"How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little maid's reply : "O Master! we are seven." "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" "T was throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven ! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. TO A CHILD, DURING SICKNESS. And balmy rest about thee I sit me down, and think Thy sidelong pillowed meekness; The little trembling hand These, these are things that may demand Sorrows I've had, severe ones, I will not think of now; But when thy fingers press O, THOSE little, those little blue shoes! Those shoes that no little feet use. O the price were high That those shoes would buy, For they hold the small shape of feet And ceased from their totter so sweet. And O, since that baby slept, For they mind her forevermore Look up from her knees With the look that in life they wore. As they lie before her there, That's a gleam in the place, Than those tiny blue shoes And whose sight makes such fond tears start! WILLIAM C. BENNETT. From out a balmy bosom With mystical faint fragrance Where winged hopes might build ! Upon the petals of our wee But, evermore the halo Of angel-light increased, God's lap - our wet White Rose of all the world. Our Rose was but in blossom, With holy dews impearled!" You scarce could think so small a thing From dawn to sunset's marge. GERALD MASSEY. OUR WEE WHITE ROSE. ALL in our marriage garden Grew, smiling up to God, A bonnier flower than ever Suckt the green warmth of the sod; O beautiful unfathomably Its little life unfurled; And crown of all things was our wee White Rose of all the world. PICTURES OF MEMORY. AMONG the beautiful pictures That hang on Memory's wall Is one of a dim old forest, That seemeth best of all; Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe; Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland, Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, It seemeth to me the best. I once had a little brother, With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that old dim forest He lieth in peace asleep : Light as the down of the thistle, Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers, The summers of long ago; But his feet on the hills grew weary, And, one of the autumn eves, I made for my little brother A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetly his pale arms folded My neck in a meek embrace, As the light of immortal beauty Silently covered his face; And when the arrows of sunset Lodged in the tree-tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beauty, Asleep by the gates of light. Therefore, of all the pictures That hang on Memory's wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all. ALICE CARY. THE PET NAME. "The name Which from THEIR lips seemed a caress." I HAVE a name, a little name, It never did, to pages wove For gay romance, belong. It never dedicate did move As "Sacharissa," unto love, "Orinda," unto song. Though I write books, it will be read This name, whoever chance to call Perhaps your smile may win. Nay, do not smile! mine eyelids fall Over mine eyes, and feel withal The sudden tears within. Is there a leaf that greenly grows Where summer meadows bloom, Is there a word, or jest, or game, Assumes a mournful sound. My brother gave that name to me No shade was on us then, save one Of chestnuts from the hill, And through the word our laugh did run Nay, do not smile! I hear in it I hear the birthday's noisy bliss, Earth saddens, never shall remove, And e'en that mortal grief shall prove And heighten it with Heaven. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM. O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine, thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim To quench it!) here shines on me still the same. O welcome guest, though unexpected here! I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss Ah, that maternal smile! it answers - Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day; I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away; And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such? It was. - Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown; May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more. Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return; What ardently I wished I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived, By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learned at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more: Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrappel In scarlet mantle warm and velvet cap, "T is now become a history little known That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes, less deeply traced: Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionery plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed All this, and, more endearing still than all, Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow I would not trust my heart, -the dear delight Thou as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast, "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar "; And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide And day by day some current's thwarting force And, while the wings of fancy still are free, WILLIAM COWPER. THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. [An Inverary correspondent writes: "Thom gave me the following narrative as to the origin of The Mitherless Bairn'; I quote his own words. When I was livin' in Aberdeen, I was limping roun' the house to my garret, when I heard the greetin' o' a wean. A lassie was thumpin' a bairn, when out cam a big dame, bellowin' "Ye hussie, will ye lick a mitherless bairn!" I hobled up the stair and wrote the sang afore sleepin'.'"] WHEN a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'? "T is the puir doited loonie, the mitherless bairn! The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed; Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn ! Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid; |