Original poems for infant minds


Material Information

Original poems for infant minds
Physical Description:
218, 6 p., 1 leaf of plates : col. ill. ; 17 cm.
Taylor, Ann, 1782-1866
Taylor, Jane ( Author )
Thomas Nelson & Sons ( Publisher )
T. Nelson and Sons
Place of Publication:
New York
Publication Date:


Subjects / Keywords:
Children's poetry   ( lcsh )
Children's poetry -- 1881   ( lcsh )
Publishers' catalogues -- 1881   ( rbgenr )
Bldn -- 1881
Children's poetry   ( lcsh )
Publishers' catalogues   ( rbgenr )
poetry   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
United States -- New York -- New York
Scotland -- Edinburgh
England -- London


General Note:
Publisher's catalogue follows text.
Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).
Statement of Responsibility:
by Ann and Jane Taylor.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management:
All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
Resource Identifier:
aleph - 002238338
notis - ALH8838
oclc - 10759115
System ID:

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Full Text

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In books, or works, or healthful play,
Let my first years be past ,
That I may give for every day
Some good account at last.'

TJronbon :


A TRUE STORY, ... ... ... ... ... 9
THE BIRD'S NEST, ... ... ... ... ... 12
THE HAND-POST, ... ... ... ... ... 15
SPRING, ... ... ... ... ... ... 17
SUMMER, ... ... ... ... ... ... 18
AUTUMN, ... ... ... ... ... ... 20
WINTER, ... ... ... ... ... ... 22
THE TEMPEST, ... ... ... ... ... 24
THE CHURCHYARD, ... ... ... ... ... 26
MORNING, ... ... ... .. ... ... 28
EVENING, ... ... ... ... ... ... 29
THE IDLE BOY, ... ... ... ... ... 30
THE INDUSTRIOUS BOY, ... ... ... ... 31
THE LITTLE FISHERMAN, ... ... ... ... 33
OLD AGE, ... ... ... ... ... ... 35
THE APPLE-TREE, ... .. ... ... ... 37
THE DISAPPOINTMENT, ... ... ... ... ... 38
THE SHEPHERD BOY, ... ... ... ... ... 39
THE ROBIN, ... ... ... ... ... ... 42
THE CHILD'S MONITOR, ... ... ... ... 43
NEVER PLAY WITH FIRE, ... ... ... ... 49
THE TRUANT BOYS, ... ... ... ... ... 50


THE BUTTERFLY, ... ... ... ... ... 53
THE REDBREAST'S PETITION, ... ... ... ... 54
THE NIGHTINGALE, ... ... ... ... ... 55
THE LARK, ... ... ... ... ... ... 56
WASHING AND DRESSING, ... ... ... ... 56
THE PLUM-CAKE, ... ... ... ... ... 57
ANOTHER PLUM-CAKE, ... ... ... ... ... 58
FOR A NAUGHTY LITTLE GIRL, ... ... ... ... 59
HONEST OLD TRAY, ... ... ... ... ... 61
THE TWO GARDENS, ... ... ... ... ... 64
MY MOTHER, ... ... ... ... ... ... 65
BALL, ... ... ... ... ... ... 70
THE FOX AND THE CROW, ... ... ... ... 72
BEAUTIFUL THINGS, ... ... ... ... ... 74
GREAT THINGS, ... ... ... ... ... 75
DEEP THINGS, ... ... ... ... ... 78
FALSE ALARMS, ... ... ... ... ... 82
SOPHIA'S FOOL'S-CAP, ... ... ... ... ... 83
THE SNAIL, ... ... ... ... ... ... 84
THE HOLIDAYS, ... ... ... ... ... 85
OLD SARAH, ... .. ... ... ... ... 87
OLD SUSAN, ... ... ... ... ... ... 88
THE GLEANER, ... ... ... ... ... 89
SNOW. ... ... ... ... ... ... 90
THE PIGS, ... ... ... ... ... ... 91
FINERY, ... .. ... ... ... ... 92
CRAZY ROBERT, ... ... ... ... ... 93
EM PLOYMENT, ... ... ... ... ... ... 94
THE FIGHTING BIRDS, ... ... ... ... ... 95
CREATION, ... ... ... ... ... ... 96
THE MOUNTAINS, ... ... ... ... ... 97
THE TEMPEST, ... ... .. ... ... 98
TURNIP-TOPS, ... ... ... ... ... 100
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY, ... ... ... ... 101
MIEDDLESOME MATTY, ... ... ... ... ... 102
DAY, ... .. ... ... ... ... 108


NIGHT, ... ... ... ... ... ... 110
DEAF MARTHA, ... ... ... ... ... 112
THE PIN, ... ... ... ... ... ... 113
THE CHATTERBOX, ... ... ... ... ... 119
THE SNOWDROP, ... ... ... .. ... 120
THE YELLOW LEAF, ... ... ... ... ... 121
POMPEY'S COMPLAINT, ... ... ... ... 122
THE LEAFY SPRING, ... ... ... ... ... 125
THE LIVING SPRING, ... ... ... ... ... 126
THE POND, ... ... ... ... ... ... 128
THE ENGLISH GIRL, ... ... ... ... ... 130
THE SCOTCH LADDIE, ... ... ... ... ... 131
THE WELSH LAD, ... ... ... ... ... 132
THE IRISH BOY, ... ... ... ... ... 133
GREEDY RICHARD, ... ... ... ... ... 135
DIRTY JIM, ... ... ... ... ... ... 137
THE FARM, ... ... ... ... ... ... 138
READING, ... .. ... ... ... ... 140
IDLENESS, ... ... ... ... ... ... 140
THE HORSE, ... ... ... ... ... ... 142
THE GOOD-NATURED GIRLS, ... ... ... ... 145
MISCHIEF, ... ... ... ... ... ... 146
THE SPIDER, ... ... ... ... ... ... 147
THE COW AND THE ASS, ... ... ... ... 148
THE BLIND SAILOR, ... ... ... ... ... 151
THE WORM, ... ... ... ... ... ... 153
FIRE, ... ... ... ... ... ... 154
AIR, ... ... ... ... ... ... 155
EARTH, ... ... ... ... ... ... 157
WATER, ... ... ... ... ... ... 158
TIT FOR TAT, ... ... ... ... ... 160
JANE AND ELIZA, ... ... ... ... ... 162
ELIZA AND JANE, ... ... ... ... ... 163
THE BABY, .. ... ... ... ... ... 164
THE POOR OLD MAN, ... ... ... ... ... 166
THE NOTORIOUS GLUTTON, ... ... ... ... 168


POOR DONKEY'S EPITAPH, ... ... ... ... 172
THE ORPHAN, ... ... ... ... ... 174
RISING IN THE MORNING, ... ... ... ... 175
GOING TO BED AT NIGHT, ... ... ... ... 175
MY OLD SHOES, ... ... ... ... ... 178
TO GEORGE PULLING BUDS, ... ... ... ... 179
A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT, ... ... ... ... ... 179
THE CRUEL THORN, ... ... ... ... ... 182
THE LINNET'S NEST, ... ... ... ... ... 183
THE ITALIAN GREYHOUND, ... ... ... ... 184
THE USE OF SIGHT, ... ... ... ... ... 185
THE MORNING'S TASK, ... .. ... ... 188
THE OAK, ... ...... ... ... 190
CARELESS MATILDA, ... ... ... ... ... 191
THE MUSHROOM GIRL, ... ... ... ... 194
BIRDS, BEASTS, AND FISHES, ... ... ... ... 195
THE VINE, ... ... ... ... ... ... 198
THE SPIDER AND HIS WIFE, ... ... ... ... 199
THE POPPY, ... ... ... ... ... ... 201
THE VIOLET, ... .. ... ... ... ... 202
THE WAY TO BE HAPPY, ... ... ... ... 203
CONTENTED JOHN, ... ... ... ... ... 203
THE GAUDY FLOWER, ... ... ... ... ... 205
NEGLIGENT MARY, ... ... ... ... ... 206
DECEMBER NIGHT, ... ... ... ... ... 207
POVERTY, ... ... ... ... ... ... 208
THE VILLAGE GREEN, ... .. ... ... ... 209
RUIN AND SUCCESS, ... ... ... ... ... 211
DEW AND HAIL, ... ... ... ... ... 213
CRUST AND CRUMB, ... ... ... ... ... 215
THE TRUANT, ... ... ... ... ... 216



LITTLE Ann and her mother were walking one day
Through London's wide city so fair,
And business obliged them to go by the way
That led them through Cavendish Square.

And as they passed by the great house of a lord,
A beautiful chariot there came,
To take some most elegant ladies abroad,
Who straightway got into the same.

The ladies in feathers and jewels were seen,
The chariot was painted all o'er,
The footmen behind were in silver and green,
The horses were prancing before.


Little Ann by her mother walked silent and sad,
A tear trickled down from her eye,
Till her mother said, "Ann, I should be very glad
To know what it is makes you cry."

"Mamma," said the child, see that carriage so fair,
All covered with varnish and gold:
Those ladies are riding so charmingly there,
While we have to walk in the cold.

You say God is kind to the folks that are good;
But surely it cannot be true,
Or else I am certain, almost, that he would
Give such a fine carriage to you."

Look there, little girl," said her mother, "and see
What stands at that very coach door;
A poor ragged beggar, and listen how she
A halfpenny tries to implore.

