human
Can you continue this poem for me?
  It has been decided in publishing this volume to reproduce the
convalescence with all the courage she so warmly advocates.
scrupulousness.
TEACH ME. (_From the Danish_)
Found in the garden--dead in his beauty.
Ah! that a linnet should die in the spring!
Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,
Muffle the dinner-bell, solemnly ring.
Bury him kindly--up in the corner;
Bird, beast, and gold-fish are sepulchred there;
Bid the black kitten march as chief mourner,
Waving her tail like a plume in the air.
Bury him nobly--next to the donkey;
Fetch the old banner, and wave it about:
Bury him deeply--think of the monkey,
Shallow his grave, and the dogs got him out.
Bury him softly--white wool around him,
Kiss his poor feathers,--the first kiss and last;
Tell his poor widow kind friends have found him:
Plant his poor grave with whatever grows fast.
Farewell, sweet singer! dead in thy beauty,
Silent through summer, though other birds sing;
Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,
Muffle the dinner-bell, mournfully ring.
Fritz and I are not brother and sister, but we're next-door
neighbours; for we both live next door.
I mean we both live next door to each other; for I live at
number three, and Fritz and Nickel the dog live at number
four.
In summer we climb through the garret windows and sit
together on the leads,
And if the sun is too hot Mother lends us one big kerchief
to put over both our heads.
Sometimes she gives us tea under the myrtle tree in the big
pot that stands in the gutter.
(One slice each, and I always give Fritz the one that has
the most butter.)
In winter we sit on the little stool by the stove at number four;
have a house to myself with you Grethel, and Nickel." And I
said, "Thank you, Fritz."
I saw the pictures of it in a book I was looking in, to see where
So I took my darling Katerina in my arms, and we went in to tea.
You've kept your apple, I see--I've eaten mine--well, it will be
something to make a start,
I call it your cake and your apple, but of course now you're my
housewife everything belongs to me;
Though I can't think what you want with Katerina when you've got
Nickel and me."
There once was a Willow, and he was very old,
And all his leaves fell off from him, and left him in the cold;
But ere the rude winter could buffet him with snow,
There grew upon his hoary head a crop of Mistletoe.
All wrinkled and furrowed was this old Willow's skin,
His taper fingers trembled, and his arms were very thin;
Two round eyes and hollow, that stared but did not see,
And sprawling feet that never walked, had this most ancient tree.
A Dame who dwelt near was the only one who knew
That every year upon his head the Christmas berries grew;
And when the Dame cut them, she said--it was her whim--
"A merry Christmas to you, Sir!" _and left a bit for him_.
"Oh, Granny dear, tell us," the children cried, "where we
May find the shining Mistletoe that grows upon the tree?"
At length the Dame told them, but cautioned them to mind
To greet the Willow civilly, _and leave a bit behind_.
"Who cares," said the children, "for this old Willow-man?
We'll take the Mistletoe, and he may catch us if he can."
With rage the ancient Willow shakes in every limb,
For they have taken all, and _have not left a bit for him_!
Then bright gleamed the holly, the Christmas berries shone,
But in the wintry wind without the Willow-man did moan:
"Ungrateful, and wasteful! the mystic Mistletoe
A hundred years hath grown on me, but never more shall grow."
A year soon passed by, and the children came once more,
But not a sprig of Mistletoe the aged Willow bore.
Each slender spray pointed; he mocked them in his glee,
And chuckled in his wooden heart, that ancient Willow-tree.
Oh, children, who gather the spoils of wood and wold,
From selfish greed and wilful waste your little hands withhold.
Though fair things be common, this moral bear in mind,
"Pick thankfully and modestly, and leave a bit behind."
The winter is gone; and at first Jack and I were sad,
Because of the snow-man's melting, but now we are glad;
Of our beds--all colours--blue, white, yellow, purple, and pink,
carnations, musk, and everything good to smell;
And then if we could get an old "preserved-ginger" pot, and some
bay-salt, we could make _pot-pourri_.
But whatever can be got to grow in a garden we mean to grow.
We've got Bachelor's Buttons, and London Pride, and Old Man, and
everything that's nice:
watering-pot;
And then when my turn comes to water he says it's too hot!
We sometimes quarrel about the garden, and once Jack hit me with
So we settled to divide it in two by a path up the middle, and
that's made.
The primroses look quite withered now, I am sorry to say,
But when it is up the cats roll on it, and that is the worst!
Jack made a great many cuttings, but he has had rather bad luck,
So everything will belong to us both, and we shan't ever quarrel
any more.
It is such a long time, too, to wait for the sand, and perhaps
sea-sand does best on the shore.
And you really can't possibly rake a bed smooth with so many
things in it.
We are so fond of flowers, Jack and I often dream at night
The worst is, we often start for the seaside about Midsummer Day,
When we come back, our flowers will be all in full bloom,
Bright, bright sunshine above, and sweet, sweet flowers below.
Come, oh Midsummer, quickly come! and go quickly, Midsummer, go!
P.S. It is so tiresome! Jack wants to build a green-house now,
I tell him there's not glass enough, but he says there's lots,
And he's taken all the plants that belong to the bed and put
them in pots.
He is not John the gardener,
And yet the whole day long
Employs himself most usefully,
The flower-beds among.
And yet the other day,
With stealthy stride and glistening eye,
He crept upon his prey.
He is not Dash the dear old dog,
And yet, perhaps, if you
Took pains with him and petted him,
You'd come to love him too.
He's not a Blackbird, though he chirps,
And though he once was black;
And now he wears a loose grey coat,
All wrinkled on the back.
He's got a very dirty face,
And very shining eyes!
He sometimes comes and sits indoors;
He looks--and p'r'aps is--wise.
But in a sunny flower-bed
He has his fixed abode;
He eats the things that eat my plants--
He is a friendly TOAD.
We meant to be very kind,
But if ever we find
Susan, Jemmy, and I--with remorseful tears, at this very minute,
That if there are eggs or little birds in it--
Robin or wren, thrush, chaffinch or linnet--
We'll leave them there
To their mother's care.
There were three of us--Kate, and Susan, and Jem--
And three of them--
I don't know _their_ names, for they couldn't speak,
Except with a little imperative squeak,
Exactly like Poll,
Susan's squeaking doll;
But squeaking dolls will lie on the shelves
For years and never squeak of themselves:
The reason we like little birds so much better than toys
Is because they are _really_ alive, and know how to make a noise.
There were three of us, and three of them;
Kate,--that is I,--and Susan, and Jem.
Our mother was busy making a pie,
And theirs, we think, was up in the sky;
But for all Susan, Jemmy, or I can tell,
She may have been getting their dinner as well.
They were left to themselves (and so were we)
In a nest in the hedge by the willow tree;
The way we really did wrong was this:
We took them for Mother to kiss,
And she told us to put them back;
Both what Mother told us to do, and the voice of the mother-bird.
Thought we knew better than either of them:
And in spite of our mother's command and the poor bird's cry,
We determined to bring up her three little nestlings ourselves
on the sly.
We each took one,
It did seem such excellent fun!
Susan fed hers on milk and bread,
Jem got wriggling worms for his instead.
I gave mine meat,
But, oh dear! oh dear! oh dear! how we cried
When in spite of milk and bread and worms and roast beef, the
little birds died!
It's a terrible thing to have heart-ache,
I thought mine would break
As I heard the mother-bird's moan,
And her three little children dead, and as cold as stone.
Mother said, and it's sadly true,
"There are some wrong things one can never undo."
And nothing that we could do or say
Would bring life back to the birds that day.
The bitterest tears that we could weep
Wouldn't wake them out of their stiff cold sleep.
But then,
We--Susan and Jem and I--mean never to be so selfish, and wilful,
And we three have buried those other three
In a soft, green, moss-covered, flower-lined grave at the foot of
And all the leaves which its branches shed
We think are tears because they are dead.
Hush-a-by, Baby! _Your_ baby, Mamma,
For, if he wakens, your baby will cry.
Hush-a-by, Dolly! My baby are you,
Yellow-haired Dolly, with eyes of bright blue;
Though I say "Hush!" because Mother does so,
You wouldn't cry like her baby, I know!
Hush-a-by, Baby! Mamma walks about,
Sings to you softly, or rocks you without;
If you slept sounder, then I might walk too,
Sing to my Dolly, and rock her like you!
Hush-a-by Dolly! Sleep sweetly, my pet!
Dear Mamma made you this fine berceaunette,
Muslin and rose-colour, ribbon and lace;
When had a baby a cosier place?
Hush-a-by, Baby! the baby who cries.
Why, dear Mamma, don't you shut baby's eyes?
Pull down his wire, as I do, you see;
Lay him by Dolly, and come out with me.
Hush-a-by, Dolly! Mamma will not speak;
You, my dear baby, would sleep for a week.
Poor Mamma's baby allows her no rest,
Hush-a-by, Dolly, of babies the best!
Hear me now, my hobby-horse, my steed of prancing paces!
Time is it that you and I won something more than races.
I have got a fine cocked hat, with feathers proudly waving;
Out into the world we'll go, both death and danger braving.
Doubt not that I know the way--the garden-gate is clapping:
Who forgot to lock it last deserves his fingers slapping.
When they find we can't be found, oh won't there be a chorus!
You and I may laugh at that, with all the world before us.
All the world, the great green world that lies beyond the paling!
Out into that grassy waste where dwells the Goosey Gander.
Months ago, my faithful steed, that Goose attacked your master;
How it hissed, and how I cried! It ran, but I ran faster!
Down upon my face I fell, its awful wings were o'er me,
Mother came and picked me up, and off to bed she bore me.
