human
Can you write me a poem about brownie, pear and wren?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem about brownie, pear and wren:
  Brownie and the Cherry-tree
Brownie's Ride
The Shaking of the Pear-tree
The Wonderful Apple-tree
Don't Be Afraid
The Wren's Nest
A Child's Smile
The Year's End
remember, there had always been a bowl of milk put behind the
But once, when Brownie woke up, at his usual hour for rising--ten
coal-dust; and even a Brownie cannot eat that, you know.
table--enough for half a dozen people being left still.
"Whew!" said he; "here's a chance. What a supper I'll get now!"
remaining crumbs for his breakfast, and scampered off to his
Well, the Cook came downstairs rather earlier than usual, for she
"I'll teach you to come stealing food in this way; take that--and
THE "next time" was quick in coming, which was not wonderful,
A favorite play-place was the orchard, where grew the biggest
"Please, might we? We will be so good!"
To make mother "unhappy" was the worst rebuke possible to these
flower-garden, then in the fowl-yard.
"Hadn't you better you go and see after him?"
cherry-tree.
"Very well. Obey your mother. I'll just run up the tree myself."
market-basket.
"We were to eat as many as we liked, only we must first fill the
"Then you'd better hold your tongue, and mind your own business,"
"I thought they were ducklings."
"How you catch me up, you rude old man! They are ducklings, and
Just at this moment the six little people came running into the
"That accounts for everything," said the Gardener.
"I'll get a rope and tie her legs together," cried the Gardener,
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed somebody. The Gardener thought it was the
Of course they did, for the morning air made them very hungry.
"Now, little ones, now's your turn. Where are your mugs?"
"Now, then, every one take his own mug, and I'll fill it."
The Gardener was very much astonished. "It must be the Brownie!"
At last, however, the little family was safe in shelter, and the
centiped.
ducklings!"
"Oh, what a beauty of a creature! how did it ever come into our
Easier said than done. The boys set to work with great
"Turn round three times and see what you can find," shouted he.
civility he would be sure, they thought, to take her under his
immoderately, that he never tried it afterward.
Still, they were gradually becoming excellent little horsemen and
quarreling.
And he kicked up his cap--his only cap, it was--which, strange to
The servants even cried too--all but Bill.
lobster--or something, anyhow, that had claws. At last, fairly
certainly the key was gone.
What in the world should Bill do? Jess kept on making a pitiful
southerly wind and a cloudy sky proclaim a hunting morning!'"
"Well done, Bill," shouted he, "up early at last. One hour before
Jess lived to be quite an old pony, and carried a great many
"Who says so?"
The mother hesitated.
"You promised, you know," pleaded the children.
"Very well, then; only be careful."
oven--they would have come out rather a pleasant person.
"He'll growl at us all day long--he'll be a regular spoil-sport!"
As they went, they heard little steps pattering after them.
extremely. Every minute seemed an hour till they got on the ice.
"Try, only try; Bill said it bore," implored the boys, and looked
"I must go and tell Mr. Giles directly," said Gardener, and then
along--with Brownie between them--Page 64]
"Do it, then!" said the Brownie, in his little squeaking voice.
"What have you been doing all this time?" said he.
"All this five minutes?" said the oldest boy, mischievously; for
"He ate a cow, and ate a calf,
He ate an ox, and ate a half;
He ate a church, he ate the steeple,
He ate the priest, and all the people,
And said he hadn't had enough then."
"It isn't two hours--it's only one."
"Don't you meddle with matters that can't concern you," said the
"Well, it's the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of," the
"It was you who did it!"
suddenly burst out, not laughing, but crying.
"Fetch one of mother's baskets, and we'll fold it up as tidily as
The children could not explain, especially to a Brownie; but they
"Oh, no, please don't!" implored the children.
"Seek till you find, seek till you find,
Under the biggest gooseberry-bush, exactly to your mind."
gooseberry-bush.
This done, underneath the branches what should they find but the
"They've stolen my coal,
And I haven't a hole
To hide in;
Not even a house
One could ask a mouse
To bide in."
A SLENDER young Blackbird built in a thorn-tree
A spruce little fellow as ever could be;
His bill was so yellow, his feathers so black,
So long was his tail, and so glossy his back,
That good Mrs. B., who sat hatching her eggs,
And only just left them to stretch her poor legs,
And pick for a minute the worm she preferred,
Thought there never was seen such a beautiful bird.