All pale is her face, and deep sunk is her eye,
And her hands look like skeleton's bones;
She has got a few rags, just about her to tie,
And her naked feet bleed on the stones."

"Dear ladies," she cries, and the tears trickle down,
"Relieve a poor beggar, I pray;
I've wandered all hungry about this wide town,
And not ate a morsel to-day.


"My father and mother are long ago dead,
My brother sails over the sea;
And I've scarcely a rag, or a morsel of bread,
As plainly, I'm sure, you may see.

"A fever I caught, which was terribly bad,
But no nurse or physic had I;
An old dirty shed was the house that I had,
And only on straw could I lie.

"And now that I'm better, yet feeble and faint,
And famished, and naked, and cold,
I wander about with my grievous complaint,
And seldom get aught but a scold.

"Some will not attend to my pitiful call,
Some think me a vagabond cheat;
And scarcely a creature relieves me, of all
The thousands that traverse the street.

"Then, ladies, dear ladies, your pity bestow :"-
Just then a tall footman came round,
And asking the ladies which way they would go,
The chariot turned off with a bound.

"Ah, see, little girl! then her mother replied,
How foolish those murmurs have been;
You have but to look on the contrary side,
To learn both your folly and sin.


" This poor little beggar is hungry and cold,
No mother awaits her return;
And while such an object as this you behold,
Your heart should with gratitude burn.

Your house and its comforts, your food and your
'Tis favour in God to confer,-
Have you any claim to the bounty he sends?
Who makes you to differ from her?

"A coach, and a footman, and gaudy attire,
Give little true joy to the breast:
To be good is the thing you should chiefly desire,
And then leave to God all the rest."


Now the sun rises bright and soars high in the air,
The hedge-rows in blossoms are drest;
The sweet little birds to the meadows repair,
And pick up the moss and the lambs' wool and hair,
To weave each her beautiful nest.

High up in some tree, far away from the town,
Where they think naughty boys cannot creep,
They build it with twigs, and they line it with down,


And lay their neat eggs, speckled over with brown,
And sit till the little ones peep.

Then come, little boy, shall we go to the wood,
And climb up yon very tall tree;
And while the old birds are gone out to get food,
Take down the warm nest and the chirruping brood,
And divide them betwixt you and me?

Oh no I am sure wouldd be cruel and bad
To take their poor nestlings away,
And, after the toil and the trouble they've had,
When they think themselves safe, and are singing so
To spoil all their work for our play.

Suppose some great creature, a dozen yards high,
Should stalk up at night to your bed,
And out of the window away with you fly,
Nor stop while you bid your dear parents good-bye,
Nor care for a word that you said;

And take you, not one of your friends could tell
And fasten you down with a chain;
And feed you with victuals you never could bear,
And hardly allow you to breathe the fresh air,
Nor ever to come back again;-


Oh, how for your dearest mamma would you sigh,
And long to her bosom to run;
And try to break out of your prison, and cry,
And dread the huge monster, so cruel and sly,
Who carried you off for his fun !

Then say, little boy, shall we climb the tall tree
Ah, no but remember instead,
'Twould almost as cruel and terrible be,
As if such a monster to-night you should see,
To snatch you away from your bed !

Then sleep, little innocents, sleep in your nest,
To steal you I know would be wrong;
And when the next summer in green shall be drest,
And your merry music shall join with the rest,
You'll pay us for all with a song.

Away to the woodlands we'll merrily hie,
And sit by yon very tall tree;
And rejoice, as we hear your sweet carols on high,
"With silken wings soaring amid the blue sky,
That we left you to sing and be free.



THE night was dark, the sun was hid
Beneath the mountain gray,
And not a single star appeared
To shoot a silver ray.

Across the heath the owlet flew,
And screamed along the blast,
And onward, with a quickened step,
Benighted Henry passed.

At intervals, amid the gloom,
A flash of lightning played,
And showed the ruts with water filled,
And the black hedge's shade.

Again in thickest darkness plunged,
He groped his way to find;
And now he thought he spied beyond
A form of horrid kind.

In deadly white it upward rose,
Of cloak or mantle bare,
And held its naked arms across,
To catch him by the hair.


Poor Henry felt his blood run cold
At what before him stood;
Yet like a man did he resolve
To do the best he could.

So calling all his courage up,
He to the goblin went;
And eager, through the dismal gloom,
His piercing eyes he bent.

But when he came well-nigh the ghost
That gave him such affright,
He clapped his hands upon his sides,
And loudly laughed outright.

For there a friendly post he found,
The stranger's road to mark;
A pleasant sprite was this to see
For Henry in the dark.

Well done!" said he, "one lesson wise
I've learned, beyond a doubt:
Whatever frightens me again,
I'll try to find it out.

And when I hear an idle tale
Of goblins and a ghost,
I'll tell of this, my lonely walk,
And the tall white hand-post."



SEE, see how the ices are melting away,
The rivers have burst from their chain !
The woods and the hedges with verdure look gay,
And daisies enamel the plain.

The sun rises high, and shines warm o'er the dale;
The orchards with blossoms are white;
The voice of the woodlark is heard in the vale,
And the cuckoo returns from her flight.

Young lambs sport and frisk on the side of the hill;
The honey-bee wakes from her sleep;
The turtle-dove opens her soft-cooing bill;
And snowdrops and primroses peep.

All nature looks active, delightful, and gay,
The creatures begin their employ;
Ah! let me not be less industrious than they,
An idle, an indolent boy.

Now, while in the spring of my vigour and bloom,
In the paths of fair learning I'll run;
Nor let the best part of my being consume
"With nothing of consequence done.
(6se) 2


Thus, if to my lessons with care I attend,
And store up the knowledge I gain,
When the winter of age shall upon me descend,
'Twill cheer the dark season of pain.


THE heat of the summer comes hastily on;
The fruits are transparent and clear;
The buds and the blossoms of April are gone,
And the deep-coloured cherries appear.

The blue sky above us is bright and serene,
No cloud on its bosom remains;
The woods, and the fields, and the hedges are green,
And the hay-cocks smell sweet from the plains.

Down far in the valley, where bubbles the spring
Which soft through the meadow-land glides,
The lads from the mountain the heavy sheep bring,
And shear the warm coat from their sides.

Ah let me lie down in some shady retreat
Beside the meandering stream;
For the sun darts abroad an unbearable heat,
And burns with his overhead beam.


There, all the day idle, my limbs I'll extend,
Fanned soft to delicious repose,
While round me a thousand sweet odours ascend
From every gay wood-flower that blows.

But hark from the lowlands what sounds do I hear?
The voices of pleasure so gay !
The merry young haymakers cheerfully bear
The heat of the hot summer's day.

While some with bright scythe singing shrill to the
The tall grass and buttercups mow, [stone,
Some spread it with forks, and by others 'tis thrown
Into sweet-smelling cocks in a row.

Then since joy and glee with activity join,
This moment to labour I'll rise,
While the idle love best in the shade to recline,
And waste precious time as it flies.

To waste precious time we can never recall,
Is waste of the wickedest kind:
One short day of life has more value than all
The gold that in India they find.

Not diamonds that brilliantly beam in the mine,
For time, precious time, should be given;
For gems can but make us look gaudy and fine,
But time can prepare us for heaven.



THE sun is now rising above the old trees,
His beams on the silver dew play;
The gossamer tenderly waves in the breeze;
And the mists are fast rolling away.

Let us leave the warm bed and the pillow of down,
The morning fair bids us arise,
Little boy, for the shadows of midnight are flown,
And the sunbeams peep into our eyes

We'll pass by the garden that leads to the gate,-
But where is its gaiety now ?
The Michaelmas-daisy blows lonely and late,
And the yellow leaf whirls from the bough.

Last night the glad reapers their harvest-home sang,
And stored the full garners with grain;
The woods and the echoes with merry sounds rang,
As they bore the last sheaf from the plain.

But hark! from the woodlands the sound of a gun-
The wounded bird flutters and dies:
Where can be the pleasure, for nothing but fun,
To shoot the poor thing as it flies ?


The timid hare, too, in fright and dismay,
Runs swift through the brushwood and grass,
She turns and she winds to get out of their way,
But the cruel dogs won't let her pass.

Ah poor little partridge and pheasant and hare,
I wish they would leave you to live !
For my part, I wonder how people can bear
To see the distress that they give.

When Reynard at midnight steals down to the farm,
And kills the poor chickens and cocks,
Then rise, Father Goodman, there can be no harm
In chasing a thief of a fox.

Or you, Mr. Butcher, and, Fisherman, you
May follow your trades, I must own:
So chimneys are swept, when they want it-but who
"Would sweep them for pleasure alone ?

If men would but think of the torture they give
To creatures that cannot complain,
They surely would let the poor animals live,
And not make a sport of their pain !



BEHOLD the gray branches that stretch from the trees,
Nor blossom nor verdure they wear !
They rattle and shake to the northerly breeze,
And wave their long arms in the air.

The sun hides his face in a mantle of cloud;
The roar of the ocean is heard;
The wind through the wood bellows hoarsely and loud;
And overland sails the sea-bird.

Come in, little Charles, for the snow patters down,
No paths in the garden remain;
The streets and the houses are white in the town,
And white are the fields and the plain.

Come in, little Charles, from the tempest of snow,
'Tis dark, and the shutters we'll close;
We'll put a fresh fagot to make the fire glow,
Secure from the storm as it blows.