Months have passed, my faithful steed, both you and I are older,
Sheathless is my wooden sword, my heart I think is bolder.
Always ready bridled thou, with reins of crimson leather;
Woe betide the Goose to-day who meets us both together!
Up then now, my hobby-horse, my steed of prancing paces!
Time it is that you and I won something more than races.
I a knight, my charger thou, together we will wander
Out into that grassy waste where dwells the Goosey Gander.
Sally is the laundress, and every Saturday
strong.
She says we do it on purpose, and never try to take care;
But if things have got to go to the wash, what can it matter how
dirty they are?
Last week Mary and I got a lot of kingcups from the bog, and I
carried them home in my skirt;
But Sally was as cross as two sticks, and won't wash our dolls'
clothes any more--so she said,--
But never mind, for we'll ask Mamma if we may have a real Dolls'
Wash of our own instead.
Mamma says we may on one condition, to which we agree;
We're to _really_ wash the dolls' clothes, and make them just
what clean clothes should be.
That any one in the world can wash out a few dirty clothes.
Well, we've had the Dolls' Wash, but it's only pretty good fun.
We're glad we've had it, you know, but we're gladder still that
it's done.
As we wanted to have as big a wash as we could, we collected
everything we could muster,
It was going to the wash, and Mary and I were house-maids--fancy
house-maids, I mean--
Unless it was when we made that Macassar-oil, because she has
real hair.
Then Mary put the iron down to heat, but as soon as she'd turned
her back,
So we had to clean this one with sand and brown-paper before we
could use it.
It was very hard work, but I rubbed till I made it shine;
Father is building a new house, but I've had one given to me for
my own;
pestle-and-mortar is rather too heavy for it, and everybody
can look.
Father says that whilst he is about it, he thinks he shall add on
And brother Bill says he'll nail my Doll's House on the top of an
Father's house is not finished, though the wing is; for now the
builder says it will be all wrong if there isn't another
to match;
And he means to paint it for me, inside and out, when he paints
his own boat.
I almost wish I had kept the house as it was before;
mine is finished, I'll never have it altered any more.
"The breeze is on the Blue-bells,
The wind is on the lea;
Stay out! stay out! my little lad,
And chase the wind with me.
If you will give yourself to me,
Within the fairy ring,
At deep midnight,
When stars are bright,
You'll hear the Blue-bells ring--
On slender stems they swing.
"The rustling wind, the whistling wind,
We'll chase him to and fro,
We'll chase him up, we'll chase him down
To where the King-cups grow;
And where old Jack-o'-Lantern waits
To light us on our way,
And far behind,
Upon the wind,
The Blue-bells seem to play--
Lest we should go astray.
"So gay that fairy music,
So jubilant those bells,
How days and weeks and months go by
No happy listener tells!
The toad-stools are with sweetmeats spread,
The new Moon lends her light,
And ringers small
Wait, one and all,
To ring with all their might--
And welcome you to night."
"My mother made me promise
To be in time for tea,
'Go home! go home!' the breezes say,
That sigh along the lea.
I dare not give myself away;
For what would Mother do?
I wish I might
Stay out all night
At fairy games with you.
And hear the bells of blue.
"But Father sleeps beneath the grass,
And Mother is alone:
And who would fill the pails, and fetch
The wood when I am gone?
And who, when little Sister ails,
Can comfort her, but me?
Her cries and tears
Would reach my ears
Through all the melody--
Of Blue-bells on the lea."
The sun was on the Blue-bells,
The lad was on the lea.
"Oh, wondrous bells! Oh, fairy bells!
I pray you ring to me.
I only did as Mother bade,
For tea I did not care,
And winds at night
Give more delight
Than all this noonday glare."
No sound of bells was there.
"The snow lies o'er the Blue-bells,
A storm is on the lea;
Our hearth is warm, the fire burns bright,
The flames dance merrily.
Oh, Mother dear! I would no more
That on that summer's day,
Within the ring,
Had stolen me away--
To where the Blue-bells play.
"Yet when the storm is loudest,
At deep midnight I dream,
And up and down upon the lea
To chase the wind I seem;
While by my side, in feathered cap,
There runs the Fairy King,
And down below,
Beneath the snow,
We hear the Blue-bells ring--
Such happy dreams they bring!"
When I go to tea with the little Smiths, there are eight of them
there, but there's only one of me,
Because as to a tea-party with only one teacup and no teapot,
sugar-basin, cream-jug, or slop-basin, he never heard of such
a thing under the sun.
The dolls can only pretend, and then it washes the paint off
their lips,
to sit on a chair.
He's a perfect darling, though he whisks everything over he comes
we all had tails.
I've called her Cinderella, because I'm so fond of the story, and
I don't feel so _only_ now there are so many of us; for, counting
She, and I, and Towser, and Charles, and the Prince of Wales--and
And four of us can speak, and I'm sure the Prince of Wales is
wonderful for his size;
I shall be seven years old then (as old as Joe), but I don't like
Like mine; and the next year I should like a collar for Towser if
And it would be very nice if the Prince of Wales could be dressed
But I don't think he really and truly knows how much Towser and I
Can any one look so wise, and have so little in his head?
No, it's no good your shaking hands and licking me with your
tongue,--I know you can do that;
But sitting up, and giving paws, and kissing, won't teach you to
spell C A T, Cat.
You wag your tail at that, do you? You would like it a great deal
But the newspaper after that, Papa Poodle, must be kept to make a
"In my young days," the grandmother said (Nodding her head,
Where cap and curls were as white as snow),
"In my young days, when we used to go
Each little dirty hand in hand,
Like a chain of daisies, a comical band
Of neighbours' children, seriously straying,
Really and truly going a-Maying,
My mother would bid us linger,
And lifting a slender, straight forefinger,
Would say--
If you want to be
Every one of you very good
In that beautiful, beautiful, beautiful wood,
Where the little birds' heads get so turned with delight,
That some of them sing all night:
Whatever you pluck,
Leave some for good luck;
Picked from the stalk, or pulled up by the root,
From overhead, or from underfoot,
Water-wonders of pond or brook;
Wherever you look,
And whatever you find--
Leave something behind:
"After all these years," the grandame said,
Lifting her head,
"I think I can hear my mother's voice
Above all other noise,
Saying, 'Hearken, my child!
There is nothing more destructive and wild,
No wild bull with his horns,
No wild-briar with clutching thorns,
No pig that routs in your garden-bed,
No robber with ruthless tread,
More reckless and rude,
And wasteful of all things lovely and good,
Than a child, with the face of a boy and the ways of a bear,
Who _doesn't care;_
Or some little ignorant minx
Who _never thinks_.
Now I never knew so stupid an elf,
That he couldn't think and care for himself.
Oh, little sisters and little brothers,
Think for others, and care for others!
And of all that your little fingers find,
Leave something behind,
For love of those that come after:
Some, perchance, to cool tired eyes in the moss that stifled your
Pluck, children, pluck!
But leave--for good luck--
And some for the Dryads,
"We were very young," the grandmother said,
Smiling and shaking her head;
"And when one is young,
One listens with half an ear, and speaks with a hasty tongue;
So with shouted Yeses,
And promises sealed with kisses,
Hand-in-hand we started again,
A chubby chain,
Stretching the whole wide width of the lane;
Or in broken links of twos and threes,
For greater ease
Of rambling,
And scrambling,
By the stile and the road,
That goes to the beautiful, beautiful wood;
By the brink of the gloomy pond,
To the top of the sunny hill beyond,
By hedge and by ditch, by marsh and by mead,
By little byways that lead
To mysterious bowers;
Or to spots where, for those who know,
There grow,
In certain out-o'-way nooks, rare ferns and uncommon flowers.
There were flowers everywhere,
Censing the summer air,
Till the giddy bees went rolling home
To their honeycomb,
And when we smelt at our posies,
The little fairies inside the flowers rubbed coloured dust on
our noses,
I kept thinking I heard my mother's voice.
But it may have been only a fairy joke,
For she was at home, and I sometimes thought it was
really the flowers that spoke.
From the Foxglove in its pride,
To the Shepherd's Purse by the bare road-side;
From the snap-jack heart of the Starwort frail,
To meadows full of Milkmaids pale,
And Cowslips loved by the nightingale.
Rosette of the tasselled Hazel-switch,
Sky-blue star of the ditch;
Dandelions like mid-day suns;
Bindweed that runs;
Butter and Eggs with the gaping lips,
In purple surcoat and pale-green cowl;
Family groups of Primroses fair;
Orchids rare;
Velvet Bee-orchis that never can sting,
Butterfly-orchis which never takes wing,
Robert-the-Herb with strange sweet scent,
And crimson leaf when summer is spent:
Clustering neighbourly,
All this gay company,
Said to us seemingly--
'Pluck, children, pluck!
But leave some for good luck:
"I was but a maid," the grandame said,
"When my mother was dead;
And many a time have I stood.
In that beautiful wood,
To dream that through every woodland noise,
Through the cracking
Of twigs and the bending of bracken,
Through the rustling
Of leaves in the breeze,
And the bustling
Of dark-eyed, tawny-tailed squirrels flitting about the trees,
Through the purling and trickling cool
Of the streamlet that feeds the pool,
I could hear her voice.
Should I wonder to hear it? Why?
Are the voices of tender wisdom apt to die?
