Pagina-afbeeldingen
PDF
ePub

ON THE PICTURE OF AN INFANT

PLAYING NEAR A PRECIPICE.

O, pray to them softly, my baby, with me,
And say thou wouldst rather
They'd watch o'er thy father!

WHILE on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, For I know that the angels are whispering to

And the blue vales a thousand joys recall,
See, to the last, last verge her infant steals!

O, fly - yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall.
Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare,
And the fond boy springs back to nestle there.
LEONIDAS of Alexandria (Greek). Translation
of SAMUEL ROGERS.

thee."

The dawn of the morning

Saw Dermot returning,

And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to

see;

And closely caressing

Her child with a blessing,

Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee."

LULLABY.

FROM "THE PRINCESS."

SWEET and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!

Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;

SAMUEL LOVER.

MOTHER AND CHILD.

THE wind blew wide the casement, and within -
It was the loveliest picture! -a sweet child
Lay in its mother's arms, and drew its life,
In pauses, from the fountain, the white round
Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark,

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon :

Of so much rapture, as green shadowing trees
With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red lips
Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast
Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the flower,
Wore the same color, rich and warm and fresh :-
And such alone are beautiful. Its eye,
A full blue gem, most exquisitely set,
Looked archly on its world, — the little imp,

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. As if it knew even then that such a wreath

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.

Were not for all; and with its playful hands
It drew aside the robe that hid its realm,
And peeped and laughed aloud, and so it laid
Its head upon the shrine of such pure joys,
And, laughing, slept. And while it slept, the tears

In Ireland they have a pretty fancy, that, when a child smiles in Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek,

its sleep, it is “talking with angels."

A BABY was sleeping;

Its mother was weeping;

Tears such as fall from April skies, and bring
The sunlight after. They were tears of joy;
And the true heart of that young mother then

For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously
And the tempest was swelling

Round the fisherman's dwelling;

The silliest ballad-song that ever yet
Subdued the nursery's voices, and brought sleep

And she cried, "Dermot, darling! O come back To fold her sabbath wings above its couch.
to me!"

Her beads while she numbered

The baby still slumbered,

And smiled in her face as she bended her knee:

"O, blessed be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.

"And while they are keeping
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.

BABY ZULMA'S CHRISTMAS CAROL.

A LIGHTER scarf of richer fold

The morning flushed upon our sight,
And Evening trimmed her lamps of gold
From deeper springs of purer light;

And softer drips bedewed the lea,
And whiter blossoms veiled the tree,

And bluer waves danced on the sea
When baby Zulma came to be!

The day before, a bird had sung
Strange greetings on the roof and flown ;
And Night's immaculate priestess flung
A diamond from her parted zone
Upon the crib beside the bed,
Whereunto, as the doctor said,
A king or queen would soon be led
By some sweet Ariel overhead.

Ere yet the sun had crossed the line
When we, at Aries' double bars,
Behold him, tempest-beaten, shine

In sto ny Libra's triple stars :
What time the hillsides shake with corn
And boughs of fruitage laugh unshorn
And cheery echoes wake the morn
To gales of fragrance harvest-born.

In storied spots of vernal flame

And breezy realms of tossing shade, The tripping elves tumultuous came To join the fairy cavalcade : From blushing chambers of the rose, And bowers the lily's buds enclose, And nooks and dells of deep repose, Where human sandal never goes,

The rabble poured its motley tide :
Some upon airy chariots rode,
By cupids showered from side to side,
And some the dragon-fly bestrode;
While troops of virgins, left and right,
Like microscopic trails of light,
The sweeping pageant made as bright
As beams a rainbow in its flight!

It passed the bloom of purple plums Was rippled by trumpets rallying long O'er beds of pinks; and dwarfish drums

Struck all the insect world to song: The milkmaid caught the low refrain, The ploughman answered to her strain, And every warbler of the plain The ringing chorus chirped again!

Beneath the sunset's faded arch,

It formed and filed within our porch, With not a ray to guide its march Except the twilight's silver torch : And thus she came from clouds above, With spirits of the glen and grove, A flower of grace, a cooing dove, A shrine of prayer and star of love!

A queen of hearts! - her mighty chains Are beads of coral round her strung,

And, ribbon-diademed, she reigns,

Commanding in an unknown tongue. The kitten spies her cunning ways, The patient cur romps in her plays, And glimpses of her earlier days Are seen in picture-books of fays.

To fondle all things doth she choose,

And when she gets, what some one sends, A trifling gift of tiny shoes,

She kisses both as loving friends;
For in her eyes this orb of care,
Whose hopes are heaps of frosted hair,
Is but a garland, trim and fair,
Of cherubs twining in the air.