But how many wretches, without house or home,
Are wandering naked and pale;
Obliged on the snow-covered common to.roam,
And pierced by the pitiless gale !


No house for their shelter, no victuals to eat,
No bed for their limbs to repose;
Or a crust, dry and mouldy, the best of their meat,
And their pillow-a pillow of snows !

Be thankful, my child, that it is not your lot
To wander, or beg at the door;
A father, and mother, and home you have got,
And yet you deserved them no more.

Be thankful, my child, and forget not to pay
Your thanks to that Father above
Who gives you so many more blessings than they,
And crowns your whole life with his love.


POOR harmless insect, thither fly,
And life's short hour enjoy;
'Tis all thou hast, and why should I
That little all destroy ?

Why should my tyrant will suspend
A life by wisdom given;
Or sooner bid thy being end
Than was designed by Heaven ?


Lost to the joy that reason knows,
Thy bosom, fair and frail,
Loves best to wander where the rose
Perfumes the pleasant gale.

To bask upon the sunny bed,
The damask flower to kiss;
To rove along the bending shade,
Is all thy little bliss.

Then flutter still thy silken wings,
In rich embroidery drest;
And sport upon the gale that flings
Sweet odours from his vest.


SEE the dark vapour clouds the sky !
The thunder rumbles round and round;
The lightning's flash begins to fly;
Big drops come pattering on the ground:
The frightened birds with ruffled wing,
Fly through the air, and cease to sing.

Now nearer rolls the mighty peal;
Incessant thunder roars aloud;
Tossed by the winds the tall oaks reel,
The forked lightning breaks the cloud;


Deep torrents drench the swimming plain,
And sheets of fire descend with rain.

'Tis God who on the tempest rides,
And with a word directs the storm;
'Tis at his nod the wind subsides,
Or heaps of heavy vapours form:
In fire and cloud he walks the sky,
And lets his stores of tempest fly.

Yet though beneath his power divine
My life depends upon his care,
Each right endeavour shall be mine-
Of every danger I'll beware;
Far from the metal bell-wire stand,
Nor on the door-lock keep my hand.

When caught amidst the open field,
I'll not seek shelter from a tree;
Though from the falling rain a shield,
More dreadful might the lightning be:
Its tallest boughs might draw the fire,
And I, with sudden stroke, expire.

They need not dread the stormy day,
Or lightning flashing from the sky,
Who walk in wisdom's pleasant way,
And always are prepared to die:


I know no other way to hear
The thunder roll without a fear.


THE moon rises bright in the east,
The stars with purple brilliancy shine;
The songs of the woodlands have ceased;
And still is the low of the kine;
The men from their work on the hill
Trudge homeward, with pitchfork and flail;
The buzz of the hamlet is still,
And the bat flaps his wings in the gale.

And see from those darkly green trees
Of cypress and holly and yew,
That wave their long arms in the breeze,
The old village church is in view.
The owl, from her ivied retreat,
Screams hoarse to the winds of the night;
And the clock, with its solemn repeat,
Has tolled the departure of light.

My child, let us wander alone,
When half the wide world is in bed,
And read the gray mouldering stone
That tells of the mouldering dead:


And let us remember it well,
That we must as certainly die,
Must bid the sweet daylight farewell,
Green earth, and the beautiful sky !

You are not so healthy and gay,
So young, and so active, and bright,
That death cannot snatch you away,
Or some dreadful accident smite.
Here lie both the young and the old,
Confined in the coffin so small,
The earth covers over them cold,
The grave-worm devours them all.

In vain were the beauty and bloom
That once o'er their bodies were spread;
Now, still in the desolate tomb,
Each rests his inanimate head.
Their fingers, so busy before,
Shall silently crumble away;
Nor even a smile, any more,
About the pale countenance play.

Then seek not, my child, as the best,
The pleasures which shortly must fade;
Let piety dwell in thy breast,
And all of thy actions pervade:


And then, when beneath the green sod
This active young body shall lie,
Thy soul shall ascend to its God,
To live with the blest in the sky.


AWAKE, little girl, it is time to arise,
Come shake drowsy sleep from your eye;
The lark is now warbling his notes to the skies,
And the sun is far mounted on high.

Oh come, for the fields with gay flowers abound,
The dewdrop is quivering still,
The lowing herds graze in the pastures around,
And the sheep-bell is heard from the hill.

Oh come, for the bee has flown out of her bed,
Impatient her work to renew;
The spider is weaving her delicate thread,
Which brilliantly glitters with dew.

Oh come, for the ant has crept out of her cell,
And forth to her labour she goes;
She knows the true value of moments too well
To waste them in idle repose.


Awake, little sleeper, and do not despise
Of insects instruction to ask;
From your pillow with good resolutions arise,
And cheerfully go to your task.


LITTLE girl, it is time to retire to your rest;
The sheep are put into the fold;
The linnet forsakes us, and flies to her nest
To shelter her young from the cold.

The owl has flown out of his lonely retreat,
And screams through the tall shady trees;
The nightingale takes on the hawthorn her seat,
And sings to the soft dying breeze.

The sun appears now to have finished his race,
And sinks once again to his rest;
But though we no longer can see his bright face,
He leaves a gold streak in the west.

Little girl, have you finished your daily employ
With industry, patience, and care?
If so, lay your head on your pillow with joy,
And sleep away peacefully there.


The moon through your curtains shall cheerfully peep,
Her silver beams rest on your eyes;
And mild evening breezes shall fan you to sleep
Till bright morning bid you arise.


YOUNG Thomas was an idle lad,
Who lounged about all day;
And though he many a lesson had,
He minded naught but play.

He only cared for top and ball,
Or marble, hoop, and kite;
But as for learning, that was all
Neglected by him quite.

In vain his mother's watchful eye,
In vain his master's care;
He followed vice and vanity,
And even learned to swear.

And think you, when he grew a man,
He prospered in his ways ?
No; wicked courses never can
Bring good and happy days.


Without a shilling in his purse,
Or cot to call his own,
Poor Thomas grew from bad to worse,
And hardened as a stone.

And oh it grieves me much to write
His melancholy end;
Then let us leave the mournful sight,
And thoughts of pity send.

But yet may this important truth
Our daily thoughts engage,
That few who spend an idle youth
Will see a happy age


IN a cottage upon the heath wild,
That always was cleanly and nice,
Lived William, a good little child,
Who minded his parents' advice.

'Tis true he loved marbles and kite,
And peg-top, and nine-pins, and ball;
But this I declare with delight,
His book he loved better than all


In active and useful employ
His young days were pleasantly spent;
While innocent pleasure and joy
A smile to his countenance lent.

Now see him to manhood arise:
Still cheerfulness follows his way;
For as he is prudent and wise,
He also is happy and gay.

For riches his wife never sighed,
Contented and happy was she;
While William would sit by her side,
With a sweet smiling babe on his knee.

His garden so fruitful and neat,
His cot by the side of the green,
Crept over by jessamine sweet,
Where peeped the low casement between;

These filled him with honest delight,
Though many might view them with scorn;
He went to bed cheerful at night,
And cheerfully woke in the morn.

But when he grew aged and gray,
And found that life shortly would cease.
He calmly awaited the day,
And closed his old eyelids in peace.


Now this little tale was designed
To be an example for me,
That still I may happiness find,
Whatever my station may be.


THERE was a little fellow once,
And Harry was his name,
And many a naughty trick had he,-
I tell it to his shame.

He minded not his friends' advice,
But followed his own wishes;
And one most cruel trick of his
Was that of catching fishes.

His father had a little pond,
Where often Harry went,
And there in this unfeeling sport
He many an evening spent.

One day he took his hook and bait
And hurried to the pond,
And there began the cruel game
Of which he was so fond.
(66) 3


And many a little fish he caught;
And pleased was he to look,
To see them writhe in agony
And struggle on the hook.

At last, when having caught enough,
And also tired himself,
He hastened home, intending there
To put them on a shelf.

But as he jumped to reach a dish
To put his fishes in,
A large meat-hook, that hung close by,
Did catch him by the chin.

Poor Harry kicked and called aloud,
And screamed, and cried, and roared,
While from his wound the crimson blood
In dreadful torrents poured.

The maids came running, frightened much,
To see him hanging there,
And soon they took him from the hook,
And set him in a chair.

The surgeon came and stopped the blood,
And bound his aching head;
And then they carried him upstairs,
And laid him on his bed.


Conviction darted on his mind,
As groaning there he lay,
And with compunction then he thought
About his cruel play.

"And oh !" said he, "poor little fish,
What tortures they have borne;
While I, well pleased, have stood to see
Their tender bodies torn !

" Though fishermen must earn their bread,
And butchers too must slay,
That can be no excuse for me
Who do the same in play.

" And now I feel how great the smart,
How terrible the pain,
I think, while I can feel myself,
I will not fish again."


Wno is this that comes tottering along ?
His footsteps are feeble and slow;
His beard has grown curling and long,
And his hair is turned white as the snow.


He is falling quite into decay,
Deep wrinkles have furrowed his cheek;
He cannot be merry and gay,
He is so exceedingly weak.

Little stranger, his name is Old Age;
His journey will shortly be o'er;
He soon will leave life's busy stage,
To sigh and be sorry no more.

Little stranger, though healthy and strong,
You now are so merry and brave,
Like him you must totter ere long,
Like him you must sink to the grave.