And now, though I'm very old,
And the air, that used to feel fresh, strikes chilly and cold,
On a sunny day when I potter
About the garden, or totter
To the seat from whence I can see, below,
The marsh and the meadows I used to know,
I fancy I hear them say--
'Pluck, children, pluck,
But leave some for good luck;
Picked from the stalk, or pulled up by the root,
From overhead, or from underfoot,
Water-wonders of pond or brook;
Wherever you look,
And whatever your little fingers find,
Leave something behind:
And some for the Dryads,
The following note was given in _Aunt Judy's Magazine_, June
interest old readers of _Aunt Judy's Magazine_ to know that
'Leave some for the Naïads and the Dryads' was a favourite
phrase with Mr. Alfred Gatty, and is not merely the charge of
an imaginary mother to her 'blue-eyed banditti.' Whether my
mother invented the expression for our benefit, or whether she
only quoted it, I do not know. I only remember its use as a
check on the indiscriminate 'collecting' and 'grubbing' of a
large family; a mystic warning not without force to fetter the
same fingers in later life, with all the power of a pious
Are you a Giant, great big man, or is your real name Smith?
Nurse says you've got a hammer that you hit bad children with.
I'm good to-day, and so I've come to see if it is true
That you can turn a red-hot rod into a horse's shoe.
Why do you make the horses' shoes of iron instead of leather?
Is it because they are allowed to go out in bad weather?
Although he's not a real live horse, I'm very fond of him;
His harness won't take off and on, but still it's new and trim.
His tail is hair, he has four legs, but neither hoofs nor heels;
I think he'd seem more like a horse without these yellow wheels.
I do so wish, Big Smith, that I might come and live with you;
To rake the fire, to heat the rods, to hammer two and two.
To be so black, and not to have to wash unless I choose;
To pat the dear old horses, and to mend their poor old shoes.
When all the world is dark at night, you work among the stars,
A shining shower of fireworks beat out of red-hot bars.
I've seen you beat, I've heard you sing, when I was going to bed;
The more you work, the more you sing, the more the bellows roar;
It must be very nice to be allowed to play with fire.
I long to beat and sing and shine, as you do, but instead
I put away my horse, and Nurse puts me away to bed.
I wonder if you go to bed; I often think I'll keep
Awake and see, but, though I try, I always fall asleep.
I know it's very silly, but I sometimes am afraid
Of being in the dark alone, especially in bed.
But when I see your forge-light come and go upon the wall,
And hear you through the window, I am not afraid at all.
I often hear a trotting horse, I sometimes hear it stop;
But then I dream of hammering that horse's shoes with you!
They've taken the cosy bed away
That I made myself with the Shetland shawl,
And set me a hamper of scratchy hay,
By that great black stove in the entrance-hall.
I won't sleep there; I'm resolved on that!
They may think I will, but they little know
There's a soft persistence about a cat
That even a little kitten can show.
I wish I knew what to do but pout,
And spit at the dogs and refuse my tea;
My fur's feeling rough, and I rather doubt
Whether stolen sausage agrees with me.
On the drawing-room sofa they've closed the door,
They've turned me out of the easy-chairs;
I wonder it never struck me before
That they make their beds for themselves up-stairs.
I've found a crib where they won't find me,
Though they're crying "Kitty!" all over the house.
Hunt for the Slipper! and riddle-my-ree!
A cat can keep as still as a mouse.
It's rather unwise perhaps to purr,
But they'll never think of the wardrobe-shelves.
I'm happy in every hair of my fur;
They may keep the hamper and hay themselves.
One of a hundred little rills--
Born in the hills,
Nourished with dews by the earth, and with tears by the sky,
Sang--"Who so mighty as I?
The farther I flow
The bigger I grow.
I, who was born but a little rill,
Now turn the big wheel of the mill,
Though the surly slave would rather stand still.
Old, and weed-hung, and grim,
I am not afraid of him;
For when I come running and dance on his toes,
With a creak and a groan the monster goes.
And turns faster and faster,
As he learns who is master,
Round and round,
Till the corn is ground,
And the miller smiles as he stands on the bank,
And knows he has me to thank.
Then when he swings the fine sacks of flour,
I feel my power;
But when the children enjoy their food,
I know I'm not only great but good!"
Furthermore sang the brook--
"Who loves the beautiful, let him look!
Garlanding me in shady spots
The Forget-me-nots
Are blue as the summer sky:
Who so lovely as I?
My King-cups of gold
Shine from the shade of the alders old,
Stars of the stream!--
At the water-rat's threshold they gleam.
From below
The Frog-bit spreads me its blossoms of snow,
And in masses
The Willow-herb, the flags, and the grasses,
Reeds, rushes, and sedges,
Flower and fringe and feather my edges.
To be beautiful is not amiss,
But to be loved is more than this;
And who more sought than I,
By all that run or swim or crawl or fly?
Sober shell-fish and frivolous gnats,
Tawny-eyed water-rats;
The poet with rippling rhymes so fluent,
Boys with boats playing truant,
Cattle wading knee-deep for water;
And the flower-plucking parson's daughter.
Down in my depths dwell creeping things
Who rise from my bosom on rainbow wings,
For--too swift for a school-boy's prize--
Hither and thither above me dart the prismatic-hued dragon-flies.
And with lack-a-daisical fingers,
The Weeping Willow, woe-begone,
Strives to stay me as I run on."
There came an hour
When all this beauty and love and power
Did seem
But a small thing to that Mill Stream.
And then his cry
Am I thus surrounded
With checks and limits, and bounded
By bank and border
To keep me in order,
Against my will?
I, who was born to be free and unfettered--a mountain rill!
But for these jealous banks, the good
Of my gracious and fertilizing flood
Might spread to the barren highways,
And fill with Forget-me-nots countless neglected byways.
Why should the rough-barked Willow for ever lave
Her feet in my cooling wave;
When the tender and beautiful Beech
Faints with midsummer heat in the meadow just out of my reach?
Could I but rush with unchecked power,
The miller might grind a day's corn in an hour.
And what are the ends
Of life, but to serve one's friends?"
A day did dawn at last,
When the spirits of the storm and the blast,
Breaking the bands of the winter's frost and snow,
Swept from the mountain source of the stream, and flooded the
valley below.
Dams were broken and weirs came down;
Cottage and mill, country and town,
Shared in the general inundation,
And the following desolation.
Then the Mill Stream rose in its might,
And burst out of bounds to left and to right,
Rushed to the beautiful Beech,
In the meadow far out of reach.
But with such torrents the poor tree died,
Torn up by the roots, and laid on its side.
The cattle swam till they sank,
Trying to find a bank.
Never more shall the broken water-wheel
Grind the corn to make the meal,
To make the children's bread.
The miller was dead.
When the setting sun
Looked to see what the Mill Stream had done
In its hour
Of unlimited power,
And what was left when that had passed by,
Behold the channel was stony and dry.
In uttermost ruin
The Mill Stream had been its own undoing.
Furthermore it had drowned its friend:
This was the end.
Oh boy, down there, I can't believe that what they say is true!
We squirrels surely cannot have an enemy in you;
We have so much in common, my dear friend, it seems to me
That I can really feel for you, and you can feel for me.
Some human beings might not understand the life we lead;
If we asked Dr. Birch to play, no doubt he'd rather read;
Fine ladies, too, whose flounces catch and tear on every stump,
What joy have they in jagged pines, who neither skip nor jump?
Miss Mittens never saw my tree-top home--so unlike hers;
What wonder if her only thought of squirrels is of furs?
But you, dear boy, you know so well the bliss of climbing trees,
Of scrambling up and sliding down, and rocking in the breeze,
Of cracking nuts and chewing cones, and keeping cunning hoards,
And all the games and all the sport and fun a wood affords.
It cannot be that you would make a prisoner of me,
Who hate yourself to be cooped up, who love so to be free;
An extra hour indoors, I know, is punishment to you;
_You_ make _me_ twirl a tiny cage? It never can be true!
Yet I've a wary grandfather, whose tail is white as snow.
He thinks he knows a lot of things we young ones do not know;
He says we're safe with Doctor Birch, because he is so blind,
And that Miss Mittens would not hurt a fly, for she is kind.
But you, dear boy, who know my ways, he bids me fly from you,
He says my life and liberty are lost unless I do;
Hey, presto! Friend, come up, and let us hide and seek and play,
If you could spring as well as climb, what fun we'd have to-day!
Oh, how greedy you look as you stare at my plate,
Your mouth waters so, and your big tail is drumming
Flop! flop! flop! on the carpet, and yet if you'll wait,
When we have quite finished, your dinner is coming.
Yes! I know what you mean, though you don't speak a word;
You say that you wish that I kindly would let you
Take your meals with the family, which is absurd,
And on a tall chair like a gentleman set you.
But how little you think, my dear dog, when you talk;
You've no "table manners," you bolt meat, you gobble;
And how could you eat bones with a knife, spoon, and fork?
You would be in a most inconvenient hobble.
And yet, once on a time it is certainly true,
My own manners wanted no little refining;
For I gobbled, and spilled, and was greedy like you,
And had no idea of good manners when dining.
So that when I consider the tricks _you_ have caught,
To sit or shake paws with the utmost good breeding,
I must own it quite possible you may be taught
The use of a plate, and a nice style of feeding.
Therefore try to learn manners, and eat as I do;
Don't glare at the joint, and as soon as you're able
To behave like the rest, you shall feed with us too,
And dine like a gentleman sitting at table.
I always _was_ a remarkable child; so old for my age, and such a
sensitive nature!--Mamma often says so.
And I'm the sweetest, little dear in my blue ribbons, and quite a
Sunday, and that's how I know.
And I'm a sacred responsibility to my parents--(it was what the
clergyman's wife at the seaside said),
And a solemn charge, and a fair white page, and a tender bud, and
it has gone out of my head.
fiddlestrings, as any one with common sense could see with
half an eye.
eye. Could they, Mamma?"
