KINDNESS TO ANIMALS
LIBRARY FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.
WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
PRINTED BY W. AND R. CHAMBERS.
THE present volume of POEMS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
consists partly of original, and partly of selected pieces;
the latter being generally such as have delighted suc-
cessive generations, and are likely to remain favourites
with youth. In both, the Editor has been guided by
the same principle-to say nothing of amusement,
which he considers no mean object in itself: convinced
that in the education of the young something besides
intellectual culture is desirable, he has been anxious
to make provision, however small, for refining the
moral and social sentiments-for exciting the imagina-
tion-for teaching kindness to all living creatures-
and while training to Piety and a love of the Works
of Nature, for suppressing the coarser emotions and
everything that tends to prolong strife in the family of
mankind. Some of the pieces are of a kind suitable
for being committed to memory.
The Editor offers his best acknowledgments to
Mrs HOWITT and other writers, for the permission
they have granted to use pieces selected from their
A LITTLE GIRL'S PLEA FOR KINDNESS TO ANIMALS, 1
THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD, 3
MY MOTHER, 10
THE NETTLE KING, -- -12
THE CHAMELEON, 14
THE SHEPHERD AND THE PHILOSOPHER, 17
THE MAN OF ROSS, 20
" TOO LATE," -- 22
LLEWELLYN AND THE GREYHOUND, 23
THE BUTTERFLY'S BALL AND THE GRASSHOPPER'S FEAST, 27
THE HAPPY LIFE, 29
VERSES SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, 30
THE CAMEL, -34
ELEGY, -- 36
ALWAYS LEARNING, -42
JOHN GILPIN, 43
TO THE LILY OF THE VALLEY, 63
THE SLUGGARD, 7-
HASSAN; OR, THE CAMEL-DRIVER, 58
THE HARVEST MOON, 61
THE ROSE, 63
THE WEB-SPINNER, 64
LOSS IN DELAYS, 69
TO PRIMROSES, 70
SONG OF THE CAPTIVE, 71
TO A BOY JUST ENTERING ON THE WARFARE OF LIFE, 75
THE THIEF, -- 77
THE OLD MAN AND THE CARRION CROW, 79
THE SPIDER'S SONG, 83
TO THE CUCKOO, 84
A GRACE BEFORE MEAT, 86
EVENING HYMN, -- 87
TO MY MOTHER, 89
SUMMER MORNING'S SONG, 90
A THANKSGIVING FOR HIS HOUSE, 92
THE YOUNG MOURNER, 94
THE VILLAGE PREACHER, 96
THE MOUSE'S PETITION, 98
FLY AWAY, LADYBIRD, 101
EDWIN AND ANGELINA, 102
SHORTNESS OF LIFE, 109
FIRESIDE ENJOYMENTS, 110
MORNING HYMN, 113
VAIN BOASTING, 114
THE GOLDFINCH STARVED IN HIS CAGE, 11
INFANTINE INQUIRIES, 116
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY, -117
BIRD-NESTING-A TRUE STORY, 120
SONG TO CREATIVE WISDOM, 123
A SCOTTISH WINTER,- 126
THE ANT-INDUSTRY, 127
SUMMER EVENING, 130
THE POLAR STAR, 131
THE FRETFUL CHILD, 132
A DROP OF DEW, 133
MORNING SIGHTS, 135
THE RAGGED GIRL'S SUNDAY, 186
EARLY RISING, -- 188
BE KIND TO EACH OTHER, 139
MUTUAL ASSISTANCE, 140
WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR 142
THE SHEPHERD'S HOME, 143
HYMN TO THE CREATOR, 145
WORKHORSES IN A PARK ON SUNDAY, 148
BROTHERLY LOVE, 150
THE BETTER LAND, 151
ODE ON THE PASSIONS, 152
THE MULBERRY-TREE, 156
THE GIFT, 157
THE ROBIN REDBREASTS' CHORUS, 159
LINES WRITTEN IN MEMORY OF A FAVOURITE BIRD, 161
ANGELS IN THE AIR 162
THE BLOOMING OF VIOLETS, 164
THE BUTTERFLY, 165
TO MY GODCHILD, ALICE, 166
THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER, 168
A LITTLE GIRL'S PLEA FOR KINDNESS
BY MRS NEWTON CROSSLAND, LATE MISS TOULMIN.
COME, Rover! Ah, yes, by your tail wagging fast,
I see you make out what I say,
Of our supper we're ready to give you a taste,
At the close of this long summer's day:
Though I know you're not hungry-not very, that is-
For papa always strictly desires
That each animal kept in a dwelling of his
Should have all that its nature requires.
And the crumbs from our breakfast we scatter abroad,
For the birds that fly wild in the air:
When the fruit-trees are bending beneath a rich load,
We will not deny them their share.
If they do peck our peaches, and sometimes devour
A cherry ripe, ruddy, and sweet,
Remember the songs they so lavishly pour,
And you'll own that they merit the treat.
We call the fruit ours-but for my part I feel,
By the instinct God gave they are led,
And 'tis cruel to say that the pretty things steal,
When they all have a right to be fed.
The laws that to us the great Being has given,
Do not the brute creatures control:
These have not been promised a future in Heaven,
Nor told of an undying soul.
They have but the Present-a good reason too,
We should not abuse them you know;
They feel cold and hunger the same just as you,
And shrink from the pain of a blow:
And then they're so grateful when kindness is shown,
So loving to those who caress-
Oh, brother, how hard must a young heart have grown
That derides a dumb creature's distress!
How strange is the instinct that never goes wrong,
Which is given to each at its birth!
An instinct that wise men have reckoned among
The marvellous things of the earth.
Look at Puss with her kittens-at Rob in his nest-
They always know just what is right;
They always do that which is fittest and best,
And seem in their task to delight.
Poor Rover! Good Dog! how I wish you could tell
What it is that you do understand:
But of this I am sure, that you love us both well,
As you say by a lick of my hand.
And a wag of the tail means, Thank you, I'm glad;"
And "bow-wow" a true promise gives
Of protection: Oh, brother, indeed it were sad
To hurt any creature that lives!
THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD.
Now ponder well, you parents dear,
The words which I shall write,
A doleful story you shall hear
In time brought forth to light:
A gentleman of good account
In Norfolk lived of late,
Whose wealth and riches did surmount
Most men of his estate.
Sore sick he was, and like to die,
No help that he could have;
His wife by him as sick did lie;
And both possess one grave.
No love between these two was lost,
Each was to other kind:
In love they lived, in love they died,
And left two babes behind:
The one a fine and pretty boy,
Not passing three years old;
The other a girl more young than he,
And made in Beauty's mould.
The father left.his little son,
As plainly doth appear,
When he to perfect age should come,
Three hundred pounds a year;
And to his little daughter Jane,
Five hundred pounds in gold,
To be paid down on marriage-day,
Which might not be controlled;
But if the children chanced to die,
Ere they to age should come,
Their uncle should possess their wealth,
For so the will did run.
" Now, brother," said the dying man,
Look on my children dear,
Be good unto my boy and girl,
No friend else have I here:
To God and you I do commend
My children night and day;
But little while, be sure, we have
Within this world to stay.
You must be father and mother both,
And uncle all in one,
God knows what will become of them
When I am dead and gone."
With that bespake their mother dear;
"Oh brother kind," quoth she,
"You are the man must bring our babes
To wealth or misery.
And if you keep them carefully,
Then God will you reward;
If otherwise you seem to deal,
God will your deeds regard."