Those limbs, which so actively play,
That face beaming pleasure and mirth,
Like his must fall into decay,
And moulder away in the earth.

Then, ere that dark season of night,
When youth and its energies cease,
Oh follow with zeal and delight
Those paths which are pleasure and peace.

So triumph and hope shall be nigh,
When failing and fainting your breath;
And a light will enkindle your eye,
Ere it closes for ever in death.



OLD John had an apple-tree, healthy and green,
Which bore the best codlins that ever were seen,
So juicy, so mellow, and red;
And when they were ripe, he disposed of his store
To children or any who passed by his door,
To buy him a morsel of bread.

Little Dick, his next neighbour, one often might see,
With longing eye viewing this fine apple-tree,
And wishing a codlin might fall.
One day as he stood in the heat of the sun,
He began thinking whether he might not take one;
And then he looked over the wall.

And as he again cast his eye on the tree,
He said to himself, Oh, how nice they would be,
So cool and refreshing to-day !
The tree is so full, and one only I'll take,
And John cannot see if I give it a shake,
And nobody is in the way."

But stop, little boy, take your hand from the bough,
Remember, though John cannot see you just now,
And no one to chide you is nigh,


There is One who, by night just as well as by day,
Can see all you do, and can hear all you say,
From his glorious throne in the sky.

Oh then, little boy, come away from the tree,
Lest tempted to this wicked act you should be.
'Twere better to starve than to steal;
For the great God,who even through darkness can look,
Writes down every crime we commit in his book,
Nor forgets what we try to conceal.


IN tears to her mother poor Harriet came,
Let us listen to hear what she says :
Oh see, dear mamma, it is pouring with rain,
We cannot go out in a chaise.

All the week I have longed for this holiday so,
And fancied the minutes were hours;
And now that I'm dressed and all ready to go,
Do look at those terrible showers !"

I'm sorry, my dear," her kind mother replied,
The rain disappoints us to-day;
But sorrow still more that you fret for a ride
In such an extravagant way.


"These slight disappointments are sent to prepare
For what may hereafter befall;
For seasons of real disappointment and care,
Which commonly happen to all.

"For just like to-day, with its holiday lost,
Is life and its comforts at best;
Our pleasures are blighted, our purposes crossed,
To teach us it is not our rest.

"And when those distresses and crosses appear
With which you may shortly be tried,
You'll wonder that ever you wasted a tear
On merely the loss of a ride.

"But though the world's pleasures are fleeting and
Religion is lasting and true;
Real pleasure and peace in her paths you may gain,
Nor will disappointment ensue."


UPON a mountain's grassy steep,
Where moss and heather grew,
Young Colin wandered with his sheep,
And many a hardship knew.


No downy pillow for his head,
No sheltered home had he;
The green grass was his only bed,
Beneath some shady tree;

Dry bread and water from the spring
Composed his temperate fare:
Yet he a thankful heart could bring,
Nor felt a murmur there.

Contented with his low estate,
He often used to say
He envied not the rich or great,
More happy far than they.

"While neathh some spreading oak he stood,
Beside his browsing flocks,
His soft pipe warbled through the wood
And echoed from the rocks.

An ancient castle on the plain,
In silent grandeur stood,
Where dwelt Lord Henry, proud and vain,
But, not like Colin, good.

And oft his lands he wandered through,
Or on the mountain's side;
And with surprise and envy too
The humble Colin eyed.


"And why am I denied," said he,
That cheerfulness and joy
Which ever and anon I see
In this poor shepherd boy ?

" No wealth nor lands has he secure,
No titled honours high;
And yet, though destitute and poor,
He seems more blest than I."

But this Lord Henry did not know,
That pleasure ne'er is found
Where pride and passion overflow,
And evil deeds abound.

Colin, though poor, was glad and gay,
For he was good and kind;
While selfish passions every day
Disturbed Lord Henry's mind.

Thus Colin had for his reward
Contentment with his lot;
More happy than this noble lord,
Who sought but found it not.



AWAY, pretty Robin, fly home to your nest,
To make you my captive would please me the best,
And feed you with worms and with bread:
Your eyes are so sparkling, your feathers so soft,
Your little wings flutter so pretty aloft,
And your breast is all covered with red.

But then, wouldd be cruel to keep you, I know,
So stretch out your wings, little Robin, and go,
Fly home to your young ones again;
Go listen once more to your mate's pretty song,
And chirrup and twitter there all the day long,
Secure from the wind and the rain.

But when the leaves fall, and the winter winds blow,
And the green fields are covered all over with snow,
And the clouds in white feathers descend;
When the springs are all ice, and the rivulets freeze,
And the long shining icicles drop from the trees,
Then, Robin, remember your friend.

With cold and with hunger half famished and weak,
Then tap at my window again with your beak,
Nor shall your petition be vain:
You shall fly to my bosom and perch on my thumbs,
Or hop round the table and pick up the crumbs,
And need not be hungry again.



THE wind blows down the largest tree,
And yet the wind I cannot see.
Playmates far off, who have been kind,
My thought can bring before my mind;
The past by it is present brought,
And yet I cannot see my thought.
The charming rose scents all the air,
Yet I can see no perfume there.
Blithe Robin's notes how sweet, how clear!
From his small bill they reach my ear,
And whilst upon the air they float,
I hear, yet cannot see a note.
When I would do what is forbid,
By something in my heart I'm chid;
When good, I think, then quick and pat,
That something says, "My child, do that:"
When I too near the stream would go,
So pleased to see the waters flow,
That something says, without a sound,
'Take care, dear child, you may be drowned;
And for the poor whene'er I grieve,
That something says, "A penny give."

Thus something very near must be,
Although invisible to me;


Whate'er I do, it sees me still:
Oh then, good Spirit, guide my will!


As William and Thomas were walking one day,
They came by a fine orchard's side,-
They would rather eat apples than spell, read, or
And Thomas to William then cried:-

O brother, look yonder what clusters hang there!
I'll try and climb over the wall:
I must have an apple; I will have a pear,
Although it should cost me a fall "

Said William to Thomas, "To steal is a sin,
Mamma has oft told this to thee:
I never have stole, nor will I begin,
So the apples may hang on the tree."

"' You are a good boy, as you ever have been,"
Said Thomas; "let's walk on, my lad:
We'll call on our schoolfellow, Benjamin Green,
Who to see us I know will be glad."


They came to the house, and asked at the gate,
Is Benjamin Green now at home? "
But Benjamin did not allow them to wait,
And brought them both into the room.

And he smiled and he laughed, and capered with
His little companions to greet:
"And we too are happy," said each little boy,
Our playfellow dear thus to meet."

"Come, walk in our garden this morning so fine,-
We may, for my father gives leave;
And more, he invites you to stay here and dine,
And a most happy day we shall have !"

But when in the garden, they found 'twas the same
They saw as they walked in the road;
And near the high wall when those little boys
They started as if from a toad.

"That large ring of iron you see on the ground,
With terrible teeth like a saw,"
Said their friend, "the guard of our garden is
And it keeps all intruders in awe.


" If any the warning without set at naught,
Their legs then this man-trap must tear."
Said William to Thomas, So you'd have been
If you had leaped over just there." [caught,

Cried Thomas, in terror of what now he saw,
With my faults I will heartily grapple;
For I learn what may happen by breaking a law,
Although but in stealing an apple."


THERE were two friends, a very charming pair !
Brunette the brown, and Blanchidine the fair;
And she to love Brunette did constantly incline,
Nor less did Brunette love sweet Blanchidine.
Brunette in dress was neat, yet always plain;
But Blanchidine of finery was vain.
Now Blanchidine a new acquaintance made-
A little girl most sumptuously arrayed
In plumes and ribbons, gaudy to behold,
And India frock, with spots of shining gold.
Said Blanchidine, A girl so richly dressed
Should surely be by every one caressed.
To play with me if she will condescend,
Henceforth 'tis she alone shall be my friend."


And so for this new friend in silks adorned,
Her poor Brunette was slighted, left, and scorned.
Of Blanchidine's vast stock of pretty toys,
A wooden doll her every thought employs;
Its neck so white, so smooth, its cheeks so red-
She kissed, she fondled, and she took to bed.
Mamma now brought her home a doll of wax,
Its hair in ringlets white, and soft as flax;
Its eyes could open and its eyes could shut;
And on it, too, with taste its clothes were put.
"My dear wax doll !" sweet Blanchidine would cry:
Her doll of wood was thrown neglected by.
One summer's day, 'twas in the month of June,
The sun blazed out in all the heat of noon:
"My waxen doll," she cried; "my dear, my
What! are you cold? but you shall soon be
She laid it in the sun-misfortune dire !
The wax ran down as if before the fire !
Each beauteous feature quickly disappeared,
And melting, left a blank all soiled and smeared.
Her doll disfigured she beheld amazed,
And thus expressed her sorrow as she gazed:
" Is it for you my heart I have estranged
From that I fondly loved, which has not changed ?
Just so may change my new acquaintance fine,
For whom I left Brunette, that friend of mine.


No more by outside show will I be lured;
Of such capricious whims I think I'm cured.
To plain old friends my heart shall still be true,
Nor change for every face because 'tis new."
Her slighted wooden doll resumed its charms,
And wronged Brunette she clasped within her arms.