And Nurse said, "Go and play, my dear, and let your Mamma rest;"
but Mamma said, "No, my love, stay where you are.
Dear Nurse, lift me up, and put a pillow to my back, I know
you mean to be kind;
she'd less of her own way;
that's what I say.
And if her mother thought less of her and she thought more of her
But Nurse is a nasty cross old thing--I hate her; and I hate the
doctor, for he wanted me to be left behind
look at the sea;
But when I got on to the sands, I thought I'd rather be on the
esplanade, for there was a little girl there who was
looking at me,
Dressed in a navy-blue suit and a sailor hat, with fair hair tied
And she got me a suit, ready-made (but she said it was dreadfully
the shore.
them again.
Of course that's impossible, I know, but I wish I knew what to
do instead!
It seems such a pity that a sweet little dear like me should
ever be sad.
And Mamma says she buys everything I want, and has taught me
everything I will learn, and reads every book, and takes
every hint she can pick up, and keeps me with her all day,
and worries about me all night, till she's nearly mad;
Permit me, Reader, to make my bow,
And allow
Me to humbly commend to your tender mercies
The hero of these simple verses.
By domicile, of the British Nation;
By birth and family, a Crustacean.
One's hero should have a name that rare is;
And his was _Homarus_, but--_Vulgaris!_
A Lobster, who dwelt with several others,--
His sisters and brothers,--
In a secluded but happy home,
Under the salt sea's foam.
It lay
At the outermost point of a rocky bay.
A sandy, tide-pooly, cliff-bound cove,
With a red-roofed fishing village above,
Of irregular cottages, perched up high
Amid pale yellow poppies next to the sky.
Shells and pebbles, and wrack below,
And shrimpers shrimping all in a row;
Tawny sails and tarry boats,
Dark brown nets and old cork floats;
Nasty smells at the nicest spots,
And blue-jerseyed sailors and--lobster-pots.
"It is sweet to be
At home in the deep, deep sea.
It is very pleasant to have the power
To take the air on dry land for an hour;
And when the mid-day midsummer sun
Is toasting the fields as brown as a bun,
And the sands are baking, it's very nice
To feel as cool as a strawberry ice
In one's own particular damp sea-cave,
Dipping one's feelers in each green wave.
It is good, for a very rapacious maw,
When storm-tossed morsels come to the claw;
And 'the better to see with' down below,
To wash one's eyes in the ebb and flow
Of the tides that come and the tides that go."
So sang the Lobsters, thankful for their mercies,
All but the hero of these simple verses.
Now a hero--
If he's worth the grand old name--
Though temperature may change from boiling-point to zero
Should keep his temper all the same:
Courageous and content in his estate,
And proof against the spiteful blows of Fate.
It, therefore, troubles me to have to say,
That with this Lobster it was never so;
Whate'er the weather or the sort of day,
No matter if the tide were high or low,
Whatever happened he was never pleased,
And not himself alone, but all his kindred teased.
What a world of woe
We flounder about in, here below!
Oh dear! oh dear!
It is too, too dull, down here!
I haven't the slightest patience
With any of my relations;
I take no interest whatever
In things they call curious and clever.
And, for love of dear truth I state it,
As for my Home--I hate it!
I'm convinced I was formed for a larger sphere,
And am utterly out of my element here."
Then his brothers and sisters said,
Each solemnly shaking his and her head,
"You put your complaints in most beautiful verse,
And yet we are sure,
That, in spite of all you have to endure,
You might go much farther and fare much worse.
We wish you could live in a higher sphere,
But we think you might live happily here."
"I don't live, I only exist," he said,
"Be pleased to look upon me as dead."
And he swam to his cave, and took to his bed.
He sulked so long that the sisters cried,
"Perhaps he has really and truly died."
But the brothers went to the cave to peep,
For they said, "Perhaps he is only asleep."
They found him, far too busy to talk,
With a very large piece of bad salt pork.
"Dear Brother, what luck you have had to-day!
Can you tell us, pray,
Is there any more pork afloat in the bay?"
But not a word would my hero say,
Except to repeat, with sad persistence,
"This is not life, it's only existence."
One day there came to the fishing village
An individual bent on pillage;
But a robber whom true scientific feeling
May find guilty of picking, but not of stealing.
He picked the yellow poppies on the cliffs;
He picked the feathery seaweeds in the pools;
He picked the odds and ends from nets and skiffs;
He picked the brains of all the country fools.
He dried the poppies for his own herbarium,
And caught the Lobsters for a seaside town aquarium.
For clever contrivances always keep
The water fresh in the pool;
And a very fine plate-glass window is free to the public view,
Through which you can stare at the passers-by and the passers-by
stare at you.
Said my hero, "This is a great variety
From those dull old rocks, where we'd no society."
For the primal cause of incidents,
One often hunts about,
When it's only a coincidence
That matters so turned out.
And I do not know the reason
Or the reason I would tell--
But it may have been the season--
Why my hero chose this moment for casting off his shell.
He had hitherto been dressed
(And so had all the rest)
In purplish navy blue from top to toe!
But now his coat was new,
It was of every shade of blue
Between azure and the deepest indigo;
And his sisters kept telling him, till they were tired,
There never was any one so much admired.
My hero was happy at last, you will say?
So he was, dear Reader--two nights and a day;
Then, as he and his relatives lay,
Each at the mouth of his mock
Cave in the face of a miniature rock,
They saw, descending the opposite cliff,
By jerks spasmodic of elbows stiff;
Now hurriedly slipping, now seeming calmer,
With the ease and the grace of a hog in armour,
And as solemn as any ancient palmer,
No less than nine
Exceedingly fine
And full-grown lobsters, all in a line.
But the worst of the matter remains to be said.
These nine big lobsters were all of them _red_.
And when they got safe to the floor of the tank,--
For which they had chiefly good luck to thank,--
They settled their cumbersome coats of mail,
And every lobster tucked his tail
Neatly under him as he sat
In a circle of nine for a cosy chat.
They seemed to be sitting hand in hand,
As shoulder to shoulder they sat in the sand,
And waved their antennæ in calm rotation,
Apparently holding a consultation.
But what were the feelings of Master Blue Shell?
Oh, gentle Reader! how shall I tell?
niches of the rocky sides of the tank, where they looked like
blue-jerseyed smugglers at the mouths of caves.]
From the moment that those Nine he saw,
He never could bear his blue coat more.
"Oh, Brothers in misfortune!" he said,
"Did you ever see any lobsters so grand,
As those who sit down there in the sand?
Why were we born at all, since not one of us all was born red?"
"Dear Brother, indeed, this is quite a whim."
(So his brothers and sisters reasoned with him;
And, being exceedingly cultivated,
The case with remarkable fairness stated.)
"Red is a primary colour, it's true,
And we all of us think, dear Brother,
That one is quite as good as the other.
A swaggering soldier's a saucy varlet,
Though he looks uncommonly well in scarlet.
No doubt there's much to be said
For a field of poppies of glowing red;
For fiery rifts in sunset skies,
Roses and blushes and red sunrise;
For a glow on the Alps, and the glow of a forge,
A foxglove bank in a woodland gorge;
Sparks that are struck from red-hot bars,
The sun in a mist, and the red star Mars;
Flowers of countless shades and shapes,
Matadors', judges', and gipsies' capes;
The red-haired king who was killed in the wood,
Robin Redbreast and little Red Riding Hood;
Autumn maple, and winter holly,
Red-letter days of wisdom or folly;
The scarlet ibis, rose cockatoos,
Cardinal's gloves, and Karen's shoes;
Coral and rubies, and huntsmen's pink;
Red, in short, is splendid, we think.
But, then, we don't think there's a pin to choose;
If the Guards are handsome, so are the Blues.
It's a narrow choice between Sappers and Gunners.
You sow blue beans, and rear scarlet runners.
Then think of the blue of a mid-day sky,
Of the sea, and the hills, and a Scotchman's eye;
Of peacock's feathers, forget-me-nots,
The blue that the western sky wears casually,
Sapphire, turquoise, and lapis-lazuli.
What can look smarter
Than the broad blue ribbon of Knights of the Garter?
And, if the subject is not too shocking,
An intellectual lady's stocking.
And who that loves hues
Could fail to mention
The wonderful blues
Of the mountain gentian?"
But to all that his brothers and sisters said,
He made no reply but--"I wish I were dead!
I'm all over blue, and I want to be red."
And he moped and pined, and took to his bed.
"That little one looks uncommonly sickly,
Put him back in the sea, and put him back quickly."
The voice that spoke was the voice of Fate,
And the lobster was soon in his former state;
Where, as of old, he muttered and mumbled,
And growled and grumbled:
"Oh dear! what shall I do?
I want to be red, and I'm all over blue."
I don't think I ever met with a book
The evil genius of which was a cook;
But it thus befell,
In the tale I have the honour to tell;
For as he was fretting and fuming about,
A fisherman fished my hero out;
And in process of time, he heard a voice,
Which made him rejoice.
The voice was the cook's, and what she said
Was, "He'll soon come out a beautiful red."
He was put in the pot,
The water was very hot;
The less we say about this the better,
It was all fulfilled to the very letter.
He did become a beautiful red,
But then--which he did not expect--he was dead!
Some gentle readers cannot well endure
To see the ill end of a bad beginning;
And hope against hope for a nicer cure
For naughty heroes than to leave off sinning.
And yet persisting in behaving badly,
Do what one will, does commonly end sadly.
