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With Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.

Did the painter, dreaming
In a morning hour,
Catch the fairy seeming
Of this fairy flower?
Winning it with eager eyes
From the old enchanted stories,
Lingering with a long delight
On the unforgotten glories
Of the infant sight?

Giving us a sweet surprise

In Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore?

Too long in the meadow staying,
Where the cowslip bends,
With the buttercups delaying
As with early friends,

Did the little maiden stay.

Sorrowful the tale for us;

We, too, loiter mid life's flowers, A little while so glorious,

So soon lost in darker hours.

All love lingering on their way, Like Red Riding Hood, the darling, The flower of fairy lore.

LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.

THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD.
Now ponder well, you parents dear,
The words which I shall write ;
A doleful story you shall hear,

In time brought forth to light:
A gentleman, of good account,
In Norfolk lived of late,

Whose wealth and riches did surmount
Most men of his estate.

Sore sick he was, and like to die,
No help then he could have;
His wife by him as sick did lie,

And both possessed one grave.
No love between these two was lost,
Each was to other kind;

In love they lived, in love they died, And left two babes behind:

The one a fine and pretty boy,

Not passing three years old; The other a girl, more young than he, And made in beauty's mould. The father left his little son,

As plainly doth appear, When he to perfect age should come, Three hundred pounds a year,

And to his little daughter Jane

Five hundred pounds in gold, To be paid down on marriage-day, Which might not be controlled; But if the children chanced to die Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possess their wealth, For so the will did run.

"Now, brother," said the dying man,

"Look to my children dear;

Be good unto my boy and girl,
No friends else I have here."
With that bespake their mother dear,

"O brother kind," quoth she,

"You are the man must bring our babes To wealth or misery.

"And if you keep them carefully, Then God will you reward;

If otherwise you seem to deal,

God will your deeds regard." With lips as cold as any stone

She kissed her children small: "God bless you both, my children dear," With that the tears did fall.

Their parents being dead and gone,
The children home he takes,
And brings them home unto his house,
And much of them he makes.
He had not kept these pretty babes
A twelvemonth and a day,
But, for their wealth, he did devise
To make them both away.

He bargained with two ruffians strong,
Which were of furious mood,

That they should take these children young,
And slay them in a wood.

He told his wife, and all he had
He did the children send
To be brought up in fair London,
With one that was his friend.

Away then went these pretty babes,
Rejoicing at that tide,
Rejoicing with a merry mind,

They should on cock-horse ride;
They prate and prattle pleasantly,
As they rode on the way,
To those that should their butchers be,
And work their lives' decay,

So that the pretty speech they had Made Murder's heart relent; And they that undertook the deed Full sore they did repent.

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And now the heavy wrath of God
Upon their uncle fell;

Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house,
His conscience felt an hell.

His barns were fired, his goods consumed,

His lands were barren made;

His cattle died within the field,
And nothing with him stayed.

And, in the voyage of Portugal,

Two of his sons did die ;

And, to conclude, himself was brought
To extreme misery.

He pawned and mortgaged all his land
Ere seven years came about;
And now, at length, this wicked act
Did by this means come out :

The fellow that did take in hand

These children for to kill Was for a robber judged to die,

As was God's blessed will;
Who did confess the very truth,
The which is here expressed;
Their uncle died while he, for debt,
In prison long did rest.

You that executors be made,
And overseers eke,

Of children that be fatherless,
And infants mild and meek,
Take you example by this thing,
And yield to each his right,
Lest God with such-like misery
Your wicked minds requite.

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

ANONYMOUS

A LITTLE in the doorway sitting,
The mother plied her busy knitting;
And her cheek so softly smiled,
You might be sure, although her gaze
Was on the meshes of the lace,
Yet her thoughts were with her child.

But when the boy had heard her voice,
As o'er her work she did rejoice,
His became silent altogether;
And slyly creeping by the wall,
He seized a single plume, let fall
By some wild bird of longest feather;
And, all a-tremble with his freak,
He touched her lightly on the cheek.

O, what a loveliness her eyes
Gather in that one moment's space,
While peeping round the post she spies
Her darling's laughing face!

O, mother's love is glorifying,
On the cheek like sunset lying;

In the eyes a moistened light,
Softer than the moon at night!

THOMAS BURBIDGE

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 :

There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, And Kate with her scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window,
Leaning stealthily over,

Merry and clear, the voice I hear,

Of each glad-hearted rover.

Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my roses;
And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies,
As merry as bees in clover.

Under my window, under my window,
In the blue Midsummer weather,
Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe,

I catch them all together :

Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud with her mantle of silver-green,
And Kate with the scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window,

And off through the orchard closes ; While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts, They scamper and drop their posies; But dear little Kate takes naught amiss, And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, And I give her all my roses.

THOMAS WESTWOOD.

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,

Yei patient to rebuke when justly given; Obedient, casy to be reconciled,

And meekly cheerful; such wert thou, my

child!

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Now with her empty can the maiden turned away; But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she stay.

Right towards the lamb she looked; and from a shady place

I unobserved could see the workings of her face. If nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,

SEVEN TIMES ONE.

THERE's no dew left on the daisies and clover,
There's no rain left in heaven.
I've said my "seven times" over and over,
Seven times one are seven.

I am old, so old I can write a letter; My birthday lessons are done.

Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid The lambs play always, they know no better :

might sing:

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They are only one times one.

O Moon in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low.

You were bright — ah, bright — but your light is failing;

You are nothing now but a bow.

You Moon! have you done something wrong in heaven,

That God has hidden your face?

Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran; I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, And twice in the day, when the ground is wet And shine again in your place.

with dew,

I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it O velvet Bee! you 're a dusty fellow,

is, and new.

"Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as

they are now;

You 've powdered your legs with gold. O brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold!

Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in O Columbine! open your folded wrapper,

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