JoHN BROWN is a man without houses or lands;
Himself he supports by the work of his hands;
He brings home his wages each Saturday night-
To his wife and his children a very good sight.
His eldest son, Richard, on errands when sent,
To loiter and chatter is very much bent;
And in spite of the care his mother bestows,
He is known by his tatters wherever he goes.
His shoes, too, are worn, and his feet are half bare,
And now it is time he should have a new pair.
" Go at once to the shop," said John Brown to his son,
"And change me this bank-note-I have only one."
But now comes the mischief, for Richard would
To prate with a boy at a green-grocer's shop;
And to whom, in his boasting, he shows his bank-
Just then to the green-stall up marches a goat.


The boys knew full well that it was this goat's way,
With any that passed her to gambol and play.
The three then continued to skip and to frisk,
Till his note on some greens Dick happened to
And what was his wonder to see the rude goat
In munching the greens eat up his bank-note !
To his father he ran, in dismay, with the news;
And by stopping to gossip he lost his new shoes.


MY prayers I said, I went to bed,
And quickly fell asleep;
But soon I woke, my sleep was broke,-
I through my curtains peep.

I heard a noise of men and boys,
The watchman's rattle too;
And Fire !" they cry, and then cried I,
"Alas! what shall I do?"

A shout so loud came from the crowd,
Around, above, below;
And in the street the neighbours meet
Who would the matter know.
(oe6) 4


Now down the stairs run threes and pairs,
Enough their bones to break;
The firemen shout, the engines spout
Their streams, the fire to slake.

The roof and wall, the stairs and all,
And rafters, tumble in:
Red flames and blaze now all amaze,
And make a dreadful din I

And each one screams when bricks and beams
Come tumbling on their heads;
And some are smashed, and some are dashed,
Some leap on feather-beds.

Some burn, some choke with fire and smoke;
But, ah what was the cause ?
My heart's dismayed-last night I played
With Thomas, lighting straws !


THE month was August and the morning cool,
When Hal and Ned,
To walk together to the neighboring school,
Rose early from their bed.


When near the school, Hal said, Why con your
Demure and prim ?
Ere we go in, let me one question ask,
Ned, shall we go and swim?"

Fearless of future punishment or blame,
Away they hied,
Through many a verdant field, until they came
Unto the river's side.

The broad stream narrowed in its onward course,
And deep and still
It silent ran, and yet with rapid force,
To turn a neighboring mill.

Under the mill an arch gaped wide, and seemed
The jaws of death !
Through this the smooth deceitful waters teemed
On dreadful wheels beneath.

They swim the river wide, nor think nor care:
The waters flow,
And by the current strong they carried are
Into the mill-stream now.

Through the swift waters as young Ned was rolled,
The gulf when near,
On a kind brier by chance he laid fast hold,
And stopped his dread career.


But luckless Hal was by the mill-wheel torn;-
A warning sad !
And the untimely death all friends now mourn
Of this poor truant lad.


His petticoats now George cast off,
For he was four years old;
His trousers were of nankeen stuff,
"With buttons bright as gold.
"May I," said George, "just go abroad,
My pretty clothes to show ?
May I, mamma ? but speak the word."
The answer was, No, no.

"Go, run below, George, in the court,
But go not in the street,
Lest boys with you should make some sport,
Or gipsies you should meet."
Yet, though forbidden, he went out,
That other boys might spy;
And proudly there he walked about,
And thought, "How fine am I !"

But whilst he strutted through the street,
With looks both vain and pert,


A sweep-boy passed, whom not to meet,
He slipped-into the dirt.
The sooty lad, whose heart was kind,
To help him quickly ran,
And grasped his arm, with, Never mind;
You're up, my little man."

Sweep wiped his clothes with labour vain,
And begged him not to cry;
And when he'd blackened every stain,
Said, "Little sir, good-bye."
Poor George, almost as dark as sweep,
And smeared in dress and face,
Bemoans with sobs, both loud and deep,
His well-deserved disgrace.


THE butterfly, an idle thing,
Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing,
As do the bee and bird;
Nor does it, like the prudent ant,
Lay up the grain for times of want,
A wise and cautious hoard.

My youth is but a summer's day:
Then, like the bee and ant, I'll lay
A store of learning by;


And though from flower to flower I rove,
My stock of wisdom I'll improve,
Nor be a butterfly.


THE thrush sings nobly on the tree,
In strength of voice excelling me,
Whilst leaves and fruits are on;
But think how Robin sings for you,
When nature's beauties bid adieu,
And leaves and fruits are gone.
Ah, then, to me some crumbs of bread pray fling,
And through the year my grateful thanks I'll sing.

When winter's winds blow loud and rude,
And birds retire in sullen mood,
And snows make white the ground,
My note your drooping heart may charm,
And, sure that you'll not do me harm,
I hop your window round.
Ah, then, to me some crumbs of bread pray fling,
And through the year my grateful thanks I'll sing.

Since, friends, in you I put my trust,
And please you too, you should be just,
And for your music pay !


Or if I find a traveller dead,
My bill with leaves his corpse shall spread,
And sing his passing lay.
Ah, then, to me some crumbs of bread pray fling,
And through the year my grateful thanks I'll sing.


THY plaintive notes, sweet Philomel,
All other melodies excel;
Deep in the grove retired,
Thou seem'st thyself and song to hide,
Nor dost thou boast, or plume with pride,
Nor wish to be admired.

So, if endued with power and grace,
And with that power my will keep pace,
I'll act a generous part,
And banish ostentatious show,
Nor let my liberal action know
A witness but my heart.



FROM his humble grassy bed,
See the warbling lark arise !
By his grateful wishes led
Through those regions of the skies.

Songs of thanks and praise he pours,
Harmonizing airy space;
Sings and mounts, and higher soars,
Towards the throne of heavenly grace.

Small his gifts compared with mine,
Poor my thanks with his compared:
I've a soul almost divine;
Angels' blessings with me shared.

Wake, my soul, to praise aspire;
Reason, every sense accord;
Join in pure, seraphic fire,
Love, and thank, and praise the Lord.


AH why will my dear little girl be so cross,
And cry, and look sulky, and pout ?
To lose her sweet smile is a terrible loss,
I can't even kiss her without.



FROM his humble grassy bed,
See the warbling lark arise !
By his grateful wishes led
Through those regions of the skies.

Songs of thanks and praise he pours,
Harmonizing airy space;
Sings and mounts, and higher soars,
Towards the throne of heavenly grace.

Small his gifts compared with mine,
Poor my thanks with his compared:
I've a soul almost divine;
Angels' blessings with me shared.

Wake, my soul, to praise aspire;
Reason, every sense accord;
Join in pure, seraphic fire,
Love, and thank, and praise the Lord.


AH why will my dear little girl be so cross,
And cry, and look sulky, and pout ?
To lose her sweet smile is a terrible loss,
I can't even kiss her without.


You say you don't like to be washed and be drest,
But would you not wish to be clean ?
Come, drive that long sob from your dear little breast,
This face is not fit to be seen.

If the water is cold, and the brush hurts your head,
And the soap has got into your eye,
"Will the water grow warmer for all that you've said?
And what good will it do you to cry 1

It is not to tease you and hurt you, my sweet,
But only for kindness and care
That I wash you, and dress you, and make you look
And comb out your tanglesome hair.

I don't mind the trouble, if you would not cry,
But pay me for all with a kiss;
That's right-take the towel and wipe your wet eye,
I thought you'd be good after this.


O I've got a plum-cake, and a fine feast I'll make,
So nice to have all to myself !
I can eat every day while the rest are at play,
And then put it by on the shelf."


Thus said little John, and how soon it was gone!
For with zeal to his cake he applied
While fingers and thumbs for the sweetmeats and
"Were hunting and digging beside.

But, woful to tell, a misfortune befell,
That shortly his folly revealed:
After eating his fill, he was taken so ill
That the cause could not now be concealed.

As he grew worse and worse, the doctor and nurse
To cure his disorder were sent;
And rightly you'll think, he had physic to drink,
Which made him sincerely repent.

And while on the bed he rolled his hot head,
Impatient with sickness and pain,
He could not but take this reproof from his cake,
"Do not be such a glutton again."


"OH I've got a plum-cake, and a feast let us make,
Come, schoolfellows, come at my call;
I assure you 'tis nice, and we'll each have a slice,
Here's more than enough for us all."


Thus said little Jack, as he gave it a smack,
And sharpened his knife to begin;
Nor was there one found, upon the playground,
So cross that he would not come in.

With masterly strength he cut through it at length,
And gave to each playmate a share:
Charles, William, and James, and many more
Partook his benevolent care.

And when it was done and they'd finished their fun,
To marbles or hoop they went back;
And each little boy felt it always a joy
To do a good turn for good Jack.

In his task and his book, his best pleasures he took,
And as he thus wisely began,
Since he's been a man grown, he has constantly
That a good boy will make a good man.


MY sweet little girl should be cheerful and mild,
She must not be fretful and cry !
Oh why is this passion ?-remember, my child,
God sees you who lives in the sky.


That dear little face, that I like so to kiss,
How altered and sad it appears !
Do you think I can love you so naughty as this,
Or kiss you all wetted with tears ?

Remember, though God is in heaven, my love,
He sees you within and without,
And always looks down, from his glory above,
To notice what you are about.

If I am not with you, or if it be dark,
And nobody is in the way,
His eye is as able your doings to mark
In the night as it is in the day.

Then dry up your tears and look smiling again,
And never do things that are wrong;
For I'm sure you must feel it a terrible pain
To be naughty and crying so long.