But things in general are so much mixed,
That every case must stand upon its merits;
And folks' opinions are so little fixed,
And no one knows the least what he inherits--
I should be glad to shed some parting glory
Upon the hero of this simple story.
It seems to me a mean end to a ballad,
But the truth is, he was made into salad;
It's not how one's hero should end his days,
In a mayonnaise,
But I'm told that he looked exceedingly nice,
With cream-coloured sauce, and pale-green lettuce and ice.
I confess that if he'd been my relation,
This would not afford me any consolation;
For I feel (though one likes to speak well of the dead)
That it must be said,
He need not have died so early lamented,
If he'd been content to live contented.
P.S.--His claws were raised to very high stations;
They keep the earwigs from our carnations.
There you are!
I was certain I heard a strange voice from afar.
Mamma calls me a pup, but I'm wiser than she;
One ear cocked and I hear, half an eye and I see;
Wide-awake though I doze, not a thing escapes me.
Let me guess:
It's the stable-boy's hiss as he wisps down Black Bess.
It sounds like a kettle beginning to sing,
Or a bee on a pane, or a moth on the wing,
Or my master's peg-top, just let loose from the string.
Now I smell,
I don't know who you are, and I'm puzzled to tell.
You look like a fly dressed in very gay clothes,
But I blush to have troubled my mid-day repose
For a creature not worth half a twitch of my nose.
How now?
Bow, wow, wow!
The insect imagines we're playing, I vow!
If I pat you, I promise you'll find it too hard.
Be off! when a watch-dog like me is on guard,
Big or little, no stranger's allowed in the yard.
My dear little master, is that what you say?
I am greatly obliged for your kindness and cares,
But I really can manage my own small affairs,
And banish intruders who give themselves airs.
Yap! yap! yap!
You defy me?--you pigmy, you insolent scrap!
What!--this to my teeth, that have worried a score
Of the biggest rats bred in the granary floor!
Come on, and be swallowed! I spare you no more!
Yelp! yelp! yelp!
Little master, pray save an unfortunate whelp,
Who began the attack, but is now in retreat,
Having shown all his teeth, just escapes on his feet,
And is trusting to you to make safety complete.
Let me go!
My poor eye! my poor ear! my poor tail! my poor toe!
Pray excuse my remarks, for I meant no such thing.
Don't trouble to come--oh, the brute's on the wing!
I'd no notion, I'm sure, there were flies that could sting.
I can't see.
My nose burns, my limbs shake, I'm as ill as can be.
I was never in such an undignified plight.
Mamma told me, and now I suppose she was right;
One should know what one's after before one shows fight.
Some Homes are where flowers for ever blow,
The sun shining hotly the whole year round;
But our Home glistens with six months of snow,
Where frost without wind heightens every sound.
And Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.
Yet Willy is old enough to recall
A Home forgotten by Eily and me;
He says that we left it five years since last Fall,
And came sailing, sailing, right over the sea.
But Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.
Our other Home was for ever green,
A green, green isle in a blue, blue sea,
With sweet flowers such as we never have seen;
And Willy tells all this to Eily and me.
But Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.
He says, "What fine fun when we all go back!"
But Canada Home is very good fun
When Pat's little sled flies along the smooth track,
Or spills in the snowdrift that shines in the sun.
For Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.
Some day I should dearly love, it is true,
To sail to the old Home over the sea;
But only if Father and Mother went too,
For Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.
A little Brook, that babbled under grass,
Once saw a Poet pass--
A Poet with long hair and saddened eyes,
Who went his weary way with woeful sighs.
And on another time,
This Brook did hear that Poet read his rueful rhyme.
Now in the poem that he read,
This Poet said--
"Oh! little Brook that babblest under grass!
Say, are you what you seem?
Or is your life, like other lives, a dream?
What time your babbling mocks my mortal moods,
Fair Naïad of the stream!
And are you, in good sooth,
Could purblind poesy perceive the truth,
A water-sprite,
Who sometimes, for man's dangerous delight,
Puts on a human form and face,
To wear them with a superhuman grace?
"When this poor Poet turns his bending back,
Say, shall you rise from out your grassy bed,
With wreathed forget-me-nots about your head,
And sing and play,
And wile some wandering wight out of his way,
To lead him with your witcheries astray?
Would it be safe for me
That fateful form to see?"
So far the Poet read his pleasing strain,
Then it began to rain:
He closed his book.
"Farewell, fair Nymph!" he cried, as with a lingering look
His homeward way he took;
And nevermore that Poet saw that Brook.
The Brook passed several days in anxious expectation
Of transformation
Into a lovely nymph bedecked with flowers;
And longed impatiently to prove those powers--
Those dangerous powers--of witchery and wile,
That should all mortal men mysteriously beguile;
For life as running water lost its charm
Before the exciting hope of doing so much harm.
And yet the hope seemed vain;
Despite the Poet's strain,
Though the days came and went, and went and came,
The seasons changed, the Brook remained the same.
The Brook was almost tired
Of vainly hoping to become a Naïad;
When on a certain Summer's day,
Dame Nature came that way,
Busy as usual,
With great and small;
Who, at the water-side
Dipping her clever fingers in the tide,
Out of the mud drew creeping things,
And, smiling on them, gave them radiant wings.
Now when the poor Brook murmured, "Mother dear!"
Dame Nature bent to hear,
And the sad stream poured all its woes into her sympathetic ear,
Crying,--"Oh, bounteous Mother!
Do not do more for one child than another;
If of a dirty grub or two
(Dressing them up in royal blue)
You make so many shining Demoiselles,
Change me as well;
Uplift me also from this narrow place,
Where life runs on at such a petty pace;
Give me a human form, dear Dame, and then
See how I'll flit, and flash, and fascinate the race of men!"
variety (_Libellula_), with body of brilliant blue.]
Then Mother Nature, who is wondrous wise,
Did that deluded little Brook advise
To be contented with its own fair face,
And with a good and cheerful grace,
Run, as of yore, on its appointed race,
Safe both from giving and receiving harms;
Outliving human lives, outlasting human charms.
But good advice, however kind,
Is thrown away upon a made-up mind,
And this was all that babbling Brook would say--
"Give me a human face and form, if only for a day!"
Then quoth Dame Nature:--"Oh, my foolish child!
Ere I fulfil a wish so wild,
Since I am kind and you are ignorant,
This much I grant:
You shall arise from out your grassy bed,
And gathered to the waters overhead
Shall thus and then
Look down and see the world, and all the ways of men!"
Departed to the place from whence she came,
When in that very hour,
The sun burst forth with most amazing power.
Dame Nature bade him blaze, and he obeyed;
He drove the fainting flocks into the shade,
He ripened all the flowers into seed,
He dried the river, and he parched the mead;
Then on the Brook he turned his burning eye,
Which rose and left its narrow channel dry;
And, climbing up by sunbeams to the sky,
Became a snow-white cloud, which softly floated by.
It was a glorious Autumn day,
And all the world with red and gold was gay;
When, as this cloud athwart the heavens did pass,
Lying below, it saw a Poet on the grass,
The very Poet who had such a stir made,
To prove the Brook was a fresh-water mermaid.
And now,
Holding his book above his corrugated brow--
He read aloud,
And thus apostrophized the passing cloud:
"Oh, snowy-breasted Fair!
Mysterious messenger of upper air!
Can you be of those female forms so dread,
Who bear the souls of the heroic dead
To where undying laurels crown the warrior's head?
Or, as you smile and hover,
And who, ah! who is he?
--And what, oh, what!--your message to poor me?"--
So far the Poet. Then he stopped:
His book had dropped.
But ere the delighted cloud could make reply,
Dame Nature hurried by,
And it put forth a wild beseeching cry--
"Give me a human face and form!"
Dame Nature frowned, and all the heavens grew black with storm.
But very soon,
Upon a frosty winter's noon,
The little cloud returned below,
Falling in flakes of snow;
Falling most softly on the floor most hard
Of an old manor-house court-yard.
And as it hastened to the earth again,
The children sang behind the window-pane:
"Old woman, up yonder, plucking your geese,
Quickly pluck them, and quickly cease;
Throw down the feathers, and when you have done,
We shall have fun--we shall have fun."
The snow had fallen, when with song and shout
The girls and boys came out;
Six sturdy little men and maids,
Who swept and shovelled up the fallen snow,
Which whimpered,--"Oh! oh! oh!
Oh, Mother, most severe!
Pity me lying here,
I'm shaken all to pieces with that storm,
Raise me and clothe me in a human form."
They swept up much, they shovelled up more,
There never was such a snow-man before!
They built him bravely with might and main,
There never will be such a snow-man again!
His legs were big, his body was bigger,
They made him a most imposing figure;
His eyes were large and as black as coal,
For a cinder was placed in each round hole.
And the sight of his teeth would have made yours ache,
Being simply the teeth of an ancient rake.
They smoothed his forehead, they patted his back,
There wasn't a single unsightly crack;
And when they had given the final pat,
They crowned his head with the scare-crow's hat.
And so
The Brook--the Cloud--the Snow,
Got its own way after so many days,
And did put on a human form and face.
But whether
The situation pleased it altogether;
If it is nice
To be a man of snow and ice;
Whether it feels
Painful, when one congeals;
How this man felt
When he began to melt;
Whether he wore his human form and face
With any extraordinary grace;
If many mortals fell
As victims to the spell;
Or if,
As he stood, stark and stiff,
With a bare broomstick in his arms,
And not a trace of transcendental charms,
That man of snow
Grew wise enough to know
That the Brook's hopes were but a Poet's dream,
And well content to be again a stream,
On the first sunny day,
Flowed quietly away;
Or what the end was--You must ask the Poet,
I don't know it.
a day there was a gun,
looked rather brave;
at the grave.
