme;
No food to have until the time,
In writing fair and neatly worded,
The unfeeling fact I had recorded.
Slow I compose, and slow I write;
And now I feel keen hunger bite.
My mother's pardon I entreat,
And beg she'll give me food to eat.
Dry bread would be received with joy
By her repentant Beggar Boy.

THE TWO BEES

But a few words could William say,
And those few could not speak plain.
Yet thought he was a man one day;
Never saw I a boy so vain.

From what could vanity proceed
In such a little lisping lad?
Or was it vanity indeed?
Or was he only very glad?

For he without his maid may go
To the heath with elder boys,
And pluck ripe berries where they grow:
Well may William then rejoice.

Be careful of your little charge;
Elder boys, let him not rove;
The heath is wide, the heath is large,
From your sight he must not move.

But rove he did: they had not been
One short hour the heath upon,
When he was no where to be seen;
"Where," said they, "is William gone?"

Mind not the elder boys' distress;
Let them run, and let them fly.
Their own neglect and giddiness
They are justly suffering by.

William his little basket fill'd
With his berries ripe and red;
Then, naughty boy, two bees he kill'd,
Under foot he stamp'd them dead.

William had cours'd them o'er the heath,
After them his steps did wander;
When he was nearly out of breath,
The last bee his foot was under.

A cruel triumph, which did not
Last but for a moment's space,
For now he finds that he has got
Out of sight of every face.

What are the berries now to him?
What the bees which he hath slain?
Fear now possesses every limb,
He cannot trace his steps again.

The poor bees William had affrighted
In more terror did not haste,
Than he from bush to bush, benighted
And alone amid the waste.

Late in the night the child was found:
He who these two bees had crush'd
Was lying on the cold damp ground,
Sleep had then his sorrows hush'd.

A fever follow'd from the fright,
And from sleeping in the dew;
He many a day and many a night
Suffer'd ere he better grew.

His aching limbs while sick he lay
Made him learn the crush'd bees' pain;
Oft would he to his mother say,
"I ne'er will kill a bee again."

THE JOURNEY FROM SCHOOL AND TO SCHOOL

O what a joyous joyous day
Is that on which we come
At the recess from school away,
Each lad to his own home!

What though the coach is crammed full,
The weather very warm;
Think you a boy of us is dull,
Or feels the slightest harm?

The dust and sun is life and fun;
The hot and sultry weather
A higher zest gives every breast,
Thus jumbled all together.

Sometimes we laugh aloud aloud,
Sometimes huzzah, huzzah.
Who is so buoyant, free, and proud,
As we home-travellers are?

But sad, but sad is every lad
That day on which we come,
That last last day on which away
We all come from our home.

The coach too full is found to be:
Why is it crammed thus?
Now every one can plainly see
There's not half room for us.

Soon we exclaim, O shame, O shame,
This hot and sultry weather,
Who but our master is to blame,
Who pack'd us thus together!

Now dust and sun does every one
Most terribly annoy;
Complaints begun, soon every one
Elbows his neighbour boy.

Not now the joyous laugh goes round,
We shout not now huzzah;
A sadder group may not be found
Than we returning are.

THE ORANGE

The month was June, the day was hot,
And Philip had an orange got.
The fruit was fragrant, tempting, bright,
Refreshing to the smell and sight;
Not of that puny size which calls
Poor customers to common stalls,
But large and massy, full of juice,
As any Lima can produce.
The liquor would, if squeezed out,
Have fill'd a tumbler thereabout--

The happy boy, with greedy eyes,
Surveys and re-surveys his prize.
He turns it round, and longs to drain,
And with the juice his lips to stain.
His throat and lips were parch'd with heat;
The orange seem'd to cry, _Come eat_.
He from his pocket draws a knife--
When in his thoughts there rose a strife,
Which folks experience when they wish,
Yet scruple to begin a dish,
And by their hesitation own
It is too good to eat alone.
But appetite o'er indecision
Prevails, and Philip makes incision.
The melting fruit in quarters came--
Just then there passed by a dame--
One of the poorer sort she seem'd,
As by her garb you would have deem'd--
Who in her toil-worn arms did hold
A sickly infant ten months old;
That from a fever, caught in spring,
Was slowly then recovering.
The child, attracted by the view
Of that fair orange, feebly threw
A languid look--perhaps the smell
Convinc'd it that there sure must dwell
A corresponding sweetness there,
Where lodg'd a scent so good and rare--
Perhaps the smell the fruit did give
Felt healing and restorative--
For never had the child been grac'd
To know such dainties by their taste.