And such a kind husband! how early and late
He would sit at the top of the old garden gate,
And sing, just as merry as if it were June,
Being ne'er out of patience, or temper, or tune.
"So unlike those Rooks, dear; from morning till night
They seem to do nothing but quarrel and fight,
And wrangle and jangle, and plunder--while we
Sit, honest and safe, in our pretty thorn-tree."
Just while she was speaking, a lively young Rook
Alit with a flap that the thorn-bush quite shook,
And seizing a stick from the nest--"Come, I say,
That will just suit me, neighbor"--flew with it away
The lady loud twittered--her husband soon heard:
Though peaceful, he was not a cowardly bird;
And with arguments angry enough to o'erwhelm
A whole Rookery--flew to the top of the elm.
"How dare you, you--" (thief he was going to say;
But a civiller sentiment came in the way:
For he knew 'tis no good, and it anyhow shames
A gentleman, calling strange gentlemen names:)
"Pray what is your motive, Sir Rook, for such tricks,
As building your mansion with other folks' sticks?
I request you'll restore them, in justice and law."
At which the whole colony set up a--caw!
But Blackbird, not silenced, then spoke out again;
"I've built my small nest with much labor and pain.
I'm a poor singing gentleman, Sirs, it is true,
Though cockneys do often mistake me for you;
But I keep Mrs. Blackbird, and four little eggs,
And neither e'er pilfers, or borrows, or begs.
Now have I not right on my side, do you see?"
But they flew at and pecked him all down the elm-tree.
Ah! wickedness prospers sometimes, I much fear;
And virtue's not always victorious, that's clear:
At least, not at first: for it must be confessed
Poor Blackbird lost many a stick from his nest;
And his unkind grand neighbors with scoffing caw-caws,
In his voice and his character found many flaws,
And jeered him and mocked him; but when they'd all done,
He flew to his tree and sang cheerily on.
At length May arrived with her garlands of leaves;
The swallows were building beneath the farm-eaves,
Wrens, linnets, and sparrows, on every hedge-side,
Were bringing their families out with great pride;
While far above all, on the tallest tree-top,
With a flutter and clamor that never did stop,
The haughty old Rooks held their heads up so high,
And dreamed not of trouble--until it drew nigh!
One morning at seven, as he came with delight
To his wife's pretty parlor of may-blossoms white,
Having fed all his family ere rise of sun,--
Mr. Blackbird perceived--a big man with a gun;
Who also perceived him: "See, Charlie, among
That may, sits the Blackbird we've heard for so long:
Most likely his nest's there--how frightened he looks!
Nay, Blackie, we're not come for you, but the Rooks."
I don't say 'twas cruel--I can't say 'twas kind--
On the subject I haven't quite made up my mind:
But those guns went pop-popping all morning, alas!
And young Rooks kept dropping among the long grass,
Till good Mr. Blackbird, who watched the whole thing,
For pity could scarcely a single note sing,
And in the May sunset he hardly could bear
To hear the returning Rooks' caw of despair.
"O, dear Mrs. Blackbird," at last warbled he,
"How happy we are in our humble thorn-tree;
How gaily we live, living honest and poor,
How sweet are the may-blossoms over our door."
"And then our dear children," the mother replied,
And she nested them close to her warm feathered side,
And with a soft twitter of drowsy content,
In the quiet May moonlight to sleep they all went.
OF all days I remember,
In summers passed away,
Was "the shaking of the pear-tree,"
In grandma's orchard gay.
A large old-fashioned orchard,
With long grass under foot,
And blackberry-brambles crawling
In many a tangled shoot.
From cherry time, till damsons
Dropped from the branches sere,
That wonderful old orchard
Was full of fruit all year;
We pick'd it up in baskets,
Or pluck'd it from the wall;
But the shaking of the pear-tree
Was the grandest treat of all.
Long, long the days we counted
Until that day drew nigh;
Then, how we watched the sun set,
And criticised the sky!
If rain--"'Twill clear at midnight;"
If dawn broke chill and gray,
"O many a cloudy morning
Turns out a lovely day."
So off we started gaily,
Heedless of jolt or jar;
Through town and lane, and hamlet,
In old Llewellyn's car.