I told him, through the hedge, "Your facings are dirty, and you'd
how he did frown!
He's so young he won't make up his mind whether he'll go into the
I want him to be a gunner, for his frock's dark blue, and Captain
quite a big ball.
Besides, he always wants to be Drum-Major when we've funerals, to
I asked her what she would do if she were grown up into a woman,
and belonged to some one who was wounded in the war,--
And she said if she couldn't get a ship to bring him home in, she
for his grave.
to the Forces and pray for everyone at the war."
his head
you can't do as you're bid?"
He began, "GOD save the Queen, and the Army and the Navy, and the
Sub-lieutenants, and the Quartermasters, and the
non-commissioned officers, and the men;
please I should like them all to come home safe again.
GOD bless the good soldiers, like Old Father, and Captain Powder,
naughty ones all be forgiven;
And if the black men kill our men, send down white angels to take
Only Mary would cry in the verse about "Soon, soon to faithful
warriors comes their rest!"
fighting, for we never had one before;
And now we can play at soldiers every day till Old Father comes
home from the war.
We advise you to take care.
He lodges with us, so we know him well,
And can tell
You all about him,
And we strongly advise you not to flout him."
"At my time of life," said the Dandelion,
"I keep an eye on
The slightest sign of disturbance and riot,
For my one object is to keep quiet
The reason I take such very great care,"
The old Dandy went on, "is because of my hair.
It was very thick once, and as yellow as gold;
But now I am old,
It is snowy-white,
And comes off with the slightest fright.
As to using a brush--
My good dog! I beseech you, don't rush,
Go quietly by me, if you please
You're as bad as a breeze.
I hope you'll attend to what we've said;
And--whatever you do--don't touch my head,
In this equinoctial, blustering weather
You might knock it off with a feather."
Said the Thistle, "I can tickle,
But not as a Hedgehog can prickle;
Even my tough old friend the Moke
Would find our lodger no joke."
"I have thorns," sighed the Rose,
"But they don't protect me like those;
He can pull his thorns right over his nose."
"My sting," said the Nettle,
"Is nothing to his when he's put on his mettle.
No nose can endure it,
No dock-leaves will cure it."
"Bow-wow!" said the Dog:
"All this fuss about a Hedgehog?
Though I never saw one before--
There's my paw!
Good-morning, Sir! Do you never stir?
You look like an overgrown burr.
Will you have a game of play?
With your humped-up back and your spines on end,
You remind me so of an intimate friend,
Who lives with us.
How well I know her tricks!
The dear creature!
Just when you're sure you can reach her,
In the twinkling of a couple of sticks
She saves herself by her heels,
The odd part of it is,
I could swear that I could not possibly miss
Her silky, cumbersome, traily tail,
And that's just where I always fail.
But you seem to have nothing, Sir, of the sort;
And I should be mortified if you thought
That I'm stupid at sport;
I assure you I don't often meet my match,
Where I chase I commonly catch.
I've caught cats,
And rats,
And (between ourselves) I once caught a sheep,
And I think I could catch a weasel asleep."
From the whole of the hedge there rose a shout,
"Oh! you'll catch it, no doubt!
But remember we gave you warning fair,
Touch him if you dare!"
"If I dare?" said the Dog--"Take that!"
As he gave the Hedgehog a pat.
But oh, how he pitied his own poor paw;
And shook it and licked it, it was so sore.
"It's much too funny by half,"
Said the Dandelion; "it makes me ill,
For I cannot keep still,
And my hair comes out if I laugh."
The Hedgehog he spoke never a word,
And he never stirred;
His peeping eyes, his inquisitive nose,
And his tender toes,
Were all wrapped up in his prickly clothes.
A provoking enemy you may suppose!
And a dangerous one to flout--
Like a well-stocked pin-cushion inside out.
The Dog was valiant, the Dog was vain,
He flew at the prickly ball again,
Snapping with all his might and main,
But, oh! the pain!
He sat down on his stumpy tail and howled,
Then he laid his jaws on his paws and growled.
With laughter the Dandelion shook--
"It passes a printed book;
It's as good as a play, I declare,
But it's cost me half my back hair!"
The Dog he made another essay,
It really and truly was very plucky--
But "third times," you know, are not always lucky--
And this time he ran away!
Then the Hedge-plants every one
Rustled together, "What fun! what fun!
The battle is done,
The victory won.
Dear Hedge-pig, pray come out of the Sun."
The Hedge-pig put forth his snout,
He sniffed hither and thither and peeped about;
Then he tucked up his prickly clothes,
And trotted away on his tender toes
To where the hedge-bottom is cool and deep,
Had a slug for supper, and went to sleep.
His leafy bed-clothes cuddled his chin,
And all the Hedge-plants tucked him in.
But the hairs and the tears that we shed
Never can be recalled;
And when _he_ too went off, in hysterics, to bed,
DANDELION was bald.
Still, _our_ birthdays are different; we want so many things, and
neuralgia if she stands about where it isn't dry.
ever were?"
And (because they're the only things we can think of for birthday
pin-cushion every year.
The only things we can think of for Father are paper-cutters; but
don't know!
He said, "What's the matter?" And Dolly said,
her hand.
Maggie would if I'd asked her; but Dolly will go her own way, and
is to be seen.
Who defended an old castle in Cornwall, against the French, for
hours and hours.
She made them strip the lead off the roofs, and they did, and she
French invader.
by talking.
and then carry him to save him the trouble of walking.
Just when I'd dressed all their noses to a nice level (you can do
and Dolly's Major says that, all things considered, he never
saw a better March-Past;
be the last.
vigorous measures described. On his return her husband wisely
"Embattled all the walls of the house, and in a manner made it
this day also.]
I behave beautifully at meals, and at church, and I can put on my
a donkey, and play at any boys' game.
goes lame.
The reason the saddle is slippery is not because it's smooth,
for it's rather rough; and there's a hard ridge behind,
We've all of us had a good deal of practice, so we ought to know
how to ride;
I can't stick on by myself; so I sent him away, and the nasty
saddle slipped round directly he was gone.
ashamed of yourself, considering all your medals, and that
you're a Major."
He likes me very much, and I like him, and when my fifth birthday
me, but the saddle and bridle shall be quite new;
And Maggie is so glad, she says her life is quite miserable with
thinking how miserable other lives are, if only we knew.
in my winter boots), and she doesn't even think a donkey
ugly when he brays;
shan't be her fault if there isn't one poor old brute beast
who lives happily to the end of his days.
All around us spreads the Heath Bed-straw in glimmering sheets of
Hee-haw! for the sweet night air that gives human beings cold in
the head.
Hee-haw! for the civilization that sends human beings to bed.
Rest, Brother Donkeys, rest, from the bit, the burden, the blow,
holiday-maker who knows no better, and the holiday-makers
who ought to know!
a long and attentive ear!
Whilst I proudly bray
Of the one bright day
In our hard and chequered career.
I've dragged pots, and vegetables, and invalids, and
fish, and I've galloped with four costermongers to the races;
I've carried babies, and sea-coal, and sea-sand, and sea-weed in
for the sea-side, and ridden (in a white saddle-cloth with
scarlet braid) by the fashionable visitors. (There was always
a certain distinction in my paces,
to the foot of a mountain, to take people up to the top to
show them the view.
elevated tone;
were seen
As black and immovable as the silent fir-trees you solemnly
slumber beneath,
Five blue eggs hatching,
With bright eyes watching,
Little brown mother, you sit on your nest.
Oh! pass me blindly,
Oh! spare me kindly,
Pity my terror, and leave me to rest.
Hush! hush! hush!
'Tis a poor mother thrush.
When the blue eggs hatch, the brown birds will sing--
This is a promise made in the Spring.
Five speckled thrushes
In leafy bushes
Singing sweet songs to the hot Summer sky.
In and out twitting,
Here and there flitting,
Happy is life as the long days go by.
Hush! hush! hush!
'Tis the song of the thrush:
Hatched are the blue eggs; the brown birds do sing--
Keeping the promise made in the Spring.
Published in _Aunt Judy's Magazine_, July 1866, with music by
Hold my hand, little Sister, and nurse my head, whilst I try to
remember the word,
What was it?--that the doctor says is now fairly established both
it to this.
C-O-N-_con_--how my head swims! Now I've got it!
_Convalescence!_ And that's what the doctor says is now fairly
established both in my blackbird and me.
He says it means that you are better, and that you'll be well
by and by.
And so the Sea-captain says, and he says we ought to be friends,
because we're both convalescents--at least we're all three
convalescents, my blackbird, and the Captain and I.
He's a sea-captain, not a land-captain, but, all the same, he was
and rather better than the rest of his relations, for I asked
him; and now he's afraid she will never belong to him
any more.
till to-day.
He was very kind, and let me ask questions. I said, "Are you a
sea-captain?" and he said, "Yes." And I said, "How funny it
is about land things and sea things!
There are captains and sea-captains, and weeds and sea-weeds, and
really like the dragons on our very old best blue tea-things?"
if you try to read, and your neck if you draw, and your back
if you sit up, and your head if you talk?
I do hate convalescence, don't you?"
you won't think 'What is it I'd rather have?' but, 'What is
it I've got to do?'
'What have I got to do or to bear; and how can I do it or bear
it best?'
That's the only safe point to make for, my lad. Make for it, and
leave the rest!"
"What should I think of the fellow? Why, I should know he was a
coward," I said.