With lips as cold as any stone
She kissed her children small,
"God bless you both, my children dear;"
With that the tears did fall.
These speeches then their brother spoke
To this sick couple there-
" The keeping of your children dear,
Sweet sister, do not fear;
God never prosper me or mine,
Nor aught else that I have,
If I do wrong your children dear
When you are laid in grave 1"
Their parents being dead and gone,
The children home he takes,
And brings them both into his house,
And much of them he makes.
He had not kept these pretty babes
A twelvemonth and a day,
When for their wealth he did devise
To make them both away.
He bargained with two ruffians rude,
Which were of furious mood,
That they should take the children young,
And slay them in the wood.
He told his wife and all he had,
He did the children send
To be brought up to London fair,
With one that was his friend.
Away then went these pretty babes,
Rejoicing at that tide,
Rejoicing with a merry mind
They should on cock-horse ride.
They prate and prattle pleasantly,
As they ride on the way,
To those that should their butchers be,
And work their lives' decay:
So that the pretty speech they had,
Made murderers' hearts relent,
And they that undertook the deed,
Full sore they did repent.
Yet one of them, more hard of heart,
Did vow to do his charge,
Because the wretch that hir6d him
Had paid him very large.
The other would not agree thereto,
So here they fell at strife,
With one another they did fight
About the children's life;
And he that was of mildest mood
Did slay the other there,
Within an unfrequented wood,
While babes did quake for fear.
He took the children by the hand,
When tears stood in their eye,
And bade them kindly go with him,
And look they did not cry.
And two long miles he led them on,
While they for food complain:
" Stay.here," quoth he, "I'll bring you bread
When I do come again."
These pretty babes, with hand in hand,
Went wandering up and down,
But never more they saw the man
Returning from the town.
Their pretty lips with blackberries
Were all besmeared and dyed,
And when they saw the darksome night,
They sat them down and cried.
Thus wandered these two pretty babes,
Till death did end their grief;
In one another's arms they died,
As babes wanting relief.
No burial these pretty babes
Of any man receives,
Till Robin Redbreast painfully
Did cover them with leaves.
And now the heavy wrath of God
Upon their uncle fell;
Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house,
His conscience felt a hell;
His barns were fired, his goods consumed,
His lands were barren made,
His cattle died within the field,
And nothing with him stayed.
And in the voyage of Portugal
Two of his sons did die;
And to conclude, himself was brought
To extreme misery.
He pawned and mortgaged all his land
Ere seven years came about:
And now at length this wicked act
Did by this means come out:
The fellow that did take in hand
These children for to kill,
Was for a robbery judged to die,
As was God's blessed will;
Who did confess the very truth
The which is here expressed:
Their uncle died while he for debt
In prison long did rest.
All you that be executors made,
And overseers eke,
Of children that be fatherless,
And infants mild and meek,
Take you example by this thing,
And yield to each his right,
Lest God, with such-like misery,
Your wicked minds requite.
WHO fed me from her gentle breast,
And hushed me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet lullaby,
And rocked me that I should not cry ?
Who sat and watched-my infant head,
When sleeping in my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed ?
When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
Who dressed my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play,
And minded all I had to say?
Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
Who taught my infant lips to pray,
To love God's holy Word and day,
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way?
And can I ever cease to be,
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who wast so very kind to me,
Oh no! the thought I cannot bear:
And if God please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,
When thou art feeble, old, and gray,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
And when I see thee hang thy head,
'Twill be my turn to watch thy bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed,
For God, who lives above the skies,
Would look with vengeance in His eyes,
If I should ever dare despise,
THE NETTLE KING.
BY MARY HOWITT.
THERE was a Nettle both great and strong,
And the threads of his poison-flowers were long;
He rose up in strength and height also,
And he said, "I'll be king of the plants below!"
It was in a wood both drear and dank,
Where grew the Nettle so broad and rank,
And an owl sate up in an old ash-tree,
That was wasting away so silently;
And a raven was perched above his head,
And they both of them heard what the Nettle-king said;
And there was a toad that sate below,
Chewing his venom sedate and slow,
And he heard the words of the Nettle also. ,
The Nettle he throve, and the Nettle he grew,
And the strength of the earth around him he drew.
There was a pale stellaria meek,
But as he grew strong, so she grew weak;
'There was a campion, crimson-eyed,
But as he grew up, the campion died;
And the blue veronica, shut from light,
Faded away in a sickly white;
For upon his leaves a dew there hung,
That fell like a blight from a serpent's tongue,
And there was not a flower about the spot,
Herb-Robert, harebell, nor forget-me-not.
Yet up grew the Nettle, like water sedge,
Higher and higher above the hedge;
The stuff of his leaves was strong and stout,
And the points of his stinging-flowers stood out;
And the child that went in the wood to play,
From the great King-nettle would shrink away!
"Now," says the Nettle, there's none like me;
I am as great as a plant can be!
I have crushed each weak and tender root
With the mighty power of my kingly foot;
I have spread out my arms so strong and wide,
And opened my way on every side;
I have drawn from the earth its virtues fine,
To strengthen for me each poison-spine:
Both morn and night my leaves I've spread,
And upon the falling dews have fed,
Till I am as great as a forest tree;
The great wide world is the place for me!"
Said the Nettle-king in his bravery.
Just then came up a woodman stout,
In the thick of the wood he was peering about :
The Nettle looked up, the Nettle looked down,
And graciously smiled on the simple clown:
"Thou knowest me well, Sir Clown," said he,
" And 'tis meet that thou reverence one like me!"
Nothing at all the man replied,
But he lifted a scythe that was at his side,
And he cut the Nettle up by the root,
And trampled it under his heavy foot;
And he saw where the toad in its shadow lay,
But he said not a word, and went his way.
OFT has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes that hardly served at most
To guard their master againstt a post:
Yet round the world the blade has been,
To see whatever could be seen.
Returning from his finished tour
Grown ten times perter than before;
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travelled fool your mouth will stop:
"Sir, if my judgment you'll allow-
I've seen-and sure I ought to know."
So begs you'd pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision.
Two travellers of such a cast,
As o'er Arabia's wilds they past,
And on their way, in friendly chat,
Now talked of this, and then of that;
Discoursed a while, 'mongst other matter,
Of the Chameleon's form and nature.
"A stranger animal," cries one,
"Sure never lived beneath the sun:
A lizard's body lean and long,
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue,
Its foot with triple claw disjoined;
And what a length of tail behind !
How slow its pace and then its hue-
Who ever saw so fine a blue ?"
"Hold there," the other quick replies;
"'Tis green-I saw it with these eyes,
As late with open mouth it lay,
And warmed it in the sunny ray;
Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed,
And saw it eat the air for food."
I've seen it, sir, as well as you,
And must again affirm it blue;
At leisure I the beast surveyed
Extended in the cooling shade."
"'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye."
"Green!" cries the other in a fury:
"Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes?"
"'Twere no great loss," the friend replies;
" For if they always serve you thus,
You'll find them but of little use."
So high at last the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows;
When luckily came by a third;
To him the question they referred,
And begged he'd tell them if he knew
Whether the thing was green or blue.
"Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your pother;
The creature's neither one nor t'other.
I caught the animal last night,
And viewed it o'er by candle-light;
I marked it well-'twas black as jet-
You stare-but sirs, I've got it yet,
And can produce it." "Pray, sir, do;
I'll lay my life the thing is blue."
"And I'll be sworn that when you've seen
The reptile, you'll pronounce him green." -s'
Well, then, at once to ease your doubt,"
Replies the man, "I'll turn him out:
And when before your eyes I've set him,
If you don't find him black, I'll eat him."