He's dead and gone--Llewellyn,
These twenty years, I doubt:
If I put him in this poem,
He'll never find it out,
The patient, kind Llewellyn--
Whose broad face smiled all o'er,
As he lifted out us children
At grandma's very door.
And there stood Grandma's Betty,
With cheeks like apples red;
And Dash, the spaniel, waddled
Out of his cosy bed.
With silky ears down dropping,
And coat of chestnut pale;
He was so fat and lazy
He scarce could wag his tail.
Poor Dash is dead, and buried
Under the lilac-tree;
And Betty's old,--as, children,
We all may one day be.
I hope no child will vex us,
As we vexed Betty then,
With winding up the draw-well,
Or hunting the old hen.
And teasing, teasing, teasing,
Till afternoon wore round,
And shaken pears came tumbling
In showers upon the ground.
O how we jumped and shouted!
O how we plunged amid
The long grass, where the treasures,
Dropped down and deftly hid;
Long, slender-shaped, red-russet,
Or yellow just like gold;
Ah! never pears have tasted
Like those sweet pears of old!
We ate--I'd best not mention
How many: paused to fill
Big basket after basket;
Working with right good-will;
Then hunted round the orchard
For half-ripe plums--in vain;
So, back unto the pear-tree,
To eat, and eat again.
I'm not on my confession,
And therefore need not say
How tired, and cross, and sleepy,
Some were ere close of day;
For pleasure has its ending,
And eke its troubles too;
Which you'll find out, my children,
As well as we could do.
But yet this very minute,
I seem to see it all--
The pear-tree's empty branches
The gray of evening-fall;
The children's homeward silence,
The furnace fires that glowed,
Each mile or so, out streaming
Across the lonely road;
And high, high set in heaven,
One large bright, beauteous star,
That shone between the curtains
Of old Llewellyn's car.
COME here, my dear boys, and I'll tell you a fable,
Which you may believe as much as you're able;
It isn't all true, nor all false, I'll be bound--
Of the tree that bears apples all the year round.
There was a Dean Tucker of Gloster city,
Who may have been wise, or worthy, or witty;
But I know nothing of him, the more's the pity,
Save that he was Dean Tucker of Gloster city.
And walking one day with a musing air
In his Deanery garden, close by where
The great cathedral's west window's seen,--
"I'll plant an apple," said Tucker the Dean.
The apple was planted, the apple grew,
A stout young tree, full of leaves not few;
The apple was grafted, the apple bore
Of goodly apples, one, two, three, four.
The old Dean walked in his garden fair,
"I'm glad I planted that young tree there,
Though it was but a shoot, or some old tree's sucker;
I'll taste it to-morrow," said good Dean Tucker.
But lo, in the night when (they say) trees talk,
And some of the liveliest get up and walk,
With fairies abroad for watch and warden--
There was such a commotion in the Dean's garden!
"I will not be gathered," the apple-tree said,
"Was it for this I blossomed so red?
Hung out my fruit all the summer days,
Got so much sunshine, and pleasure and praise?"
"Ah!" interrupted a solemn red plum,
"This is the end to which all of us come;
Last month I was laden with hundreds--but now"--
And he sighed the last little plum off from his bough.
"Nay, friend, take it easy," the pear-tree replied
(A lady-like person against the wall-side).
"Man guards, nurtures, trains us from top down to root:
I think 'tis but fair we should give him our fruit."
"No, I'll not be gathered," the apple resumed,
And shook his young branches, and fluttered and fumed;
"And I'll not drop neither, as some of you drop,
Over-ripe: I'm determined to keep my whole crop.
"And I with"--O'er his branches just then _something_ flew;
It seemed like moth, large and grayish of hue.
But it was a Fairy. Her voice soft did sound,
"Be the tree that bears apples all the year round."
The Dean to his apple-tree, came, full of hope,
But tough was the fruit-stalk as double-twist rope,
And when he had cut it with patience and pain,
He bit just one mouthful--and never again.
"An apple so tasteless, so juiceless, so hard,
Is, sure, good for nought but to bowl in the yard;
The choir-boys may have it." But choir-boys soon found
It was worthless--the tree that bore all the year round.
And Gloster lads climbing the Deanery wall
Were punished, as well might all young thieves appal,
For, clutching the booty for which they did sin,
They bit at the apples--and left their teeth in!
And thus all the year from October till May,
From May till October, the apples shone gay;
But 'twas just outside glitter, for no hand was found
To pluck at the fruit which hung all the year round.