"And if he were confined to bed," said the Sea-captain, "and lay
grumbling and wishing he were in battle, I should give
him no better a name;
And won't be fit to work for months? (will _she_ be convalescent,
say, "So much grumbling and complaining is nigh as big a sin
as swearing and cursing"?
thought of trying to be good.
Get your things on, and have a gallop on Jack.
Ride round this way and let me see you. I won't say a word about
wishing I was going too; and if my head gets bad whilst
you're away, I will bear it my very best till you come back.
Perhaps, if I try hard at Convalescence now, I may become a brave
and bring her out again with flying colours and fame,
_By Fedor Flinzer. Freely translated by J.H. Ewing._
Dear children, listen whilst I tell
What to a certain Elf befell,
Who left his house and sallied forth
Adventure seeking, south and north,
And west and east, by path and field,
Resolved to conquer or to yield.
A thimble on his back he carried,
With a rose-twig his foes he parried.
It was a sunny, bright, spring day,
When to the wood he took his way;
He knew that in a certain spot
A Bumble Bee his nest had got.
The Bee was out, the chance was good,
But just when grabbing all he could,
He heard the Bee behind him humming,
And only wished he'd heard him coming!
In terror turned the tiny man,
And now a famous fight began:
The Bee flew round, and buzzed and stung,
The Elf his prickly rose-staff swung.
Now fiercely here, now wildly there,
He hit the Bee or fought the air.
At last one weighty blow descended:
The Bee was dead--the fight was ended.
Exhausted quite, he took a seat.
The honey tasted doubly sweet!
The thimble-full had been upset,
But still there were a few drops yet.
He licked his lips and blessed himself,
That he was such a lucky Elf,
And now might hope to live in clover;
But, ah! his troubles were not over!
For at that instant, by his side,
A beast of fearful form he spied:
At first he thought it was a bear,
And headlong fell in dire despair.
He lost one slipper in the moss,
And this was not his only loss.
With paws and snout the beast was nimble,
And very soon cleared out the thimble.
This rifling of his honey-pot
Awoke our Elfin's wrath full hot.
He made a rope of linden bast,
By either end he held it fast,
And creeping up behind the beast,
Intent upon the honey feast,
Before it had the slightest inkling,
The rope was round it in a twinkling.
The mouse shrieked "Murder!" "Fire!" and "Thieves!"
And struggled through the twigs and leaves.
It pulled the reins with all its might,
Our hero only drew them tight.
Upon the mouse's back he leapt,
And like a man his seat he kept.
His steed was terribly affrighted,
But he himself was much delighted.
"Gee up, my little horse!" he cried,
"I mean to have a glorious ride;
So bear me forth with lightning speed,
A Knight resolved on doughty deed.
The wide world we will gallop round,
And clear the hedges at one bound."
The mouse set off, the hero bantered,
And out into the world they cantered.
At last they rode up to an inn:
"Good Mr. Host, pray who's within?"
"My daughter serves the customers,
Before the fire the Tom-cat purrs."
For further news they did not wait--
The mouse sprang through the garden-gate--
They fled without a look behind them.
The question is--Did Thomas find them?
I would not have you wake for me,
Fair lady, though I love you!
And though the night is warm, and all
The stars are out above you;
assistant
Sure, a continuation for this poem could be:
  And though the dew's so light it could
Not hurt your little feet,
And nightingales in yonder wood
Are singing passing sweet.
Yet may my plaintive strain unite
And mingle with your dreaming,
And through the visions of the night
Just interweave my seeming.
Yet no! sleep on with fancy free
In that untroubled breast;
No song of mine, no thought of me,
Deserves to break your rest!
Maiden with the gipsy look,
Dusky locks and russet hue,
Open wide thy Sybil's book,
Tell my fate and tell it true;
Shall I live? or shall I die?
Timely wed, or single be?
Maiden with the gipsy eye,
Read my riddle unto me!
Maiden with the gipsy face,
If thou canst not tell me all,
Tell me thus much, of thy grace,
Should I climb, or fear to fall?
Should I dare, or dread to dare?
Should I speak, or silent be?
Maiden with the gipsy hair,
Read my riddle unto me!
Maiden with the gipsy hair,
Deep into thy mirror look,
See my love and fortune there,
Clearer than in Sybil's book:
Let me cross thy slender palm,
Let me learn my fate from thee;
Maiden with the gipsy charm,
Read my riddle unto me.
The whispering water rocks the reeds,
And, murmuring softly, laps the weeds;
And nurses there the falsest bloom
That ever wrought a lover's doom.
Forget me not! Forget me not!
Ah! would I could forget!
But, crying still, "Forget me not,"
Her image haunts me yet.
We wander'd by the river's brim,
The day grew dusk, the pathway dim;
Her eyes like stars dispell'd the gloom,
Her gleaming fingers pluck'd the bloom.
Forget me not! Forget me not!
Ah! would I could forget!
But, crying still, "Forget me not,"
Her image haunts me yet.
The pale moon lit her paler face,
And coldly watch'd our last embrace,
And chill'd her tresses' sunny hue,
And stole that flower's turquoise blue.
Forget me not! Forget me not!
Ah! would I could forget!
But, crying still, "Forget me not,"
Her image haunts me yet.
The fateful flower droop'd to death,
The fair, false maid forswore her faith;
But I obey a broken vow,
And keep those wither'd blossoms now!
Forget me not! Forget me not!
Ah! would I could forget!
But, crying still, "Forget me not,"
Her image haunts me yet.
Sweet lips that pray'd--"Forget me not!"
Sweet eyes that will not be forgot!
Recall your prayer, forego your power,
Which binds me by the fatal flower.
Forget me not! Forget me not!
Ah! would I could forget!
But, crying still, "Forget me not,"
Her image haunts me yet.
Life is full of trouble,
Love is full of care,
Joy is like a bubble
Shining in the air,
For you cannot
Grasp it anywhere.
Love is not worth getting,
It doth fade so fast.
Life is not worth fretting
Which so soon is past;
And you cannot
Bid them longer last.
Yet for certain fellows
Life seems true and strong;
And with some, they tell us,
Love will linger long;
Thus they cannot
Understand my song.
Seeing what none else may see,
Dost thou see the man in grey?
Dost thou hear the night hounds bay?
Seventh son of seventh son,
All thy thread of life is spun,
Thy little race is nearly run,
And death awaits for thee!
Coronach shall wail for thee;
Get thee shrived and get thee blest,
Get thee ready for thy rest,
That thou owest quickly give,
What thou ownest thou must leave,
And those thou lovest best shall grieve,
But all in vain for thee!
"Bodach Glas!" the chieftain said,
"All my debts but one are paid,
All I love have long been dead,
All my hopes on Heaven are stay'd,
Death to me can bring no dole;"
Thus the Elleree replied;--
But with ebbing of the tide
As sinks the setting sun he died;--
May Christ receive his soul!
The night is dark, and yet it is not quite:
Those stars are hid that other orbs may shine;
Twin stars, whose rays illuminate the night,
And cheer her gloom, but only deepen mine;
For these fair stars are not what they do seem,
But vanish'd eyes remember'd in a dream.
The night is dark, and yet it brings no rest;
Those eager eyes gaze on and banish sleep;
Though flaming Mars has lower'd his crimson crest,
And weary Venus pales into the deep,
These two with tender shining mock my woe
From out the distant heaven of long ago.
The night is dark, and yet how bright they gleam!
Oh! empty vision of a vanish'd light!
Sweet eyes! must you for ever be a dream
Deep in my heart, and distant from my sight?
For could you shine as once you shone before,
The stars might hide their rays for evermore!
My love she sent a flower to me
Of tender hue and fragrance rare,
And with it came across the sea
A letter kind as she was fair;
But when her letter met mine eyes,
The flower, the little flower, was dead:
And ere I touched the tender prize
The hues were dim, the fragrance fled.
I sent my love a letter too,
In happy hope no more to roam;
I bade her bless the vessel true
Whose gallant sails should waft me home.
But ere my letter reach'd her hand,
My love, my little love, was dead,
And when the vessel touch'd the land,
Fair hope for evermore had fled.
What time I left my native land,
And bade farewell to my true love,
She laid a flower in my hand
As azure as the sky above.
"Speed thee well! Speed well!"
She softly whispered, "Speed well!
This flower blue
Be token true
Of my true heart's true love for you!"
Its tender hue is bright and pure,
As heav'n through summer clouds doth show,
A pledge though clouds thy way obscure,
It shall not be for ever so.
"Speed thee well! Speed well!"
She softly whisper'd, "Speed well!
This flower blue
Be token true
Of my true heart's true love for you!"
And as I toil through help and harm,
And whilst on alien shores I dwell,
I wear this flower as a charm,
My heart repeats that tender spell:
"Speed thee well! Speed well!"
It softly whispers, "Speed well!
This flower blue
Be token true
Of my true heart's true love for you!"
How many years ago, love,
Since you came courting me?
Through oak-tree wood and o'er the lea,
With rosy cheeks and waistcoat gay,
And mostly not a word to say,--
How many years ago, love,
How many years ago?
How many years ago, love,
Since you to Father spoke?
Between your lips a sprig of oak:
You were not one with much to say,
But Mother spoke for you that day,--
How many years ago, love,
How many years ago?
So many years ago, love,
That soon our time must come
To leave our girl without a home;--
She's like her mother, love, you've said:
--At her age I had long been wed,--
How many years ago, love,
How many years ago?
For love of long-ago, love,
If John has aught to say,
When he comes up to us to-day,
(A likely lad, though short of tongue,)
Remember, husband, we were young,--
How many years ago, love,
How many years ago?
I'm weary waiting here,
The chill east wind is sighing,
The autumn tints are sere,
The summer flowers are dying.