When Philip saw the infant crave,
He straitway to the mother gave
His quarter'd orange; nor would stay
To hear her thanks, but tript away.
Then to the next clear spring he ran
To quench his drought, a happy man!

THE YOUNG LETTER-WRITER

_Dear Sir, Dear Madam_, or _Dear Friend_,
With ease are written at the top;
When those two happy words are penn'd,
A youthful writer oft will stop,

And bite his pen, and lift his eyes,
As if he thinks to find in air
The wish'd-for following words, or tries
To fix his thoughts by fixed stare.

But haply all in vain--the next
Two words may be so long before
They'll come, the writer, sore perplext,
Gives in despair the matter o'er;

And when maturer age he sees
With ready pen so swift inditing,
With envy he beholds the ease
Of long-accustom'd letter-writing.

Courage, young friend; the time may be,
When you attain maturer age,
Some young as you are now may see
You with like ease glide down a page.

Ev'n then when you, to years a debtor,
In varied phrase your meanings wrap,
The welcom'st words in all your letter
May be those two kind words at top.

THE THREE FRIENDS

(_Text of 1818_)

Three young maids in friendship met;
Mary, Martha, Margaret.
Margaret was tall and fair,
Martha shorter by a hair;
If the first excell'd in feature,
Th' other's grace and ease were greater;
Mary, though to rival loth,
In their best gifts equall'd both.
They a due proportion kept;
Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept;
Margaret joy'd when any good
She of Martha understood;
And in sympathy for either
Mary was outdone by neither.
Thus far, for a happy space,
All three ran an even race,
A most constant friendship proving,
Equally belov'd and loving;
All their wishes, joys, the same;
Sisters only not in name.

Fortune upon each one smil'd,
As upon a fav'rite child;
Well to do and well to see
Were the parents of all three;
Till on Martha's father crosses
Brought a flood of worldly losses,
And his fortunes rich and great
Chang'd at once to low estate;
Under which o'erwhelming blow
Martha's mother was laid low;
She a hapless orphan left,
Of maternal care bereft,
Trouble following trouble fast,
Lay in a sick bed at last.

In the depth of her affliction
Martha now receiv'd conviction,
That a true and faithful friend
Can the surest comfort lend.
Night and day, with friendship tried,
Ever constant by her side
Was her gentle Mary found,
With a love that knew no bound;
And the solace she imparted
Sav'd her dying' broken-hearted.

In this scene of earthly things
Not one good unmixed springs.
That which had to Martha proved
A sweet consolation, moved
Different feelings of regret
In the mind of Margaret.
She, whose love was not less dear,
Nor affection less sincere
To her friend, was, by occasion
Of more distant habitation,
Fewer visits forc'd to pay her,
When no other cause did stay her;
And her Mary living nearer,
Margaret began to fear her,
Lest her visits day by day
Martha's heart should steal away.
That whole heart she ill could spare her,
Where till now she'd been a sharer.
From this cause with grief she pined,
Till at length her health declined.
All her chearful spirits flew,
Fast as Martha gather'd new;
And her sickness waxed sore,
Just when Martha felt no more.

Mary, who had quick suspicion
Of her alter'd friend's condition,
Seeing Martha's convalescence
Less demanded now her presence,
With a goodness, built on reason,
Chang'd her measures with the season;
Turn'd her steps from Martha's door,
Went where she was wanted more;
All her care and thoughts were set
Now to tend on Margaret.
Mary living 'twixt the two,
From her home could oft'ner go,
Either of her friends to see,
Than they could together be.