"We'll pray, then, that God may your passion forgive,
And teach you from evil to fly;
And then you'll be happy as long as you live,
And happy whenever you die.



Do not hurt the poor fellow, your honest old Tray !
What good will it do you to drive him away,
Or tease him and force him to bite ?
Remember how faithful he is to his charge,
And barks at the rogues when we set him at large,
And guards us by day and by night.

Though you, by-and-by, will grow up to a man,
And Tray'll be a dog let him grow as he can,
Remember, my good little lad,
A dog that is honest, and faithful, and mild,
Is not only better than is a bad child,
But better than men that are bad.

If you are a boy, and Tray is but a beast,
I think it should teach you one lesson at least,
You ought to act better than he;
And if without reason, or judgment, or sense,
Tray does as we bid him, and gives no offence,
How diligent Richard should be.

If I do but just whistle, as often you've seen,
He seems to say, "Master, what is it you mean?
My courage and duty are tried."


And see, when I throw my stick over the pale,
He fetches it back, and comes wagging his tail,
And lays it down close to my side.

Then honest old Tray, let him sleep at his ease,
"While you from him learn to endeavour to please,
And obey me with spirit and joy:
Or else we shall find (what would grieve me to say)
That Richard's no better than honest old Tray,
And a brute has more sense than a boy.


AND has my darling told a lie ?
Did she forget that God was by ?
That God who saw the things she did,
From whom no action can be hid;
Did she forget that God could see
And hear, wherever she might be ?

He made your eyes, and can discern
Whichever way you think to turn;
He made your ears, and he can hear
When you think nobody is near:
In every place, by night or day,
He watches all you do and say.


Oh, how I wish you would but try
To act as shall not need a lie;
And when you wish a thing to do,
That has been once forbidden you,
Remember that, nor ever dare
To disobey-for God is there.

Why should you fear the truth to tell ?
Does falsehood ever do so well?
Can you be satisfied to know
There's something wrong to hide below ?
No let your fault be what it may,
To own it is the happy way.

So long as you your crime conceal,
You cannot light and gladsome feel:
Your little heart will seem opprest,
As if a weight were on your breast;
And e'en your mother's eye to meet,
Will tinge your face with shame and heat.

Yes, God has made your duty clear,
By every blush, by every fear;
And conscience, like an angel kind,
Keeps watch to bring it to your mind:
Its friendly warnings ever heed,
And neither tell a lie-nor need.



WHEN Harry and Dick had been striving to please,
Their father (to whom it was known)
Made two little gardens, and stocked them with trees,
And gave one to each for his own.

Harry thanked his papa, and with rake, hoe, and
Directly began his employ;
And soon such a neat little garden was made,
That he panted with labour and joy.

There was always some bed or some border to mend,
Or something to tie or to stick;
And Harry rose early his garden to tend,
While sleeping lay indolent Dick.

The tulip, the rose, and the lily so white,
United their beautiful bloom;
And often the honey-bee stooped from her flight
To sip the delicious perfume.

A neat row of peas in full blossom were seen,
French beans were beginning to shoot;
And his gooseberries and currants, though yet they
were green,
Foretold for him plenty of fruit.


But Richard loved better in bed to repose,
And there, as he curled himself round,
Forgot that no tulip, nor lily, nor rose,
Nor fruit in his garden was found.

Rank weeds and tall nettles disfigured his beds,
Nor cabbage nor lettuce was seen;
The slug and the snail showed their mischievous heads,
And ate every leaf that was green.

Thus Richard the Idle, who shrank from the cold,
Beheld his trees naked and bare;
While Harry the Active was charmed to behold
The fruit of his patience and care.


WHO fed me from her gentle breast,
And hushed me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
My mother.

When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet hushaby,
And rocked me that I should not cry ?
My mother.
(666) 5


Who sat and watched my infant head
When sleeping on my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed ?
My mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My mother.

Who dressed my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play,
And minded all I had to say ?
My mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well ?
My mother.

Who taught my infant lips to pray,
And love God's holy book and day,
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way ?
My mother.

And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who was so very kind to me,
My mother ?


Ah, no the thought I cannot bear;
And if God please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,
My mother.

When thou art feeble, old, and gray,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
My mother.

And when I see thee hang thy head,
'Twill be my turn to watch thy bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed,
My mother.

For God, who lives above the skies,
Would look with vengeance in his eyes,
If I should ever dare despise
My mother.


HIGH on a mountain's haughty steep
Lord Hubert's palace stood;
Before it rolled a river deep,
Behind it waved a wood.


Low in an unfrequented vale
A peasant built his cell;
Sweet flowers perfumed the cooling gale
And graced his garden well.

Loud riot through Lord Hubert's hall
In noisy clamour ran;
He scarcely closed his eyes at all
Till breaking day began.

In scenes of quiet and repose
Young William's life was spent:
With morning's early beam he rose,
And forth to labour went.

On sauces rich and viands fine
Lord Hubert daily fed,
His goblet filled with sparkling wine,
His board with dainties spread.

Warm from the sickle or the plough,
His heart as light as air,
His garden-ground and dappled cow
Supplied young William's fare.

On beds of down, beset with gold,
With satin curtains drawn,
His feverish limbs Lord Hubert rolled
From midnight's gloom to morn.


Stretched on a hard and flocky bed,
The cheerful rustic lay;
And sweetest slumbers lulled his head
From eve to breaking day.

Fever and gout, and aches and pains,
Destroyed Lord Hubert's rest;
Disorder burned in all his veins,
And sickened in his breast.

A stranger to the ills of wealth,
Behind his rugged plough,
The cheek of William glowed with health,
And cheerful was his brow.

No gentle friend to soothe his pain
Sat near Lord Hubert's bed;
His friends and servants, light and vain,
From scenes of sorrow fled.

But William, when, with many a year,
His dying day came on,
Had wife and child, with bosom dear,
To lean and rest upon.

The solemn hearse, the waving plume,
A train of mourners grim,
Carried Lord Hubert to the tomb;
But no one grieved for him:

70 BALL.

No weeping eye, no gentle breast,
Lamented his decay,
Nor round his costly coffin prest
To gaze upon his clay.

But when within the narrow bed
Old William came to lie,
When clammy sweats had chilled his head
And death had glazed his eye,

Sweet tears, by fond affection dropped,
From many an eyelid fell;
And many a lip, by anguish stopped,
Half spoke the sad farewell.

No marble pile or costly tomb
Is seen where William sleeps;
But there wild thyme and cowslips bloom,
And there affection weeps.


" MY good little fellow, don't throw your ball there,
You'll break neighbour's windows, I know;
On the end of the house there is room and to spare,
Go round, you can have a delightful game there,
Without fearing for where you may throw."

BALL. 71

Harry thought he might safely continue his play
"With a little more care than before;
So, heedless of all that his father could say,
As soon as he saw he was out of the way,
Resolved to have fifty throws more.

Already as far as to forty he rose,
And no mischief had happened at all;
One more, and one more, he successfully throws,
But when, as he thought, just arrived at the close,
In popped his unfortunate ball.

"I'm sure that I thought, and I did not intend,"
Poor Harry was going to say;
But soon came the glazier the window to mend,
And both the bright shillings he wanted to spend
He had for his folly to pay.

When little folks think they know better than great,
And what is forbidden them do,
"We must always expect to see, sooner or late,
That such wise little fools have a similar fate,
And that one of the fifty goes through.




THE fox and the crow,
In prose, I well know,
Many good little girls can rehearse:
Perhaps it will tell
Pretty nearly as well,
If we try the same fable in verse.

In a dairy a crow
Having ventured to go,
Some food for her young ones to seek,
Flew up in the trees,
With a fine piece of cheese,
Which she joyfully held in her beak.

A fox, who lived by,
To the tree saw her fly,
And to share in the prize made a vow;
For having just dined,
He for cheese felt inclined,
So he went and sat under the bough.

She was cunning, he knew,
But so was he too,
And with flattery adapted his plan;


For he knew if she'd speak,
It must fall from her beak,
So, bowing politely, began.

"'Tis a very fine day"
(Not a word did she say):
" The wind, I believe, ma'am, is south;
A fine harvest for peas:"
He then looked at the cheese
But the crow did not open her mouth.

Sly Reynard, not tired,
Her plumage admired-
" How charming how brilliant its hue !
The voice must be fine,
Of a bird so divine,
Ah, let me just hear it, pray do.

"Believe me, I long
To hear a sweet song."
The silly crow foolishly tries :
She scarce gave one squall,
When the cheese she let fall,
And the fox ran away with the prize.

Ye innocent fair,
Of coxcombs beware,
To flattery never give ear;


Try well each pretence,
And keep to plain sense,
And then you have little to fear.


WHAT millions of beautiful things there must be
In this mighty world !-who could reckon them all?
The tossing, the foaming, the wide flowing sea,
And thousands of rivers that into it fall.

Oh there are the mountains, half-covered with snow,
With tall and dark trees, like a girdle of green,
And waters that wind in the valleys below,
Or roar in the caverns too deep to be seen.

Vast caves in the earth, full of wonderful things,
The bones of strange animals, jewels, and spars;
Or, far up in Iceland, the hot boiling springs,
Like fountains of feathers or showers of stars.

Here spread the sweet meadows with thousands of
Far away are old woods, that for ages remain;
Wild elephants sleep in the shade of their bowers,
Or troops of young antelopes traverse the plain.