And so till they rotted, those queer apples hung,
The bare boughs and blossoms and ripe fruit among
And in Gloster city it still may be found--
The tree that bears apples all the year round.
WHAT, my little foolish Ned,
Think you mother's eyes are blind,
That her heart has grown unkind,
And she will not turn her head,
Cannot see, for all her joy,
Her poor jealous little boy?
What though sister be the pet--
Laughs, and leaps, and clings, and loves,
With her eyes as soft as dove's--
Why should yours with tears be wet?
Why such angry tears let fall?
Mother's heart has room for all.
Mother's heart is very wide,
And its doors all open stand:
Lightest touch of tiniest hand
She will never put aside.
Why her happiness destroy,
Foolish, naughty, jealous boy?
Come within the circle bright,
Where we laugh, and dance, and sing,
Full of love to everything;
As God loves us, day and night,
And _forgives_ us. Come--with joy
Mother too forgives her boy.
AND so you want a fairy tale,
My little maidens twain?
Well, sit beside the waterfall,
Noisy with last night's rain;
On couch of moss, with elfin spears
Bristling, all fierce to see,
When from the yet brown moor down drops
The lonely April bee.
All the wide valley blushes green,
While, in far depths below,
Wharfe flashes out a great bright eye,
Then hides his shining flow;--
Wharfe, busy, restless, rapid Wharfe,
The glory of our dale;
O I could of the River Wharfe
Tell such a fairy tale!
"The Boy of Egremond," you cry,--
"And all the 'bootless bene:'
We know that poem, every word,
And we the Strid have seen."
No, clever damsels: though the tale
Seems still to bear a part,
In every lave of Wharfe's bright wave,
The broken mother's heart--
Little you know of broken hearts,
My Kitty, blithe and wise,
Grave Mary, with the woman soul
Dawning through childish eyes.
And long, long distant may God keep
The day when each shall know
The entrance to His kingdom through
His baptism of woe!
But yet 'tis good to hear of grief
Which He permits to be;
Even as in our green inland home
We talk of wrecks at sea.
So on this lovely day, when spring
Wakes soft o'er moor and dale,
I'll tell--not quite your wish--but yet
A noble "fairy" tale.
'Twas six o'clock in the morning,
The sea like crystal lay,
When the good troop-ship Birkenhead
Set sail from Simon's Bay.
The Cape of Good Hope on her right
Gloomed at her through the noon:
Brief tropic twilight fled, and night
Fell suddenly and soon.
At eight o'clock in the evening
Dim grew the pleasant land;
O'er smoothest seas the southern heaven
Its starry arch out-spanned.
The soldiers on the bulwarks leaned,
Smoked, chatted; and below
The soldiers' wives sang babes to sleep,
While on the ship sailed slow.
Six hundred and thirty souls held she,
Good, bad, old, young, rich, poor;
Six hundred and thirty living souls--
God knew them all.--Secure
He counted them in His right hand,
That held the hungering seas;
And to four hundred came a voice--
"The Master hath need of these."
On, onward, still the vessel went
Till, with a sudden shock,
Like one that's clutched by unseen Death,
She struck upon a rock.
She filled. Not hours, not minutes left;
Each second a life's gone:
Drowned in their berths, washed overboard,
Lost, swimming, one by one;
Till, o'er this chaos of despair
Rose, like celestial breath,
The law of order, discipline,
Obedience unto death.
The soldiers mustered upon deck,
As mute as on parade;
"Women and children to the boats!"
And not a man gainsayed.
Without a murmur or a moan
They stood, formed rank and file,
Between the dreadful crystal seas
And the sky's dreadful smile.
In face of death they did their work
As they in life would do,
Embarking at a quiet quay--
A quiet, silent crew.
"Now each man for himself. To the boats!"
Arose a passing cry.
The soldier-captain answered, "Swamp
The women and babes?--No, die!"
And so they died. Each in his place,
Obedient to command,
They went down with the sinking ship,
Went down in sight of land.
The great sea oped her mouth, and closed
O'er them. Awhile they trod
The valley of the shadow of death,
And then were safe with God.
My little girlies--What! your tears
Are dropping on the grass,
Over my more than "fairy" tale,
A tale that "really was!"