The river's sullen way
Winds on through vacant meadows,
The dying light of day
Strives vainly with the shadows.
A footstep stirs the leaves!
The faded fields seem brighter,
The sunset gilds the sheaves,
The low'ring clouds look lighter.
The river sparkles by,
Not all the flowers are falling,
There's azure in the sky,
And thou, my love, art calling.
Over wastes of blasted heather,
Where the pine-trees stand together,
Evermore my footsteps wander,
Evermore the shadows yonder
Deepen into gloom.
Where there lies a silent lake,
No song-bird there its thirst may slake,
No sunshine now to whiteness wake
The water-lily's bloom.
Some sweet spring-time long departed,
I and she, the simple-hearted,
Bride and bridegroom, maid and lover,
Did that gloomy lake discover,
Did those lilies see.
There we wandered side by side.
There it was they said she died.
But ah! in this I know they lied!
She will return to me!
Never, never since that hour
Has the lake brought forth a flower.
Ever harshly do the sedges
Some sad secret from its edges
Whisper to the shore.
Some sad secret I forget.
The lily though will blossom yet:
And when it blooms I shall have met
My love for evermore.
From fleeting pleasures and abiding cares,
From sin's seductions and from Satan's snares,
From woes and wrath to penitence and prayers,
Veni in pace!
Sweet absolution thy sad spirit heal;
To godly cares that end in endless weal,
To joys man cannot think or speak or feel,
Vade in pace!
From this world's ways and being led by them,
From floods of evil thy youth could not stem,
From tents of Kedar to Jerusalem,
Veni in pace!
Blest be thy worldly loss to thy soul's gain,
Blest be the blow that freed thee from thy chain,
Blest be the tears that wash thy spirit's stain,
Vade in pace!
Oh, dead, and yet alive! Oh, lost and found!
Salvation's walls now compass thee around,
Thy weary feet are set on holy ground.
Veni in pace!
Death gently garner thee with all the blest,
In heavenly habitations be thou guest;
To light perpetual and eternal rest,
Vade in pace!
It was on such a night as this,
Some long unreal years ago,
When all within were wrapp'd in sleep,
And all without was wrapp'd in snow,
The full moon rising in the east,
The old church standing like a ghost,
That, shivering in the wintry mist,
And breathless with the silent frost,
A little lad, I ran to seek my fortune on the main;
I marvel now with how much hope and with how little pain!
It is of such a night as this,
In all the lands where I have been,
That memory too faithfully
Has painted the familiar scene.
By all the shores, on every sea,
In luck or loss, by night or day,
My highest hope has been to see
That home from which I ran away.
For this I toil'd, to this I look'd through many a weary year,
I marvel now with how much hope, and with how little fear.
On such a night at last I came,
But they were dead I loved of yore.
Ah, Mother, then my heart felt all
The pain it should have felt before!
I came away, though loth to come,
I clung, and yet why should I cling?
When all have gone who made it home,
It is the shadow, not the thing.
A homeless man, once more I seek my fortune on the main:
I marvel with how little hope, and with what bitter pain.
With bark and bound and frolic round
My dog and I together run;
While by our side a brook doth glide,
And laugh and sparkle in the sun.
We ask no more of fortune's store
Than thus at our sweet wills to roam:
And drink heart's ease from every breeze
That blows about the hills of home.
As, fancy free,
With game and glee,
We happy three
Dance down the glen.
And yet they say that some fine day
This vagrant stream may serve a mill;
My doggy guard a master's yard;
My free heart choose another's will.
How this may fare we little care,
My dog and I, as still we run!
Whilst by our side the brook doth glide,
And laugh and sparkle in the sun.
For, fancy free,
With game and glee,
We happy three
Dance down the glen.
You ask me what--since we must part--
You shall bring home to me;
Bring back a pure and faithful heart,
As true as mine to thee.
I ask not wealth nor fame,
I only ask for thee,
Thyself--and that dear self the same--
My love, bring back to me!
You talk of gems from foreign lands,
Of treasure, spoil, and prize.
Ah, love! I shall not search your hands,
But look into your eyes.
I ask not wealth nor fame,
I only ask for thee,
Thyself--and that dear self the same--
My love, bring back to me!
You speak of glory and renown,
With me to share your pride,
Unbroken faith is all the crown
I ask for as your bride.
I ask not wealth nor fame,
I only ask for thee,
Thyself--and that dear self the same--
My love, bring back to me!
You bid me with hope's eager gaze
Behold fair fortune come.
I only dream I see your face
Beside the hearth at home.
I ask not wealth nor fame,
I do but ask for thee!
Thyself--and that dear self the same--
May God restore to me!
If I should wish hereafter that your heart
Should beat with one fair memory of me,
May Time's hard hand our footsteps guide apart,
But lead yours back one spring-time to the Lea.
Wind-flowers pale,
Bloom with the budding trees,
Dancing to every breeze,
Mock hopes more fair than these,
Love's vows more frail.
For then the grass we loved grows green again,
And April showers make April woods more fair;
But no sun dries the sad salt tears of pain,
Or brings back summer lights on faded hair,
Wind-flowers pale,
Bloom with the budding trees,
Dancing to every breeze,
Mock hopes more frail than these,
Love's vows more frail.
The Spring's bright tints no more are seen,
And Summer's ample robe of green
Is russet-gold and brown;
When flowers fall to every breeze
And, shed reluctant from the trees,
The leaves drop down.
A sadness steals about the heart,
--And is it thus from youth we part,
And life's redundant prime?
Must friends like flowers fade away,
And life like Nature know decay,
And bow to time?
And yet such sadness meets rebuke,
From every copse in every nook
Where Autumn's colours glow;
How bright the sky! How full the sheaves!
What mellow glories gild the leaves
Before they go.
Then let us sing the jocund praise,
In this bright air, of these bright days,
When years our friendships crown;
The love that's loveliest when 'tis old--
When tender tints have turned to gold
And leaves drop down.
Long, long ago, with vows too much forgotten,
The Cross of Christ was seal'd on every brow,
Ah! slow of heart, that shun the Christian conflict;
Rise up at last! The accepted time is now.
Soldiers of Jesus! Blest who endure;
Stand in the battle; the victory is sure.
Hark! hark! the Saviour's voice to each is calling--
"I bore the Cross of Death in pain for thee;
On thee the Cross of daily life is falling:
Children! take up the Cross and follow Me."
Strive as God's saints have striven in all ages;
Press those slow steps where firmer feet have trod:
For us their lives adorn the sacred pages,
For them a crown of glory is with God.
Peace! peace! sweet voices bring an ancient story,
(Such songs angelic melodies employ,)
"Hard is the strife, but unconceived the glory:
Short is the pain, eternal is the joy."
On! Christian souls, all base temptations spurning,
Drown coward thoughts in Faith's triumphant hymn;
Since Jesus suffer'd, our salvation earning,
Shall we not toil that we may rest with Him?
Come down! come down! O Holy Ghost!
As once of old Thou didst come down
In fiery tongues at Pentecost,
The Apostolic heads to crown.
Come down! though now no flame divine,
Nor heaven-sent Dove, our sight amaze;
Our Church still shows the outward sign,
Thou truly givest inward grace.
Come down! come down! on infancy,
The babes whom Jesus deign'd to love;
God give us grace by faith to see,
Above the Font, the mystic Dove.
Come down! come down! on kneeling bands
Of those who fain would strength receive;
And in the laying on of hands
Bless us beyond what we believe.
Come down! not only on the saint,
Oh! struggle with the hard of heart,
With wilful sin and inborn taint,
Till lust, and wrath, and pride depart.
Come down! come down! sweet Comforter!
It was the promise of the Lord.
Come down! although we grieve Thee sore,
Not for our merits--but His Word.
Come down! come down! not what we would,
But what we need, O bring with Thee.
Turn life's sore riddle to our good;
A little while and we shall see. Amen.
Oh, happy Christmas, full of blessings, come!
Now bid our discords cease;
Here give the weary ease;
Let the long-parted meet again in peace;
Bring back the far-away;
Grant us a holiday;
And by the hopes of Christmas-tide we pray--
Let love restore the fallen to his Home;
Christmas ring.
Ah, Christ! and yet a happier day shall come!
Then bid our discords cease;
There give the weary ease;
Let the long-parted meet again in peace;
Bring back the far-away;
Grant us a holiday;
And by the hopes of Christmas-tide we pray--
Let love restore the fallen to his Home;
Whilst up and down the golden streets the blessed angels sing,
And evermore the heavenly chimes in heavenly cadence ring.
_Translated from the Danish of Oehlenschläger._
Teach me, O wood, to fade away,
As autumn's yellow leaves decay
A better spring impends,--
Then green and glorious shall my tree
Take deep root in eternity,--
Whose summer never ends!
Teach me, O bird of passage, this,
To seek, in faith a better bliss
On other unknown shores!
When all is winter here and ice,
There ever-smiling Paradise
Unfolds its happy doors.
Teach me, thou summer butterfly,
To break the bonds which on me lie.
With fetters all too firm.
Ah, soon on golden purple wing
The liberated soul shall spring,
Which now creeps as a worm!
Teach me, O Lord, to yonder skies
To lift in hope these weary eyes
With earthly sorrows worn.
Good Friday was a bitter day,
But bright the sun's eternal ray
Which broke on Easter morn.
_The present Series of Mrs. Ewing's Works is the only authorized,
specially designed by a Friend of Mrs. Ewing._
_The following is a list of the books included in the Series_--
Khoja, and other translations.
BOOKS, with a selection from Mrs. Ewing's