Oh yes, they are glorious all to behold,
And pleasant to read of, and curious to know;
And something of God and his wisdom we're told,
Whatever we look at, wherever we go.


COME tell of the planets that roll round the sky,
And tell of the wisdom that guides them on high;
Come tell of their magnitudes, motions, and phases,
And which are the swiftest in running their races;
And tell of the moons each in regular course,
And speak of their splendour, their distance, and force.

Hear then, child of Earth, this wonderful story
Of God's works, and how they show forth his glory;
For the stars and the planets speak much of his might,
And, if we will listen, sing anthems by night.
And first, of the Sun, flaming centre of all,
Many thousand times bigger than this little ball:
He turns on his axis in twenty-five days,
And sheds through the system a deluge of rays.
Now mark his dimensions, in round numbers given,
The Earth's disc as one-his, a hundred and eleven.
Yet solid and dense is his substance, like ours,
Although from his vesture a flood of light pours,


His atmosphere shoots forth a torrent of flame,
An ocean still burning, yet ever the same !
Around him revolve-and perhaps there are more-
Of planets and satellites, say fifty-four.
To him they are globules, and lost in his glare:
He's a sultan, and they are the pearls in his hair.
First Mercury travels, so near the Sun's beam
As would turn our Earth's metals and mountains to
Yet he well likes his orbit, and round it he plays,
A few hours deducted, in eighty-eight days.
Then Venus, bright lamp of the evening and morn !
Lengthens twilight on Earth by her dazzling horn.
How lucid her substance! how clear are her skies!
She sparkles a diamond as onward she hies!
The third place is held by this ocean-girt Earth,
The cloud-covered, wind-shaken place of our birth:
With its valleys of verdure, its corn-fields, and
Its cities of uproar, its hamlets and towns,
Its volcanoes flinging forth fiery flakes,
Its snow-crested mountains and glassy smooth lakes.
This Earth, our abode, spins about on its poles;
And all would be dizzy to see how it rolls.
The Moon, too, her circuit keeps constant with ours,
And in heaving our ocean exhibits her powers.
A globe less than Earth, and of murky red face,
Mars, revolves further off, and holds the fourth place.


Like Earth, he has atmosphere, land, too, and seas,
And there's snow at his poles when the wintry winds
All near the ecliptic, and hard to be traced, [freeze.
Twenty-six little planets we then find are placed:
Some large one, it may be, in ages gone by,
May have burst into fragments that roll through the
Far remote from the Sun, and yet greater than all,
Moves Jupiter vast, with his cloud-banded ball.
Eighty-seven thousand miles he measures across,
And he whirls on his poles with incredible force;
For in less than ten hours he sees night and day,
The stars of his sky how they hurry away !
Yet his orbit employs him a nearly twelve years,
And satellites four hold the course that he steers.
Next Saturn, more distant, revolves with his ring-
Or crown, shall we call it, and he a grave king;
And beside this broad belt of silvery light,
Eight moons with pale lustre illumine his night.
Thirty years-little less-of our time are expended,
Before a course round his wide orbit is ended.
Uranus comes next, and 'twas fancied that he
Was the last, with his moons,-perhaps six, perhaps
For his orbit employs him, so vast is its span,
All the years that are granted, at longest, to man.
But since-oh, the wonders that science has done!-
We have found a new planet, so far from the Sun


That but for our glasses and long calculation,
We surely should not have discovered his station.
His name we call Neptune, and distant so far,
The Sun can appear little more than a star.
But what shall we say of the comet that shows
Its ominous tail that with pallid light glows?
Whisp of vapour that stretches from orbit to orbit,
And whirls round the Sun, till the Sun shall absorb it.
But solid or cloudy, these comets they move all
In orbits elliptic, or very long oval.
And millions on millions of these errant masses
Flit about in the sky, though unseen by our glasses.
Such then is the system in which we revolve,
But who to pass onward through space shall resolve?
Or what wing of fancy can soar to the height
Where stars keep their stations-a phalanx of light?
Nor reason nor fancy that field can explore;
We pause in mute wonder, and God we adore.


COME, think of the wonderful things there must be
Concealed in the caverns and cells of the sea:
For there must be jewels and diamonds bright,
Lost ages ago, hidden out of our sight;
And ships, too, entire that have foundered in storms,
Now bristle the bottom with skeleton forms;


Deep tides murmur through them, and weeds as they
Were caught and hang clotted in wreaths on the mast.

And then the rich cargoes-wealth not to be told,
The silks and the spices, the silver and gold-
And guns that dealt death at the warrior's command,
Are silently tombing themselves in the sand.
But unburied whiten the bones of the crew;
Ah! would that the widow and orphan but knew
The place where their dirge by deep willows is
The place where unheeded, unholpen they died.

There, millions on millions of glittering shells,
The nautilus there, with its pearl-coated cells,
And the scale-covered monsters that sleep or that
The lords without rival of that boundless home.

The microscope mason his toil there pursues,
Coral insect! unseen are his beautiful hues;
Yet in process of time, though so puny and frail,
O'er the might of the ocean his structures prevail:
On the surface at last a flat islet is spied,
And shingle and sand are heaped up by the tide;
Seeds brought by the breezes take root; and erewhile
Man makes him a home on the insect-built pile!


The deep then,-what is it ? A wonderful hoard,
Where all precious things are in multitudes stored;
The workshop of nature, where islands are made,
And, in silence, foundations of continents laid !


YOUNG Jem at noon returned from school
As hungry as could be,
He cried to Sue, the servant-maid,
My dinner give to me."

Said Sue, It is not yet come home;
Besides, it is not late."
"No matter that," cries little Jem,
I do not like to wait."

Quick to the baker's Jemmy went,
And asked, Is dinner done ?"
It is," replied the baker's man.
Then home I'll with it run."

Nay, sir," replied he prudently,
I tell you 'tis too hot,
And much too heavy 'tis for you."
I tell you it is not.


Papa, mamma, are both gone out,
And I for dinner long;
So give it me, it is all mine,
And, baker, hold your tongue.

"A shoulder 'tis of mutton nice !
And batter-pudding too:
I'm glad of that; it is so good;-
How clever is our Sue "

Now near the door young Jem was come,
He round the corner turned,
But oh, sad fate! unlucky chance !
The dish his fingers burned.

Now in the kennel down fell dish,
And down fell all the meat;
Swift went the pudding in the stream,
And sailed along the street.

The people laughed, and rude boys grinned,
At mutton's hapless fall;
But though ashamed, young Jemmy cried,
Better lose part than all."

The shoulder by the knuckle seized,
His hands both grasped it fast,
And deaf to all their gibes and cries,
He gained his home at last.
(666) 6


Impatience is a fault," cries Jem,
The baker told me true;
In future I will patient be,
And mind what says our Sue."


ONE day little Mary most loudly did call,
Mamma 0 mamma, pray come here;
A fall I have had, oh! a very sad fall."
Mamma ran in haste and in fear.

Then Mary jumped up, and she laughed in great glee,
And cried, "Why, how fast you can run !
No harm has befallen, I assure you, to me,
My screaming was only in fun."

Her mother was busy at work the next day,
She heard from without a loud cry:
The great dog has got me oh, help me! oh, pray!
He tears me, he bites me, I die !"

Mamma, all in terror, quick to the court flew,
And there little Mary she found;
Who, laughing, said, "Madam, pray how do you
And courtesied quite down to the ground.


That night little Mary was some time in bed,
When cries and loud shrieking were heard:
" I'm on fire, O mamma, oh, come up, or I'm dead!'
Mamma she believed not a word.

" Sleep, sleep, naughty child," she called out from
How often have I been deceived !
You are telling a story, you very well know:
Go to sleep, for you can't be believed."

Yet still the child screamed: now the house filled
with smoke.
That fire is above, Jane declares.
Alas! Mary's words they soon found were no joke,
When every one hastened upstairs.

All burned and all seamed is her once pretty face,
And terribly marked are her arms,
Her features all scarred, leave a lasting disgrace,
For giving mamma false alarms.


SOPHIA was a little child,
Obliging, good, and very mild;
Yet lest of dress she should be vain,
Mamma still dressed her well, but plain.


Her parents, sensible and kind,
Wished only to adorn her mind;
No other dress, when good, had she,
But useful, neat simplicity.
Though seldom, yet when she was rude,
Or ever in a naughty mood,
Her punishment was this disgrace,
A large fine cap, adorned with lace,
With feathers and with ribbons too.
The work was neat, the fashion new,
Yet, as a fool's-cap was its name,
She dreaded much to wear the same.

A lady, fashionably gay,
Did to mamma a visit pay :
Sophia stared, then whispering said,
"Why, dear mamma, look at her head !
To be so tall and wicked too,
The strangest thing I ever knew.
What naughty tricks, pray, has she done,
That they have put that fool's-cap on ?"


THE snail, how he creeps slowly over the wall,
He seems scarce to make any progress at all,
Almost where you leave him you find him;


His long shining body he stretches out well,
And drags along with him his round hollow shell,
And leaves a bright pathway behind him.

" Look, father," said John, "at the lazy old snail,
He's almost an hour crawling over the pale
Enough all one's patience to worry;
Now, if I were he, I would gallop away,
Half over the world- twenty miles in a day,
And turn business off in a hurry."