Nay, dry them. If we could but see
The joy in angels' eyes
O'er good lives, or heroic deaths
Of pure self-sacrifice,--
We should not weep o'er these that sleep--
Their short, sharp struggle o'er--
Under the rolling waves that break
Upon the Afric shore.
God works not as man works, nor sees
As man sees: though we mark
Ofttimes the moving of His hands
Beneath the eternal Dark.
But yet we know that all is well
That He, who loved all these,
Loves children laughing on the moor,
Birds singing in the trees;
That He who made both life and death,
He knoweth which is best:
We live to Him, we die to Him,
And leave Him all the rest.
I WISH I were a little bird
When the sun shines
And the wind whispers low,
Through the tall pines,
I'd rock in the elm tops,
Rifle the pear-tree,
Hide in the cherry boughs,
O such a rare tree!
I wish I were a little bird;
All summer long
I'd fly so merrily
Sing such a song!
Song that should never cease
While daylight lasted,
Wings that should never tire
Howe'er they hasted.
But if you were a little bird--
My baby-blossom.
Nestling so cosily
In mother's bosom,--
A bird, as we see them now,
When the snows harden,
And the wind's blighting breath
Howls round the garden:
What would you do, poor bird,
In winter drear?
No nest to creep into,
No mother near:
Hungry and desolate,
Weary and woeful,
All the earth bound with frost,
All the sky snow-full?
CHILD (_thoughtfully_).
That would be sad, and yet
Hear what I'd do--
Mother, in winter time
I'd come to you!
If you can like the birds
Spite of their thieving,
Give them your trees to build,
Garden to live in,
I think if I were a bird
When winter comes
I'd trust you, mother dear,
For a few crumbs,
Whether I sang or not,
Were lark, thrush, or starling.--
Then--Father--I trust _Thee_
With this my darling.
"WHAT is wrong with my big brother?"
Says the child;
For they two had got no mother
And she loved him like no other:
If he smiled,
All the world seemed bright and gay
To this happy little May.
If to her he sharply spoke,
This big brother--
Then her tender heart nigh broke;
But the cruel pain that woke,
She would smother--
As a little woman can;--
Was he not almost a man?
But when trouble or disgrace
Smote the boy,
She would lift her gentle face--
Surely 'twas her own right place.
To bring joy?
For she loved him--loved him so!
Whether he was good or no
May be he will never feel
Half her love;
Wound her, and forget to heal:
Idle words are sharp as steel:
But above,
I know what the angels say
Of this silent little May.
DON'T be afraid of the dark,
My daughter, dear as my soul!
You see but a part of the gloomy world,
But I--I have seen the whole,
And I know each step of the fearsome way,
Till the shadows brighten to open day.
Don't be afraid of pain,
My tender little child:
When its smart is worst there comes strength to bear,
And it seems as if angels smiled,--
As I smile, dear, when I hurt you now.
In binding up that wound on your brow.
Don't be afraid of grief,
'Twill come--as night follows day,
But the bleakest sky has tiny rifts
When the stars shine through--as to say
Wait, wait a little--till night is o'er
And beautiful day come back once more.
O child, be afraid of sin,
But have no other fear,
For God's in the dark, as well as the light;
And while we can feel Him near,
His hand that He gives, His love that He gave,
Lead safely, even to the dark of the grave.
ALFRED is gentle as a girl,
But Judith longs to be a boy!
Would cut off every pretty curl
With eager joy!
Hates to be called "my dear"--or kissed:
For dollies does not care one fig:
Goes, sticking hands up to the wrist
In jackets big.
Would like to do whate'er boy can;
Play cricket--even to go school:
It is so grand to be a man!
A girl's a fool!
But Alfred smiles superior love
On all these innocent vagaries.
He'd hate a goose! but yet a dove
Ah, much more rare is!
She's anything but dove, good sooth!
But she's his dear and only sister:
And, had she been a boy, in truth
How he'd have missed her.
So, gradually her folly dies,
And she'll consent to be just human,
When there shines out of girlish eyes
The real Woman.
"OUR Father which art in heaven,"
Little Agnes prays,
Though her kneeling is but show,
Though she is too young to know
All, or half she says.
God will hear her, Agnes mild,
God will love the innocent child.
"Our Father which art in heaven."
She has a father here,
Does she think of his kind eyes,
Tones that ne'er in anger rise--
They will haunt her whole life long
Like a sweet pathetic song.