He said; and full before their sight
Produced the beast, and lo!-'twas white!--
Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise-
"My children," the chameleon cries,
(Then first the creature found a tongue)
"You all are right, and all are wrong:
When next you talk of what you view,
Think others see as well as you;
Nor wonder if you find that none
Prefers your eyesight to his own."
THE SHEPHERD AND THE PHILOSOPHER.
REMOTE from cities lived a swain,
Unvexed with all the cares of gain,
His head was silvered o'er with age,
And long experience made him sage.
In summer's heat and winter's cold,
He fed his flock and penn'd his fold;
His hours with cheerful labour flew,
Nor envy nor ambition knew;
His wisdom and his honest fame,
Through all the country raised his name.
A deep philosopher, whose rules
Of moral life were drawn from schools,
The shepherd's homely cottage sought,
And thus explored his reach of thought:
" Whence is thy learning, hath thy toil
O'er books consumed the midnight oil?
Hast thou old Greece and Rome surveyed,
And the vast sense of Plato weighed ?
Hath Socrates thy soul refined ?
And hast thou fathomed Tully's mind ?
Or, like the wise Ulysses, thrown
By various fate on realms unknown;
Hast thou through many cities strayed,
Their customs, laws, and manners weighed ?"
The shepherd modestly replied,
" I ne'er the paths of learning tried;
Nor have I roamed in foreign parts,
To read mankind, their laws, and arts;
For man is practised in disguise,
He cheats the most discerning eyes;
Who by that search shall wiser grow,
When we ourselves can never know ?
The little knowledge I have gained
Was all from simple nature drained.
Hence my life's maxims took their rise,
Hence grew my settled hate to vice.
The daily labours of the bee
Awake my soul to industry;
Who can observe the careful ant,
And not provide for future want ?
My dog (the trustiest of his kind)
With gratitude inflames my mind;
I mark his true, his faithful way,
And in my service copy Tray.
In constancy and nuptial love
I learn my duty from the dove;
The hen, who from the chilly air,
With pious wing protects her care,
And every fowl that flies at large,
Instructs me in a parent's charge.
From nature too I take my rule,
To shun contempt and ridicule:
I never with important air,
In conversation overbear.
Can grave and formal pass for wise,
When men the solemn owl despise ?
My tongue within my lips I rein,
For who talks much, must talk in vain.
We from the wordy torrent fly:
Who listens to the chattering pye ?
Nor would I with felonious fight
By stealth invade my neighbour's right;
Rapacious animals we hate,
Kites, hawks, and wolves deserve their fate;
Do not we just abhorrence find
Against the toad and serpent kind ?
But envy, calumny and spite,
Bear stronger venom in their bite.
Thus every object of creation
Can furnish hints to contemplation;
And from the most minute and mean
A virtuous mind can morals glean."
Thy fame is just" the sage replies;
"Thy virtue proves thee truly wise;
For he who studies nature's laws,
From certain truths his maxims draws:
And truth and piety suffice
To make men moral, good, and wise."
THE MAN OF ROSS.
ALL our praises why should lords engross ?
Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross:
Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow ?
Not to the skies in useless columns tost,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows ?
Whose seats the weary travellers repose ?
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?
The Man of Ross," each lisping babe replies.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread!
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread:
He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate;
Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphans blest,
The young who labour, and the old who rest.
Is any sick? The Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes and gives.
Is there a variance? Enter but his door,
Balked are the courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing quacks with curses fly the place,
And vile attorneys, now a useless race.
Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the power to do!
Oh say what sums that generous hand supply!
What mines to swell that boundless charity!
Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear,
This man possessed-five hundred pounds a year.
Blush grandeur, blush! proud courts withdraw
Ye little stars! hide your diminished rays.
Too late to rise-too late for school,
Too late to keep by each good rule;
The sluggard soon becomes a fool;
Oh never be too late."
Oh use the precious hours to-day,
To gather knowledge while you may,
For quickly hasteth Time away;
Then never be too late."
And grateful to your parents be,
For tenderly they've cared for thee,
And soon on earth ye may them see
No more-and mourn-" too late."
And to thy suffering brother-man,
Give aid and comfort while ye can,
Aye like the good Samaritan;
Ere yet it be too late."
To all, Death hasteth on apace,
Then seek thy Heavenly Father's face,
Through life to guide thee by His grace;
Ere yet it be "too late."
LLEWELLYN AND THE GREYHOUND.
THE spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheer'ly smiled the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Attend Llewellyn's horn.
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer;
"Come, Gelert! why art thou the last
Llewellyn's horn to hear?
Oh where does faithful Gelert roam,
The flower of all his race;
So true, so brave-a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase?"
'Twas only at Llewellyn's board
The faithful Gelert fed;
He watched, he served, he cheered his lord,
And sentineled his bed.
In sooth he was a peerless hound,
The gift of Royal John;
But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.
And now as over rocks and dells
The gall t chidings rise,
All Snowden's craggy chaos yells
With many mingled cries.
That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare,
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.
Unpleased Llewellyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.
But when he gained the castle-door,
Aghast the chieftain stood-
The hound was smeared with gouts of gore;
His lips and fangs ran blood!
Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
Unused such looks to meet;
His favourite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched, and licked his feet.
Onward in. haste Llewellyn passed
(And on went Gelert too),
And still, where'er his eyes he cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view !
O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stained cover rent; .;!
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.
He called his child-no voice replied;
He searched with terror wild;
Blood! blood! he found on every side,
But nowhere found his child!
. ".HHell-hound by thee my child's devoured "
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side.
His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart;
But still his Gelert's dying yell
Passed heavy o'er his heart.
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh;
What words the parent's joy can tell,
To hear his infant cry I
Concealed beneath a mangled heap,
His hurried search had missed,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub boy he kissed!
No scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread;
But the same couch beneath
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead;
Tremendous still in death!
Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear;
The gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewellyn's heir.
Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's wo:
Best of thy kind adieu!
The frantic deed that laid thee low,
This heart shall ever rue !"
And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture decked;
And marbles storied with his praise
Poor Gelert's bones protect.
Here never could the spearmen pass,
Or forester unmoved;
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.
And here he hung his horn and spear;
And oft as evening fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell!
And till great Snowden's rocks grow old,
And cease the storm to brave,
The consecrated spot shall hold
The name of Gelert's Grave.
THE BUTTERFLY'S BALL, AND THE
COME, take up your hats, and away let us haste
To the butterfly's ball and the grasshopper's feast;
The trumpeter gadfly has summoned the crew,
And the revels are now only waiting for you.
On the smooth-shaven grass, by the side of a wood,
Beneath a broad oak, which for ages had stood,
See the children of earth and the tenants of air
To an evening's amusement together repair.
And there came the beetle, so blind and so black,
Who carried the emmet, his friend, on his back;
And there came the gnat, and the dragon-fly too,
With all their relations-green, orange, and blue.
And there came the moth, with her plumage of down,
And the hornet, with jacket of yellow and brown,
Who with him, the wasp, his companion did bring,
But they promised that evening to lay by their sting.
Then the sly little dormouse peeped out of his hole,
And led to the feast his blind cousin the mole ;
And the snail, with her horns peeping out of her shell,
Came fatigued with the distance-the length of an ell.
A mushroom the table, and on it was spread
A water-dock leaf, which their tablecloth made;
The viands were various, to each of their taste,
And the bee brought the honey to sweeten the feast.