"Why, John," said his father, "that's all very well;
For though you can never inhabit a shell,
But e'en must remain a young master,
Yet these thoughts of yours may something avail;
Take a hint for yourself from your jokes on the
And do your own work rather faster." [snail,


"AH don't you remember, 'tis almost December,
And soon will the holidays come;
Oh, 'twill be so funny, I've plenty of money,
I'll buy me a sword and a drum."

Thus said little Harry, unwilling to tarry,
Impatient from school to depart;


But we shall discover, this holiday lover
Knew little what was in his heart.

For when on returning he gave up his learning,
Away from his sums and his books,
Though playthings surrounded and sweetmeats
Chagrin still appeared in his looks.

Though first they delighted, his toys were now
And thrown away out of his sight; [slighted,
He spent every morning in stretching and yawning,
Yet went to bed weary at night.

He had not that treasure which really makes
(A secret discovered by few): [pleasure,
You'll take it for granted, more playthings he
Oh no-it was something to do. [wanted;

We must have employment to give us enjoyment
And pass the time cheerfully away;
And study and reading give pleasure exceeding
The pleasures of toys and of play.

To school now returning-to study and learning
With eagerness Harry applied;
He felt no aversion to books or exertion,
Nor yet for the holidays sighed.



WITH haggard eye and wrinkled face,
Old Sarah goes with tottering pace,
From door to door to beg;
With gipsy hat and tattered gown,
And petticoat of rusty brown,
And many-coloured leg.

No blazing fire, no cheerful home-
She goes forlorn about to roam,
While winds and tempests blow;
And every traveller passing by,
She follows with a doleful cry
Of poverty and woe.

But see! her arm no basket bears,
With laces gay, and wooden wares,
And garters blue and red;
To stroll about and drink her gin,
She loves far better than to spin,
Or work to earn her bread.

Old Sarah everybody knows,
Nor is she pitied as she goes-
A melancholy sight;
For people do not like to give
Relief to those who idle live,
And work not when they might.



OLD Susan, in a cottage small,
Though low the roof, and mud the wall,
And goods a scanty store,
Enjoys within her peaceful shed
Her wholesome crust of barley-bread;
Nor does she covet more.

Though aches and weakness she must feel,
She daily plies her spinning-wheel
Within her cottage gate.
And thus her industry and care
Suffice to find her homely fare;
Nor envies she the great.

A decent gown she always wears,
Though many an ancient patch it bears,
And many a one that's new;
No dirt is seen within her door,
Clean sand she sprinkles on the floor,
As tidy people do.

Old Susan everybody knew,
And every one respected too
Her industry and care;
And when her little stock was low,
Her neighbours gladly would bestow
Whatever they could spare.



BEFORE the bright sun rises over the hill,
In the corn-field poor Mary is seen,
Impatient her little blue apron to fill
With the few scattered ears she can glean.

She never leaves off, nor runs out of her place,
To play, or to idle and chat,
Except now and then just to wipe her hot face,
And to fan herself with her broad hat.

"Poor girl, hard at work in the heat of the sun,
How tired and hot you must be;
Why don't you leave off as the others have done,
And sit with them under the tree "

" Oh no, for my mother lies ill in her bed,
Too feeble to spin or to knit;
And my poor little brothers are crying for bread,
And we hardly can give them a bit.

"Then could I be merry, or idle and play,
While they are so hungry and ill ?
Oh no, I would rather work hard all the day
My little blue apron to fill."

90 SNOW.


OH come to the window, dear brother, and see
What a change has been made in the night!
The snow has quite covered the broad cedar tree,
And the bushes are sprinkled with white.

The spring in the grove is beginning to freeze,
The fish-pond is frozen all o'er;
Long icicles hang in bright rows from the trees,
And drop in odd shapes from the door.

The old mossy thatch and the meadow so green
Are hid with a mantle of white;
The snowdrop and crocus no longer are seen,
The thick snow has covered them quite.

And see the poor birds how they fly to and fro,
As they look for their breakfast again;
But the food that they seek for is hid in the snow,
And they hop about for it in vain.

Then open the window, I'll throw them some bread,
I've some of my breakfast to spare;
I wish they would come to my hand to be fed,
But they're all flown away, I declare.


Nay, now, pretty birds, don't be frightened, I pray,
You shall not be hurt, I'll engage;
I'm not come to catch you, and force you away,
Or fasten you up in a cage.

I wish you could know there's no cause for alarm.
From me you have nothing to fear;
Why, my little fingers should do you no harm,
Although you came ever so near.


"Do look at those pigs as they lie in the straw,"
Willy said to his father one day;
"They keep eating longer than ever I saw,
Oh, what greedy gluttons are they "

"I see they are feasting," his father replied.
"They eat a great deal, I allow;
But let us remember, before we deride,
'Tis the nature, my dear, of a sow.

"But were a great boy such as you, my dear Will,
Like them to be eating all day,
Or be taking nice things till he made himself ill,
What a glutton, indeed, we might say !


" If plum-cake and sugar he constantly picks,
And sweetmeats, and comfits, and figs,
We should tell him to leave off his own greedy tricks,
Before he finds fault with the pigs."


IN an elegant frock, trimmed with beautiful lace,
And hair nicely curled hanging over her face,
Young Fanny went out to the house of a friend
With a large little party the evening to spend.

" Ah how they will all be delighted, I guess,
And stare with surprise at my handsome new dress "
Thus said the vain girl, and her little heart beat,
Impatient the happy young party to meet.

But, alas they were all too intent on their play
To observe the fine- clothes of this lady so gay,
And thus all her trouble quite lost its design;
For they saw she was proud, but forgot she was fine.

'Twas Lucy, though only in simple white clad,
Nor trimmings, nor laces, nor jewels she had,
Whose cheerful good-nature delighted them more
Than Fanny and all the fine garments she wore.


'Tis better to have a sweet smile on one's face,
Than to wear a fine frock with an elegant lace;
For the good-natured girl is loved best in the main,
If her dress is but decent, though ever so plain.


POOR Robert is crazy; his hair is turned gray,
His beard has grown long and hangs down to his
Misfortune has taken his reason away,
His heart has no comfort, his head has no rest.

Poor man, it would please me to soften thy woes,
To soothe thy affliction, and yield thee support;
But see, through the village, wherever he goes,
The cruel boys follow and turn him to sport.

'Tis grievous to see how the pitiless mob
Run round him and mimic his mournful complaint,
And try to provoke him, and call him "Old Bob,"
And hunt him about till he's ready to faint.

But ah! wicked children, I fear they forget
That God does their cruel diversion behold;
And that in his book dreadful curses are writ
For those who shall mock at the poor and the old.


Poor Robert, thy troubles will shortly be o'er;
Forgot in the grave thy misfortunes will be;
But God will his anger assuredly pour
On those wicked children who persecute thee.


WHO'LL come here and play with me under the tree?
My sisters have left me alone;-
Ah sweet little sparrow, come hither to me,
And play with me while they are gone."

Oh no, little lady, I can't come indeed,
I've no time to idle away;
I've got all my dear little children to feed,
They've not had a morsel to-day."

"Pretty bee, do not buzz in that marigold flower,
But come here and play with me, do;
The sparrow won't come and stay with me an hour,
But say, pretty bee, will not you? '

Oh no, little lady, for do not you see,
Those must work who would prosper and thrive ?
If I play, they will call me a sad idle bee,
And perhaps turn me out of the hive."


"Stop, stop, little ant, do not run off so fast,
Wait with me a little and play;
I hope I shall find a companion at last,
You are not so busy as they."

"Oh no, little lady, I can't stay with you,
We are not made to play, but to labour;
I always have something or other to do,
If not for myself, for a neighbour."

"What, then! they all have some employment but me,
Whilst I loiter here like a dunce;
Oh then, like the sparrow, the ant, and the bee,
I'll go to my lesson at once."


Two little birds, in search of food,
Flew o'er the fields and skimmed the flood.
At last a worm they spy;
But who should take the prize they strove,
Their quarrel sounded through the grove,
In notes both shrill and high.

Just then a hawk, whose piercing sight
Had marked his prey and watched their fight,
With certain aim descended,


And pouncing on their furious strife,
He stopped the discord with their life,
And so the war was ended.

Thus when at variance brothers live,
And frequent words of anger give,
With spite their bosoms rending,
Ere long with some, perchance, they meet,
Who take advantage of their heat,
Their course in sorrow ending.


COME, child, look upward to the sky,
The sun and moon behold;
The expanse of stars that sparkle high,
Like specks of living gold.

Come, child, and now behold the earth
In varied beauty stand;
The product view of six days' birth-
How wondrous and how grand !

The fields, the meadows, and the plain,
The little laughing hills,
The waters too, the mighty main,
The rivers and the rills.


Come, then, behold them all, and say-
How came these things to be,
That stand in view, whichever way
I turn myself to see ?

'Twas God who made the earth and sea,
To whom the angels bow;
That God who made both thee and me,
The God who sees us now.


THE miner digs the mountain's side,
And bores his way through rock and hill,
To search for diamonds where they hide
And lie in darkness, lone and still,
Like sparks of sunlight cased in stone,
For many a thousand years unknown.

Whence came this beautiful display
Of gems that gloomy caverns stud ?
The ruby, with its crimson ray,
Like drops congealed of mountain blood ?
The emerald, bright and green as spring,
Or evening light, or wild bird's wing

How wide and large the splendid store !
The amethyst of violet blue,
(666) 7