"Our Father which art in heaven,"
Through thy peaceful prayer,
Think of the known father's face,
Of his bosom, happy place;
Safely sheltered there;
And so blessed--long may He bless!
Think too of the fatherless.
COME along for the work is ready--
Rough it may be, rough, tough and hard--
But--fourteen years old--stout, strong and steady,
Life's game's beginning, lad!--play your card--
Come along.
Mother stands at the door-step crying
Well but she has a brave heart too:
She'll try to be glad--there's nought like trying,
She's proud of having a son like you.
Come along.
Young as she is, her hair is whitening,
She has ploughed thro' years of sorrow deep,
She looks at her boy, and her eyes are brightening,
Shame if ever you make them weep!
Come along.
Bravo! See how the brown cheek flushes!
Ready to work as hard as you can?
I have always faith in a boy that blushes,
None will blush for him, when he's a man.
Come along.
WE go on our way together,
Baby, and dog, and I;
Three merry companions,
'Neath any sort of sky;
Blue as her pretty eyes are,
Or gray, like his dear old tail;
Be it windy, or cloudy, or stormy,
Our courage does never fail.
Sometimes the snow lies thickly,
Under the hedge-row bleak;
Then baby cries "Pretty, pretty,"
The only word she can speak.
Sometimes two rivers of water
Run down the muddy lane;
Then dog leaps backwards and forwards
Barking with might and main.
Baby's a little lady,
Dog is a gentleman brave:
If he had two legs as you have
He'd kneel to her like a slave;
As it is he loves and protects her,
As dog and gentleman can;
I'd rather be a kind doggie
I think, than a brute of a man.
SHE was going home down the lonely street,
A widow-woman with weary feet
And weary eyes that seldom smiled:
She had neither mother, sister, nor child.
She earned her bread with a patient heart,
And ate it quietly and apart,
In her silent home from day to day,
No one to say her "ay," or "nay."
She was going home without care to haste;
What should she haste for? On she paced
Through the snowy night so bleak and wild,
When she thought she heard the cry of a child,
A feeble cry, not of hunger or pain,
But just of sorrow. It came again.
She stopped--she listened--she almost smiled--
"That sounds like a wail of a motherless child."
A house stood open--no soul was there--
Her dull, tired feet grew light on the stair;
She mounted--entered. One bed on the floor,
And Something in it: and close by the door,
Watching the stark form, stretched out still,
Ignorant knowing not good nor ill,
But only a want and a misery wild,
Crouched the dead mother's motherless child.
What next? Come say what would you have done
Dear children playing about in the sun,
Or sitting by pleasant fireside warm,
Hearing outside the howling storm?
The widow went in and she shut the door,
She stayed by the dead an hour or more--
And when she went home through the night so wild,
She had in her arms a sleeping child.
Now she is old and feeble and dull,
But her empty heart is happy and full
If her crust be hard and her cottage poor
There's a young foot tripping across the floor,
Young hands to help her that never tire,
And a young voice singing beside the fire;
And her tired eyes look as if they smiled,--
Childless mother and motherless child.
I TOOK the wren's nest;--
Heaven forgive me!
Its merry architects so small
Had scarcely finished their wee hall,
That empty still and neat and fair
Hung idly in the summer air.
The mossy walls, the dainty door,
Where Love should enter and explore,
And Love sit caroling outside,
And Love within chirp multiplied;--
I took the wren's nest;--
Heaven forgive me!
How many hours of happy pains
Through early frosts and April rains,
How many songs at eve and morn
O'er springing grass and greening corn,
Before the pretty house was made!
One little minute, only one,
And she'll fly back, and find it--gone!
I took the wren's nest;--
Bird, forgive me!
Thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear,
Ye have before you all the year,
And every wood holds nooks for you,
In which to sing and build and woo
One piteous cry of birdish pain--
And ye'll begin your life again,
Forgetting quite the lost, lost home
In many a busy home to come--
But I?--Your wee house keep I must
Until it crumble into dust.
I took the wren's nest:
God forgive me!
A CHILD'S smile--nothing more;
Quiet and soft and grave, and seldom seen,
Like summer lightning o'er,
Leaving the little face again serene.
I think, boy well-beloved,
Thine angel, who did grieve to see how far
Thy childhood is removed
From sports that dear to other children are,
On this pale cheek has thrown
The brightness of his countenance, and made
A beauty like his own--
That, while we see it, we are half afraid,
And marvel, will it stay?