With steps most majestic the snail did advance,
And he promised the gazers a minuet to dance:
But they all laughed so loud, that he drew in his head,
And went in his own little chamber to bed.
Then as evening gave way to the shadows of night,
Their watchman, the glow-worm, came out with his light;
So home let us hasten, while yet we can see,
For no watchman is waiting for you or for me.
THE HAPPY LIFE.
How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the worldly care
Of public fame or private breath.
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good.
Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
No ruin make oppressors great.
Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend.
This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.
-SIR HENEY WOTTON.
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY
WHO WAS LEFT ON THE DESOLATE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ.
I AM monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute:
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Oh, solitude! where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face ?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach,
I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech;
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over the plain,
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestowed upon man,
Oh had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again !
My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheered by the sallies of youth.
Religion! what treasure untold,
Resides in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Never sighed at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared.
Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report
Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me ?
Oh tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see !
How fleet is the glance of the mind !
Compared with the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift winged arrows of light.
When I think on my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there;
But alas! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair.
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair,
Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
There is mercy in every place-
And mercy, encouraging thought!
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.
THE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim:
The unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And, nightly, to the listening earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;
Whilst all the stars that round us burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round this dark terrestrial ball;
What though no real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found;
In Reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
For ever singing as they shine,
"The hand that made us is Divine!"
BY MARY HOWITT.
CAMEL, thou art good and mild,
Might'st be guided by a child;
Thou wert made for usefulness,
Man to comfort and to bless.
Thou dost clothe him; thou dost feed;
Thou dost lend to him thy speed.
And through wilds of trackless sand,
In the hot Arabian land,
Where no rock its shadow throws;
Where no pleasant water flows;
Where the hot air is not stirred
By the wing of singing bird,
There thou go'st, untired and meek,
Day by day, and week by week,
Bearing freight of precious things,
Silk for merchants, gold for kings;
Pearls of Ormuz, riches rare,
Damascene and Indian ware;
Bale on bale, and heap on heap,
Laden like a costly ship !
When the red simoom comes near,
Camel, dost thou know no fear ?
When the desert sands uprise
Flaming crimson to the skies,
And like pillared giants strong,
Stalk the dreary waste along,
Bringing Death unto his prey,
Does not thy good heart give way?
Camel, no thou do'st for man
All thy generous nature can;
Thou do'st lend to him thy speed
In that awful time of need;
And when the dread simoom goes by,
Teachest him to close his eye,
And bow down before the blast,
Till the purple death has passed!
And when week by week is gone,
And the traveller journeys on
Feebly; when his strength is fled,
And his hope and heart seem dead,
Camel, thou dost turn thine eye
On him kindly, soothingly,
As if thou would'st cheering say,
" Journey on for this one day!
Do not let thy heart despond;
There is water yet beyond!
I can scent it in the air;
Do not let thy heart despair !"
And thou guid'st the traveller there.
Camel, thou art good and mild,
Might'st be guided by a child;
Thou wert made for usefulness,
Man to comfort and to bless;
And these desert wastes must be
Untracked regions but for thee!
WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.
THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain,
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from her straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care,
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long drawn aisle, and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death ?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
The applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the adding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet eten these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse,
The space of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious-being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind ?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Eten from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee who, mindful of the unhonoured dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate;
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say:
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beach,
That wreathes its old fantastic arms so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
SHard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove:
Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
"One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.
The next, with dirges due, in sad array,
Slow through the churchyard path we saw him
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair science frowned not on his humble birth,
And melancholy marked him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send;
He gave to misery all he had, a tear;
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike, in trembling hope, repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
WASTE not your precious hours in play,
Nought can recall life's morning;
The seed now sown will cheer your way,
The wise are always learning.
Nor think when all school days are o'er,
You've bid adieu to "learning ;"
Life's deepest lessons are in store,
The meek are always learning.
When strong in hope,.you first launch forth,
A name intent on earning,
Scorn not the voice of age or worth,
The great are always learning.
When right and wrong within you strive,
And passions fierce contending,
Oh, then you'll know, how, while they live,
The good are always learning.
JOHN GILPIN was a citizen
Of credit and renown;
A train-band captain eke was he
Of famous London town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,
Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we
No holiday have seen.
To-morrow is our wedding-day,
And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton,
All in a chaise and pair.
My sister and my sister's child,
Myself and children three,
Will fill the chaise, so you must ride
On horseback after we.
He soon replied, I do admire
Of womankind but one;
And you are she, my dearest dear,
Therefore it shall be done.
I am a linen-draper bold,
As all the world doth know,
And my good friend the calender,
Will lend his horse to go.
Quoth Mistress Gilpin, that's well said;
And, for that wine is dear,
We will be furnished with our own,
Which is both bright and clear.
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;
O'erjoyed was he to find,
That, though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought,
But yet was not allowed
To drive up to the door, lest all
Should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stayed,
Where they did all get in;
Six precious souls, and all agog,
To dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,
Were ever folks so glad:
The stones did rattle underneath,
As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse's side,
Seized fast the flowing mane;
And up he got in haste to ride,
But soon came down again.
For saddle-tree scarce reached had he,
His journey to begin,
When, turning round his head, he saw
Three customers come in.
So down he came; for loss of time,
Although it grieved him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,
Would trouble him much more.
'Twas long before the customers
Were suited to their mind;
When Betty, screaming, came down stairs,
The wine is left behind!"
" Good lack!" quoth he-" yet bring it me,
My leather belt likewise,
In which I bear my trusty sword
When I do exercise."
Now Mrs Gilpin, careful soul!
Had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor that she loved,
And keep it safe and sound,
Each bottle had a curling ear,
Through which the belt he drew;
And hung a bottle on each side,
To make his balance true.
Then over all, that he might be
Equipped from top to toe,
His long red cloak, well brushed, and neat,
He manfully did throw.
Now see him mounted once again
Upon his nimble steed,
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones,
With caution and good heed.
But finding soon a smoother road
Beneath his well-shod feet,
The snorting beast began to trot,
Which galled him in his seat.
So, fair and softly, John he cried,
But John he cried in vain;
That trot became a gallop soon,
In spite of curb and rein.
So stooping down, as needs he must,
Who cannot sit upright,
He grasped the mane with both his hands,
And eke with all his might.
His horse, who never in that sort
Had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got,
Did wonder more and more.
Away went Gilpin, neck or nought,
Away went hat and wig;
He little dreamt when he set out,
Of running such a rig.
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,
Like streamer long and gay,
Till loop and button failing both,
At last it flew away.
Then might all people well discern
The bottles he had slung:
A bottle swinging at each side,
As hath been said or sung.
The dogs did bark, the children screamed,
Up flew the windows all;
And every soul cried out, Well done!
As loud as he could bawl.
Away went Gilpin-who but he ?
His fame soon spread around-
He carries weight! he rides a race,
'Tis for a thousand pound.
And still as fast as he drew near,
'Twas wonderful to view,
How in a trice the turnpike-men
Their gates wide open threw.
And now as he went bowing down
His reeking head full low,
The bottles twain behind his back
Were shattered at a blow.
Down ran the wine into the road,
Most piteous to be seen,
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke,
As they had basted been.
But still he seemed to carry weight,
With leather girdle braced;
For all might see the bottle necks
Still dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry Islington
These gambols he did play,
And till he came unto the Wash
Of Edmonton so gay.
And there he threw the wash about,
On both sides of the way,
Just like unto a trundling mop,
Or a wild goose at play.