O, from a soul suffused with tears

Of trust thou mayst be spared the thorn Which it has felt in other years,

Across the morn our Lord was born,
I waft thee blessings! At thy side
May his invisible seraphs glide;
And tell thee still, whate'er betide,
For thee, for thine, for all, He died!

AUGUSTUS JULIAN REQUIER.

BABY'S SHOES.

O, THOSE little, those little blue shoes! Those shoes that no little feet use.

O the price were high

That those shoes would buy, Those little blue unused shoes!

For they hold the small shape of feet That no more their mother's eyes meet,

That, by God's good will, Years since, grew still, And ceased from their totter so sweet.

And O, since that baby slept,
So hushed, how the mother has kept,
With a tearful pleasure,

That little dear treasure,
And o'er them thought and wept!

For they mind her forevermore
Of a patter along the floor;

And blue eyes she sees
Look up from her knees
With the look that in life they wore.

As they lie before her there,
There babbles from chair to chair
A little sweet face
That's a gleam in the place,
With its little gold curls of hair.

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small]
[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small]

WILLIE WINKIE.

WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town, Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed?- for it's now ten o'clock."

Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben?
The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen,
The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie
a cheep;

But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep.

Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue:- glow'rin' like the moon,

Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a

cock,

Skirlin' like a kenna-what

folk!

wauknin' sleepin'

Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel ! Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums:

Hey, Willie Winkie! See, there he comes !

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean,
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane,
That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he'll close

an ee;

But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength

anew to me.

WILLIAM MILLER.

THE MOTHER'S HEART.

WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure, My heart received thee with a joy beyond

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Nor thought that any love again might be So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, And natural piety that leaned to heaven; Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,

Yet patient to rebuke when justly given; Obedient, easy to be reconciled, And meekly cheerful; such wert thou, my child!

Not willing to be left Haunting my walks, dying;

still by my side,

And proud the lifting of thy stately head, while summer-day was And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.

Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to glide Through the dark room where I was sadly lying;

Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the fevered cheek.

O boy of such as thou are oftenest made
Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower,
No strength in all thy freshness, prone to fade,
And bending weakly to the thunder-shower;
Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to
bind,

And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind!

[blocks in formation]

Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of joy, Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth;

Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy,

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth;

And many a mirthful jest and mock reply
Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye.

And thine was many an art to win and bless, The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming;

The coaxing smile, the frequent soft caress, The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming!

Again my heart a new affection found,

But thought that love with thee had reached its bound.

[blocks in formation]
[merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

Is there, when the winds are singing
In the happy summer time,
When the raptured air is ringing
With Earth's music heavenward springing,
Forest chirp, and village chime,

Is there, of the sounds that float
Unsighingly, a single note
Half so sweet and clear and wild
As the laughter of a child?

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

PIPING down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:
"Pipe a song about a lamb:"
So I piped with merry cheer.
"Piper, pipe that song again :"
So I piped; he wept to hear.

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,
Sing thy songs of happy cheer:'
So I sung the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.

"Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read -”
So he vanished from my sight;
And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

LITTLE GOLDENHAIR.

GOLDENHAIR climbed up on grandpapa's knee;
Dear little Goldenhair! tired was she,
All the day busy as busy could be.

Up in the morning as soon as 't was light, Out with the birds and butterflies bright, Skipping about till the coming of night.

Grandpapa toyed with the curls on her head. "What has my baby been doing," he said, "Since she arose, with the sun, from her bed?"

[blocks in formation]

We are but children; the things that we do Are as sports of a babe to the Infinite view That sees all our weakness, and pities it too.

God grant that when night overshadows our way, And we shall be called to account for our day, He shall find us as guileless as Goldenhair's play!

And O, when aweary, may we be so blest
As to sink like the innocent child to our rest,
And feel ourselves clasped to the Infinite breast!

F. BURGE SMITH.

THE GAMBOLS OF CHILDREN.

Down the dimpled greensward dancing,
Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy,
Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing,
Love's irregular little levy.

Rows of liquid eyes in laughter,

How they glimmer, how they quiver! Sparkling one another after, Like bright ripples on a river.

Tipsy band of rubious faces,

Flushed with Joy's ethereal spirit, Make your mocks and sly grimaces At Love's self, and do not fear it.

GEORGE DARLEY.

UNDER MY WINDOW. UNDER my window, under my window, All in the Midsummer weather, Three little girls with fluttering curls Flit to and fro together:

« VorigeDoorgaan »