Or, long ere manhood, will that angel fair,
Departing some sad day,
Steal the child-smile and leave the shadow care?
Nay, fear not. As is given
Unto this child the father watching o'er,
His angel up in heaven
Beholds Our Father's face for evermore.
And he will help him bear
His burthen, as his father helps him now;
So he may come to wear
That happy child-smile on an old man's brow.
A LITTLE bird flew my window by,
'Twixt the level street and the level sky,
The level rows of houses tall,
The long low sun on the level wall
And all that the little bird did say
Was, "Over the hills and far away."
A little bird sang behind my chair,
From the level line of corn-fields fair,
The smooth green hedgerow's level bound
Not a furlong off--the horizon's bound,
And the level lawn where the sun all day
Burns:--"Over the hills and far away."
A little bird sings above my bed,
And I know if I could but lift my head
I would see the sun set, round and grand,
Upon level sea and level sand,
While beyond the misty distance gray
Is "Over the hills and far away."
I think that a little bird will sing
Over a grassy mound, next spring,
Where something that once was _me_, ye'll leave
In the level sunshine, morn and eve:
But I shall be gone, past night, past day,
Over the hills and far away.
SAID a drop to a drop, "Just look at me!
I'm the finest rain-drop you ever did see:
I have lived ten seconds at least on my pane;
Swelling and filling and swelling again.
"All the little rain-drops unto me run,
I watch them and catch them and suck them up each one:
All the pretty children stand and at me stare;
Pointing with their fingers--'That's the biggest drop there.'"
"Yet you are but a drop," the small drop replied;
"I don't myself see much cause for pride:
The bigger you swell up,--we know well, my friend,--
The faster you run down the sooner you'll end.
"For me, I'm contented outside on my ledge,
Hearing the patter of rain in the hedge;
Looking at the firelight and the children fair,--
Whether they look at me, I'm sure I don't care."
"Sir," cried the first drop, "your talk is but dull;
I can't wait to listen, for I'm almost full;
You'll run a race with me?--No?--Then 'tis plain
I am the largest drop in the whole pane."
Off ran the big drop, at first rather slow:
Then faster and faster, as drops will, you know:
Raced down the window-pane, like hundreds before,
Just reached the window-sill--one splash--and was o'er.
SO grows the rising year, and so declines
By months, weeks, days, unto its peaceful end
Even as by slow and ever-varying signs
Through childhood, youth, our solemn steps we bend
Up to the crown of life, and thence descend.
Great Father, who of every one takest care,
From him on whom full ninety years are piled
To the young babe, just taught to lisp a prayer
About the "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,"
Who children loves, being once himself a child,--
O make us day by day like Him to grow;
More pure and good, more dutiful and meek;
Because He loves those who obey Him so;
Because His love is the best thing to seek,
Because without His love, all loves are weak,--
All earthly joys are miserable and poor,
All earthly goodness quickly droops and dies,
Like rootless flowers you plant in gardens--sure
That they will flourish--till in mid-day skies
The sun burns, and they fade before your eyes.
O God, who art alone the life and light
Of this strange world to which as babes we come,
Keep Thou us always children in Thy sight:
Guide us from year to year, thro' shine and gloom
And at our year's end, Father, take us home.
"WHY thus aside your playthings throw,
Over the wet lawn hurrying so?
Where are you going, I want to know?"
"I'm running after the rainbow."
"Little boy, with your bright brown eyes
Full of an innocent surprise,
Stop a minute, my Arthur wise,
What do you want with the rainbow?"
Arthur paused in his headlong race,
Turned to his mother his hot, young face,
"Mother, I want to reach the place
At either end of the rainbow.
"Nurse says, wherever it meets the ground.
Such beautiful things may oft be found
Buried below, or scattered round,
If one can but catch the rainbow.
"O please don't hinder me, mother dear,
It will all be gone while I stay here;"
So with many a hope and not one fear,
The child ran after the rainbow.
Over the damp grass, ankle deep,
Clambering up the hilly steep,
And the wood where the birds were going to sleep,
But he couldn't catch the rainbow.
And when he came out at the wood's far side,
The sun was setting in golden pride,
There were plenty of clouds all rainbow dyed,
But not a sign of the rainbow.
Said Arthur, sobbing, as home he went,
"I wish I had thought what mother meant;
I wish I had only been content,
And not ran after the rainbow."