At Edmonton, his loving wife
From balcony espied
Her tender husband, wondering much
To see how he did ride.
Stop, stop, John Gilpin! here's the house,
They all at once did cry;
The dinner waits, and we are tired:
Said Gilpin--so am I.
But yet his horse was not a whit
Inclined to tarry there;
For why ? his owner had a house
Full ten miles off at Ware.
So, like an arrow, swift he flew,
Shot by an archer strong;
So did he fly-which brings me to
The middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin, out of breath,
And sore against his will,
Till at his friend's the calender's
His horse at last stood still.
The calender, amazed to see
His neighbour in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,
And thus accosted him:
What news ? what news? your tidings tell,
Tell me you must and shall-
Say why bareheaded you are come,
Or why you come at all?
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
And loved a timely joke;
And thus unto the calender
In merry guise he spoke:
I came, because your horse would come,
And, if I well forbode,
My hat and wig will soon be here,
They are upon the road.
The calender, right glad to find
His friend in merry pin,
Returned him not a single word,
But to the house went in.
When straight he came with hat and wig,
A wig that flowed behind,
A hat not much the worse for wear,
Each comely in its kind.
He held them up, and in his turn
Thus showed his ready wit,
My head is twice as big as yours,
They therefore needs must fit.
But let me scrape the dirt away
That hangs upon your face;
And stop and eat, for well you may
Be in a hungry case.
Said John, it is my wedding day,
And all the world would stare,
If wife should dine at Edmonton,
And I should dine at Ware.
So turning to his horse, he said-
I am in haste to dine:
'Twas for your pleasure you came here,
You shall go back for mine.
Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast!
For which he paid full dear,
For while he spake, a braying ass,
Did sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as he
Had heard a lion roar;
And gallopped off with all his might,
As he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin's hat and wig:
He lost them sooner than at first,
For why ? they were too big.
Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down
Into the country far away,
She pulled out half-a-crown;
And thus unto the youth she said
That drove them to the Bell,
This shall be yours when you bring back
My husband safe and well.
The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back amain,
Whom in a trice he tried to stop,
By catching at his rein.
But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done;
The frighted steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went postboy at his heels;
The postboy's horse right glad to miss
The lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road,
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With postboy scampering in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry.
Stop thief! stbp thief! a highwayman !
Not one of them was mute:
And all and each that passed that way
Did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space;
The tollmen thinking, as before,
That Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it too,
For he got first to town;
Nor stopped till where he first got up,
He did again get down.
Now let us sing, long live the king,
And Gilpin, long live he;
And when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see!
TO THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.
FAIR flower, that lapt in lowly glade,
Dost hide beneath the greenwood shade,
Than whom the vernal gale
None fairer wakes on bank or spray,
Our England's lily of the May,
Our lily of the vale.
Art thou that lily of the field,"
Which, when the Saviour sought to shield
The heart from blank despair,
He showed to our mistrustful kind,
An emblem to the thoughtful mind
Of God's paternal care ?
Not thus I trow: for brighter shine
To the warm skies of Palestine
Those children of the East.-
There, when mild autumn's early rain
Descends on parched Esdrela's plain,
And Tabor's oak-girt crest-
More frequent than the host of night,
Those earth-born stars, as sages write,
Their brilliant disks unfold;
Fit symbol of imperial state
Their sceptre-seeming forms elate,
And crowns of burnished gold.
But not the less, sweet springtide's flower,
Dost thou display the Maker's power,
His skill and handiwork,
Our western valley's humbler child;
Where in green nook of woodland wild
Thy modest blossoms lurk.
What though nor care nor art be thine,
The loom to ply, the thread to twine;
Yet, born to bloom and fade,
Thee, too, a lovelier robe arrays,
Than e'er in Israel's brightest days
Her wealthiest king arrayed.
Of thy twin leaves the embowered screen
Which wraps thee in thy shroud of green;
Thy Eden-breathing smell;
Thy arched and purple-vested stem,
Whence pendent many a pearly gem,
Displays a milk-white bell:
Instinct with life thy fibrous root,
Which sends from earth the ascending shoot,
As rising from the dead,
And fills thy veins with verdant juice,
Charged thy fair blossoms to produce,
And berries scarlet red;
The triple cell, the twofold seed,
A ceaseless treasure-house decreed,
Whence aye thy race may grow,
As from creation they have grown,
While spring shall weave her flowery crown,
Or vernal-breezes blow:
Who forms thee thus with unseen hand;
Who at creation gave command,
And willed thee thus to be,
And keeps thee still in being through
Age after age revolving, who
But the Great God is he ?
Omnipotent to work His will;
Wise, who contrives each part to fill
The post to each assigned;
Still provident, with sleepless care
To keep; to make the sweet and fair
For man's enjoyment, kind!
"There is no God," the senseless say:-
"0 God, why cast'st thou us away?"
Of feeble faith and frail,
The mourner breathes his anxious thought-
By thee a better lesson taught,
Sweet lily of the vale.
Yes! He who made and fosters thee,
In reason's eye perforce must be
Of majesty divine;
Nor deems she that His guardian care
Will He in man's support forbear,
Who thus provides for thine.
-Field Naturalist's Magazine.
'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain,
" You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again."
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,
Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.
" A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;"
Thus he wastes half his days and his hours without
And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.
I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier,
The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher:
The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags;
And his money still wastes, till he starves or he begs.
I made him a visit, still hoping to find .
He had took better care for improving his mind..
He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking;
But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.
Said I then to my heart, Here's a lesson for me,
This man's but a picture of what I might be;
But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,
Who taught me betimes to love working and reading."
HASSAN; OR THE CAMEL-DRIVER.
Scene, The Desert-Time, Mid-day.
IN silent horror, o'er the boundless waste,
The driver Hassan with his camels passed;
One cruise of water on his back he bore,
And his light scrip contained a scanty store;
A fan of painted feathers in his hand,
To guard his shaded face from scorching sand.
The sultry sun had gained the middle sky,
And not a tree and not an herb was nigh;
The beasts with pain their dusty way pursue,
Shrill roared the winds, and dreary was the view!
With desperate sorrow wild, the afflighted man
Thrice sighed, thrice struck his breast, and thus began:
"Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"
Ah! little thought I of the blasting wind,
The thirst or pinching hunger that I find!
Bethink thee, Hassan! where shall thirst assuage,
When fails this cruise, his unrelenting rage ?
Soon shall this scrip its precious load resign,
Then what but tears and hunger shall be thine ?
Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear
In all my griefs a more than equal share!
Here, where no springs in murmurs break away,
Or moss-crowned fountains mitigate the day,
In vain ye hope the green delight to know
Which plains more blessed or verdant vales bestow;
Here rocks alone and tasteless sands are found,
And faint and sickly winds for ever howl around.
"Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way !"
Cursed be the gold and silver which persuade
Weak men to follow far fatiguing trade!
The lily peace outshines the silver store,
And life is dearer than the golden ore;
Yet money tempts us o'er the desert brown,
To every distant mart and wealthy town:
Full oft we tempt the land, and oft the sea;
And are we only yet repaid by thee?
Ah! why was ruin so attractive made,
Or why fond man so easily betrayed?
Why heed we not, while mad we haste along,
The gentle voice of Peace, or Pleasure's song?
Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's side,
The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride;
Why think we these less pleasing to behold
Than dreary deserts, if they lead to gold ?
" Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"
O cease, my fears!-All frantic as I go,
When thought creates unnumbered scenes of wo,
What if the lion in his rage I meet!-
Oft in the dust I view his printed feet;
And fearful oft, when Day's declining light
Yields her pale empire to the mourner Night,
By hunger roused, he scours the groaning plain,
Gaunt wolves and sullen tigers in his train;
Before them Death with shrieks directs their way,
Fills the wild yell, and leads them to their prey.
"Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way !"
At that dead hour the silent asp shall creep,
If aught of rest I find, upon my sleep;
Or some swoln serpent twist his scales around,
And wake to anguish with a burning wound.
Thrice happy they, the wise contented poor,
From lust of wealth and dread of death secure i
They tempt no deserts, and no griefs they find;
Peace rules the day where reason rules the mind.
"Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way !"
O hapless youth! for she thy love hath won,
The tender Zara! will be most undone.
Big swelled my heart, and owned the powerful maid,
When fast she dropped her tears, as thus she said:
" Farewell the youth-whom sighs could not detain,
Whom Zara's breaking heart implored in vain!
Yet as thou goest, may every blast arise
Weak and unfelt as these rejected sighs;
Safe o'er the wild no'perils may'st thou see,
No griefs endure, nor weep, false youth! like me."
" 0 let me safely to the fair return, .
Say with a smile, she must not, shall not mourn;
0 let me teach my heart to lose its fears,
Recalled by Wisdom's voice and Zara's tears."
He said, and called on Heaven to bless the day
When back to Schiraz' walls he bent his way.
THE HARVEST MOON.
ALL hail! thou lovely queen of night,
Bright empress of the starry sky!
The meekness of thy silvery light
Beams gladness on the gazer's eye,
While from thy peerless throne on high
Thou shinest bright as cloudless noon,
And bidd'st the shades of darkness fly
Before thy glory-Harvest Moon !
In the deep stillness of the night,
When weary labour is at rest,
How lovely is the scene!-how bright
The wood-the lawn-the mountain's breast,
When thou, fair moon of harvest! hast
Thy radiant glory all unfurled,
And sweetly smilest in the west,
Far down upon the silent world.
Dispel the clouds, majestic orb!
That round the dim horizon brood,
And hush the winds that would disturb
The deep, the awful solitude,
That rests upon the slumbering flood,
The dewy fields, and silent grove,
When midnight hath thy zenith viewed,
And felt the kindness of thy love.
Lo scattered wide beneath thy throne,
The hope of millions richly spread,
That seems to court thy radiance down,
To rest upon its dewy bed:
Oh let thy cloudless glory shed
Its welcome brilliance from on high,
Till hope be realized-and fled
The omens of a frowning sky!
Shine on, fair orb of light! and smile
Till autumn months have passed away,
And Labour hath forgot the toil
He bore in summer's sultry ray;
And when the reapers end the day,
Tired with the burning heat of noon,
They'll come with spirits light and gay,
And bless thee-lovely Harvest Moon!
How fair is the rose! What a beautiful flower!
The glory of April and May;
But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.
Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers of the field:
When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!
So frail is the youth and the beauty of man,
Though they bloom and look gay like a rose;
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain,
Time kills them as fast as he goes.
Then I'll not be proud of my youth, or my beauty,
Since both of them wither and fade;
But gain a good name by well doing my duty:
This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.
BY MARY HOWITT.
WEB-SPINNER was a miser old,
Who came of low degree;
His body was large, his legs were thin,
And he kept bad company;
And his visage had the evil look
Of a black felon grim;
To all the country he was known,
But none spoke well of him.
His house was seven storeys high,
In a corner of the street;
It always had a dirty look,
When other homes were neat.
Up in his garret dark he lived,
And from the windows high
Looked out in the dusky evening
Upon the passers-by.
Most people thought he lived alone;
Yet many have averred
That dismal cries from out his house
Were often loudly heard;
And that none living left his gate,
Although a few went in,
For he seized the very beggar old,
And stripped him to the skin; ,
And though he prayed for mercy,
Yet mercy ne'er was shown-
The miser cut his body up,
And picked him bone from bone.
Thus people said, and all believed
The dismal story true;
As it was told to me, in truth,
I tell it so to you.
There was an ancient widow-
One Madgy de la Moth,
A stranger to the man, or she
Had ne'er gone there, in troth.
But she was poor, and wandered out
At nightfall in the street,
To beg from rich men's tables
Dry scraps of broken meat,
So she knocked at old Web-Spinner's door,
With a modest tap, and low,
And down stairs came he speedily,
Like an arrow from a bow..
"Walk in, walk in, mother !" said he,
And shut the door behind;"
She thought for such a gentleman,
That he was wondrous kind;
But ere the midnight clock had tolled,
Like a tiger of the wood,
He had eaten the flesh from off her bones,
And drank of her heart's blood!
Now after this fell deed was done,
A little season's space,
The burly Baron of Bluebottle
Was riding from the chase:
The sport was dull, the day was hot,
The sun was sinking down,
When wearily the baron rode
Into the dusty town.
Says he, I'll ask a lodging
At the first house I come to;
With that the gate of Web-Spinner
Came suddenly in view.
Loud was the knock the baron gave-
Down came the churl with glee;
Says Bluebottle, "Good sir, to-night
I ask your courtesy;
I'm wearied with a long day's chase-
My friends are far behind."
" You may need them all," said Web-Spinner,
It runneth in my mind."
" A baron am I," said Bluebottle;
From a foreign land I come."
"I thought as much," said Web-Spinner,
Fools never stay at home!"
Says the baron, Churl, what meaneth this ?
I defy ye, villain base!"
And he wished the while in his inmost heart
He was safely from the place.
Web-Spinner ran and locked the door,
And a loud laugh laughed he;
With that each one on the other sprang,
And they wrestled furiously.
The baron was a man of might,
A swordsman of renown;
But the miser had the stronger arm,
And kept the baron down;
Then out he took a little cord,
From a pocket at his side,
And with many a crafty, cruel knot,
His hands and feet he tied;
And bound him down unto the floor,
And said in savage jest,
" There's heavy work in store for you;
So baron take your rest!"
Then up and down his house he went,
Arranging dish and platter,
With a dull and heavy countenance,
As if nothing were the matter.
At length he seized on Bluebottle,
That strong and burly man,
And with many and many a desperate tug,
To hoist him up began;
And step by step, and step by step,
He went with heavy tread;
But ere he reached the garret-door,
Poor Bluebottle was dead!
Now all this while a magistrate,
Who lived in the house hard by,
Had watched Web-Spinner's cruelty
Through a window privily.
So in he burst, through bolts and bars,
With a loud and thundering sound,
And vowed to burn the house with fire,.
And level it with the ground.
But the wicked churl, who all his life
Had looked for such a day,
Passed through a trap-door in the wall,
And took himself away:
But where he went no man could tell;
'Twas said that underground,
He died a miserable death,
But his body ne'er was found.
They pulled his house down stick and stone-
For a caitiff vile as he,"
Said they, within our quiet town
Shall:not a dweller be!"
LOSS IN DELAYS.
SHUN delays, they breed remorse,
Take thy time, while time is lent thee;
Creeping snails have weakest force;
Fly their fault, lest thou repent thee:
Good is best when soonest wrought,
Lingering labour comes to nought.
Hoist up sail while gale doth last,
Tide and wind stay no man's pleasure;
Seek not time when time is past,
Sober speed is wisdom's leisure:
After-wits are dearly bought,
Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.
Time wears all his locks before,
Take thou hold upon his forehead,
When he flies, he turns no more,
And behind, his scalp is naked:
Works adjourned, have many stays,
Long demurs breed new delays.