And as he came sadly down the hill,
Stood mother scolding--but smiling still,
And hugged him up close, as mothers will:
So he quite forgot the rainbow.
The best, grandest party we ever did try:
I've got a white ball-dress, and flowers in my hair,
And a scarf, with a brooch too, mamma let me wear:
Silk stockings, and shoes with high heels, I declare!
There is to be music--a real soldier's band:
And _I_ mean to waltz, and eat ice, and be fanned,
Like a grown-up young lady, the first in the land.
Has never learnt dancing, so says he won't try--
I'll hunt him in corners wherever he stick,
He's bad at a party--but at school he's a brick!
So good at his Latin, at cricket, football,
Whatever he tries at. And then he's so tall!
Yet at play with the children he's best of us all.
And his going to the party is just to please _me_,
But he says I shall dance "like a wave o' the sea."
That's Shakespeare, his Shakespeare, he worships him so.
I found out his secret, but I won't tell: no, no.
And when he's a great man, a poet you see,
O dear! what a proud little sister I'll be;
GRANDPAPA lives at the end of the lane,
His cottage is small and its furniture plain;
No pony to ride on, no equipage grand,--
A garden, and just half an acre of land;
No dainties to dine off, and very few toys,--
Yet is grandpapa's house the delight of the boys.
Grandpapa once lived in one little room,
Grandpapa worked all day long at his loom:
He speaks with queer accent, does dear grandpapa,
And not half so well as papa and mamma.
The girls think his clothes are a little rough,
But the boys all declare they can't love him enough.
A man of the people in manners and mind,
Yet so honest, so tender, so clever, so kind:
Makes the best of his lot still, where'er it be cast.
A sturdy old Englishman, game to the last.
Though simple and humble and unknown to fame,
It's good luck to the boys to bear grandpapa's name!
Of what can they be talking, child?
Indeed I cannot tell.
But of this I am very certain,
You would find naught to blame
In that sweet French politeness--
I wish we had the same.
Monsieur has got a melon,
And scoops it with his knife,
While Mademoiselle sits watching him:
No rudeness here--no strife:
Though could you listen only,
They're chattering like two pies--
French magpies, understand me--
So merry and so wise.
Their floor is bare of carpet,
Their curtains are so thin,
They dine on meagre _potage_, and
Put many an onion in!
Her snow-white caps she irons:
He blacks his shoes, he can;
Yet she's a little lady
And he's a gentleman.
O busy, happy children!
That light French heart of yours,
Would it might sometimes enter at
Our solemn English doors!
Would that we worked as gaily,
And played, yes, played as well,
And lived our lives as simply
YOUNG Dandelion
On a hedge-side,
Said young Dandelion,
"Who'll be my bride?
"I'm a bold fellow
As ever was seen,
With my shield of yellow,
In the grass green.
"You may uproot me,
From field and from lane,
Trample me, cut me,--
I spring up again.
"I never flinch, Sir,
Wherever I dwell;
Give me an inch, Sir.
I'll soon take an ell.
"Drive me from garden
In anger and pride,
I'll thrive and harden
By the road-side.
"Not a bit fearful,
Showing my face,
Always so cheerful
In every place."
Said young Dandelion,
With a sweet air,
"I have my eye on
Miss Daisy fair.
"Though we may tarry
Till past the cold,
Her I will marry
Ere I grow old.
"I will protect her
From all kinds of harm,
Feed her with nectar,
Shelter her warm.
"Whate'er the weather,
Let it go by;
We'll hold together,
Nothing I fear:
All that I win, O!
I'll keep for my dear."
Said young Dandelion
On his hedge-side,
"Who'll me rely on?
Who'll be my bride?"
MY eyes are full, my silent heart is stirred,
Amid these days so bright
Of ceaseless warmth and light;
Summer that will not die,
Autumn, without one sigh
O'er sweet hours passing by--
Cometh that tender note
Out of thy tiny throat,
Like grief, or love, insisting to be heard,
O little plaintive bird!
No need of word
Well know I all your tale--forgotten bird!
Soon you and I together
Must face the winter weather,
Remembering how we sung
Our primrose fields among,
In days when life was young;
Now, all is growing old,
And the warm earth's a-cold,
Still, with brave heart we'll sing on, little bird,
Sing only. Not one word.