Seek thy salve while sore is green,
Festered wounds ask deeper lancing;
After-cures are seldom seen,
Often sought, scarce ever chancing:
Time and place give best advice,
Out of season, out of price.
WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears
Speak grief in you,
Who were but born
Just as the modest morn
Teemed her refreshing dew?
Alas! you have not known that shower
That mars a flower;
Nor felt the unkind
Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worn with years;
Or warped, as we,
Who think it strange to see
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.
Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known
The reason why
Ye droop, and weep;
Is it for want of sleep
Or childish lullaby?
Or that ye have not seen as yet
Or brought a kiss
From that sweetheart to this?
No, no; this sorrow, shown
By your tears shed,
Would have this lecture read:-
That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought
SONG OF THE CAPTIVE.
[A captive knight is supposed to hold a dialogue in song with
certain flowers growing near the walls of his prison.]
A PLOWER that's wondrous fair I know,
My bosom holds it dear,
To seek that flower I long to go,
But am imprisoned here.
'Tis no light grief oppresses me;
For in the days my steps were free,
I had it always near.
Far round the tower I send mine eye,
The tower so steep and tall;
But nowhere can the flower descry
From this high castle wall;
And him who'll bring me my desire,
Or be he knight, or be he squire,
My dearest friend I'll call.
My blossoms near thee I disclose,
And hear thy wretched plight;
Thou meanest me, no doubt, the rose,
Thou noble, hapless knight.
A lofty mind in thee is seen,
And in thy bosom reigns the queen
Of flowers, as is her right.
Thy crimson bud I duly prize
In outer robe of green;
For this thou'rt dear in maiden's eyes,
As gold and jewels sheen;
Thy wreath adorns the fairest brow,
And yet the flower-it is not thou,
Whom my still wishes mean.
The little rose has cause for pride,
And upwards aye will soar;
Yet am I held by many a bride
The rose's wreath before.
And beats thy bosom faithfully,
And art thou true, and pure as I,
Thou'lt prize the lily more.
I call myself both chaste and pure,
And pure from passions low;
And yet these walls my limbs immure
In loneliness and wo.
Though thou dost seem, in white arrayed,
Like many a pure and beauteous maid,
One dearer thing I know.
And dearer I, the pink, must be,
And me thou sure dost choose,
Or else the gardener ne'er for me
Such watchful care would use;
A crowd of leaves encircling bloom!
And mine through life the sweet perfume,
And all the thousand hues!
The pink can no one justly slight,
The gardeners favourite flower;
He sets it now beneath the light,
Now shields it from its power.
Yet 'tis not pomp, which o'er the rest
In splendour shines, can make me blest;
It is a still, small flower.
I stand concealed, and bending low,
And do not love to speak;
Yet will I, as 'tis fitting now,
My wonted silence break.
For if 'tis I, thou gallant man,
Thy heart desires, thine, if I can,
My perfumes all I'll make.
The violet I esteem indeed,
So modest and so kind;
Its fragrance sweet, yet more I need,
To soothe my anguished mind.
To you the truth will I confess;
Here mid this rocky dreariness,
My love I ne'er shall find.
The truest wife by yonder brook
Will roam the mournful day,
And hither cast the anxious look,
Long as immured I stay.
Whene'er she breaks a small blue flower,
And says, Forget me not! the power
I feel, though far away.
Yes, e'en though far, I feel its might,
For true love joins us twain,
And therefore mid the dungeon's night,
I still in life remain.
And sinks my heart at my hard lot,
I but exclaim; Forget me not!
And straight new life regain.
-FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.
TO A BOY JUST ENTERING ON THE
WARFARE OF LIFE.
ARM! for the hour is drawing nigh
When thou must strive in fight:
The word inspires thy kindling eye,
And thy young heart bounds light:
Yet little,.little dost thou know
What foes await thee there;
A moment listen, while I show
The dangers thou must dare.
First, Pleasure's gay and lovely throng
Will tempt thee on the way,
Where stands, all terrible and strong,
Fierce Passion's dark array.
And Falsehood, bold, yet cowering foe,
Will take thee for his mark,
And Slander, whose assassin blow,
Strikes only in the dark.
And Scepticism, wild and free,
And Error's daring mien,
Led on by False Philosophy,
Will in that field be seen,
Alas! this is a fearful view,
Of the wild War of Life;
But thou, dear boy, art brave and true,
And will not shun the strife.
Yet be thou cautious, as thou'rt brave;
Choose well thy battle-gear;
For, once set on-shame to the slave
Would hesitate or fear!
The buckler of Integrity
Throw broadly o'er thy breast;
Thy helmet let bright Honour be,
And Truth thy stainless crest.
And be thy right-hand weapon, boy,
A calm inquiring mind,
Where prejudice's dull alloy
Foes seek in vain to find.
Let kind and gentle Courtesy
Be burnish to thy mail;
'Twill turn full many a stroke from thee,
When rougher arms would fail.
Accoutred thus, go forth in joy,
While rings thy battle-cheer;
On-on-fear God, my gallant boy,
But know no other fear!
WHY should I deprive my neighbour
Of his goods against his will ?
Hands were made for honest labour,
Not to plunder or to steal.
'Tis a foolish self-deceiving,
By such tricks to hope for gain:
All that's ever got by thieving,
Turns to sorrow, shame, and pain.
Have not Eve and Adam taught us
Their sad profit to compute;
To what dismal state they brought us,
When they stole forbidden fruit ?
Oft we see a young beginner
Practise little pilfering ways,
Till grown up a hardened sinner,
Then the gallows ends his days.
Theft will not be always hidden,
Though we fancy none can spy:
When we take a thing forbidden,
God beholds it with his eye.
Guard my heart, oh God of heaven,
Lest I covet what's not mine:
Lest I take what is not given,
Guard my heart and hands from sin.
THE OLD MAN AND THE CARRION CROW.
BY MARY HOWITT.
THERE was a man, and his name was Jack,
Crabbed and lean, and his looks were black-
His temper was sour, his thoughts were bad;
His heart was hard when he was a lad.
And now he followed a dismal trade,
Old horses he bought, and killed, and flayed,
Their flesh he sold for the dogs to eat:
You would not have liked this man to meet.
He lived in a low mud-house on a moor,
Without any garden before the door.
There was one little hovel behind, that stood
Where he used to do his work of blood;
I never could bear to see the place,
It was stained and darkened with many a trace;
A trace of what I will not tell-
And then there was such an unchristian smell!
Now this old man did come and go,
Through the wood that grew in the dell below;
It was scant a mile from his own door-stone,
Darksome and dense, and overgrown;
And down in the dreariest nook of the wood,
A tall and splintered fir-tree stood;
Half way up, where the boughs outspread,
A carrion crow his nest had made,
Of sticks and reeds in the dark fir-tree,
Where lay his mate and his nestlings three;
And whenever he saw the man come by,
"Dead horse! dead horse!" he was sure to cry,
" Croak, croak !" If he went or came,
The cry of the crow was just the same.
Jack looked up as grim as could be,
And says, "What's my trade to the like of thee!"
"Dead horse! dead horse! croak, croak! croak, croak !"
As plain as words to his ear it spoke.
Old Jack stooped down, and picked up a stone,
A stout, thick stick, and dry cow's bone,
And one and the other all three did throw,
So angry was he at the carrion crow;
But none of the three reached him or his nest,
Where his three young crows lay warm at rest;
And Croak, croak! dead horse! croak, croak !"
In his solemn way again he spoke;
Old Jack was angry as he could be,
And says he, "On the morrow I'll fell thy tree--
I'll teach thee, old fellow, to rail at me!"
As soon as 'twas light, if there you had been,
Old Jack at his work you might have seen;
I would you'd been there to see old Jack,
And to hear the strokes as 'they came "thwack!
And then you'd have-seen how the croaking bird
Flew round as the axe's strokes he heard,
Flew round as he saw the shaking blow,
That came to his nest from the root below.
One after the other, stroke upon stroke; -
"Thwack! thwack 1" said the axe; said the crow,
Old Jack looked up with a leer in his eye,
And "I'll hew it down!" says he, "by and by!
I'll teach thee to rail, my old fellow, at me!"
So he.spit on his hands, and says, Have at the tree !"
"Thwack !" says the axe, as the bark it clove;
" Thwack!" as into the wood it drove;
"Croak!" says the crow in great dismay,
"Croak!" as he slowly flew away.
Flap, flap went his wings over hedge and ditch,
Till he came to a field of burning twitch;
The boy with a lighted lantern there,
As he stood on the furrow brown and bare,
He saw the old crow hop hither and thither,
Then fly with a burning sod somewhither.
Away flew the crow to the house on the moor,
A poor old horsewas tied to the door;
The burning sod on the roof he dropped,
Then upon the chimney-stone he hopped,
And down he peeped, that he might see
How many there were in family-
There were a mother and children three.
" Croak! croak!" the old crow did say,
As from the roof he flew away,
As he flew away to a tree, to watch
The burning sod and the dry, gray thatch;
He stayed not long till he saw it smoke,
Then he flapped his wings, and cried Croak, croak!"
Away to the wood again flew he,
And soon he espied the slanting tree,
And Jack, who stood laughing with all his might,
His axe in his hand-he laughed for spite;
In triumph he laughed, and took up a stone,
And hammered his axe-head faster on;
" Croak, croak I" came the carrion crow,
Flapping his wings with a motion slow;
" Thwack, thwack!" the spiteful man,
When he heard his cry, with his axe began;
" Thwack, thwack !" stroke upon stroke;
The crow flew by with a Croak, croak!"
With a Croak, croak !" again he came,
Just as the house burst into flame.
With a splitting crash, and a crackling sound,
Down came the tree unto the ground;
The old crow's nest afar was swung,
And the young ones here and there were flung;
And just at that moment came up a cry,
" Oh Jack, make haste, or else we die;
The house is on fire, .consuming all;
Make haste, make haste, ere the roof-tree fall!"
The young crows every one were dead;
But the old crow croaked above his head;
And the mother-crow on Jack she springs,
And flaps in his face her great black wings;
And all the while he hears a wail,
That turns his cheek from red to pale-
'Twas wife and children standing there,
Wringing their hands and tearing their hair!
" Oh wo, our house is burnt to cinder,
Bedding and clothes all turned to tinder:
Down to the very hearthstone clean,
Such a dismal ruin ne'er was seen!
What shall we do ?-where must we go ?"
" Croak, croak!" says the carrion crow.
Now ye who read this story through
Heed well the moral-'tis for you-
Strife brings forth strife: be meek and kind;
See all things with a loving mind;
Nor e'er by passion be misled-
Jack by himself was punished.
THE SPIDER'S SONG.
LOOK upon my web so fine,
See how threads with threads entwine;
If the evening wind alone
Breathe upon it, all is gone.
Thus within the darkest place
Creative Wisdom thou mayest trace;
Feeble though the insect be,
Allah speaks through that to thee.
As within the moonbeam I,
God in glory sits on high,
Sits where countless planets roll,
And from thence controls the whole:
There, with threads of thousand dyes,
Life's bewildering web He plies,
And the Hand that holds them all,
Lets not even the feeblest fall.
-FROM THE DANISH OF OEIILENSCHLAGER.
TO THE CUCKOO.
HAIL, beauteous stranger of the wood!
Attendant on the Spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural scat,
And woods thy welcome sing.
Soon as the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear:
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year ?
Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
When heaven is filled with music sweet
Of birds among the bowers.
The school-boy wandering in the wood
To pull the flowers so gay,
Starts, thy curious voice to hear,
And imitates thy lay.
Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fly'st thy vocal vale.
An annual guest, in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.
Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year!
O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with social wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.
A GRACE BEFORE MEAT.
"Eating your meat in gladness and singleness of heart."
EAT thy meat in thankfulness,
Child of modest mind;
Wishing not for more or less,
Than what thou dost find;
Is thy portion but a crust ?
Think what poor there be
That would, grovelling in the dust,
Beg that crust of thee!
If thy board with plenty smile,
Make no blessing less,
By lamenting all the while
Be no loud-tongued hypocrite,
In self-worship drest;
He whose grateful heart beats light,
Praises God the best.
If thy table mean supply
Just what hunger needs,
Never ask with envious eye
How thy neighbour feeds.
With an honest mind fulfil
Thine own humble part,
Eat thy meat in gladness still,
And singleness of heart.
-D. M. M.
ALL praise to thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light;
Keep me, oh keep me, King of kings,
Beneath thy own almighty wings!
Forgive me, Lord, for thy dear Son,
The ill that I this day have done;
That with the world, myself, and thee,
I, ere I sleep, at peace may be.
Teach me to live, that I may dread
The grave as little as my bed;
To die, that this vile body may
Rise glorious at the judgment-day.
Oh may my soul on thee repose,
And may sweet sleep mine eyelids close!-
Sleep, that may me more vigorous make
To serve my God when I awake.
When in the night I sleepless lie,
My soul with heavenly thoughts supply;
Let no ill dreams disturb my rest,
No powers of darkness me molest.
Dull sleep !-of sense me to deprive;
I am but half my time alive;
Thy faithful lovers, Lord, are grieved,
To lie so long of thee bereaved.
18 r POEMS.
But though sleep o'er my frailty reigns,
Let it not hold me long in chains;
And now and then let loose my heart,
Till it an hallelujah dart.
The faster sleep the senses binds,
The more unfettered are our minds;
Oh may my soul, from matter free,
Thy loveliness unclouded see!
Oh when shall I, in endless day,
For ever chase dark sleep away:
And hymns with the supernal choir
Incessant sing, and never tire ?
Oh may my guardian, while I sleep,
Close to my bed his vigils keep;
His love angelical instil,
Stop all the avenues of ill.
TO MY MOTHER.
O THOU whose care sustained my infant years,
And taught my prattling lip each note of love;
Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears,
And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove;
To thee my lay is due, the simple song,
Which Nature gave me at life's opening day;
To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong,
Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay.
O say, amid this wilderness of life,
What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me ?
Who would have smiled responsive ? who in grief
Would e'er have felt, and, feeling, grieve like thee ?
Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye,
Each trembling footstep, or each sport of.fear ?
Who would have marked my bosom bounding high,
And clasped me to her heart with love's bright tear?
Who would have hung around my sleepless couch,
And fanned with anxious hand my burning brow ?
Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip
SIn all the agony of love and wo ?
None but a mother-none but one like thee,
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch,
Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery,
Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch.
Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom;
Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief,
That wo hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom.
0 then, to thee, this rude and simple song,
Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee,
To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong,
Whose life is spent in toil and care for me.
SUMMER MORNING'S SONG.
Up, sleeper! dreamer! up; for now
There's gold upon the mountain's brow-
There's light on forests, lakes, and meadows-.
The dew-drops shine on flow'ret bells,
The village clock of morning tells.
Up, men! out, cattle! for the dells
And dingles teem with shadows.