Thou art to me but as a wave Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart, Quiet talk she liketh best, In a bower of gentle looks, And her smile, it seems half holy, And if any poet knew her, He would sing of her with falls And if any painter drew her, He would paint her unaware And if reader read the poem, He would whisper, "You have done a Consecrated little Una." And a dreamer (did you show him That same picture) would exclaim "Tis my angel, with a name !" And a stranger, when he sees her In the street even, smileth stilly, And all voices that address her And all fancies yearn to cover The hard earth whereon she passes, And all hearts do pray, "God love her!". ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the children's hour. I hear in the chamber above me From my study I see in the lamplight, A whisper and then a silence; Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall, By three doors left unguarded, They enter my castle wall. They climb up into my turret, O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me: They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me intwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, I have you fast in my fortress, In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away. H. W. LONGFELLOW. JENNY KISSED ME. JENNY kissed me when we met, Say I'm weary, say I'm sad; Say that health and wealth have missed me; Say I'm growing old, but add Jenny kissed me! LEIGH HUNT. I FEAR THY KISSES, GENTLE MAIDEN. I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden; I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion; P. B SHELLEY. THE SMACK IN SCHOOL. A DISTRICT School, not far away, Let off in one tremendous kiss! "What's that?" the startled master cries; "That, thir," a little imp replies, "Wath William Willith, if you pleathe, I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe!" With frown to make a statue thrill, The master thundered, "Hither, Will!" Like wretch o'ertaken in his track, With stolen chattels on his back, Will hung his head in fear and shame, A great, green, bashful simpleton, With smile suppressed, and birch upraised, Be guilty of an act so rude! OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT. OLD Master Brown brought his ferule down, Then Anthony Blair, with a mortified air, For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful curls," THE BAREFOOT BOY. ANONYMOUS. BLESSINGS on thee, little man, Let the million-dollared ride! O for boyhood's painless play, For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy, Blessings on the barefoot boy! O for boyhood's time of June, I was rich in flowers and trees, Still as my horizon grew, - O for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy! Cheerily, then, my little man, Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; | And I almost worshipped her when she smiled, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, Ande'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. SAMUEL WOODWORTH. THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with sighs. "Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start; Would you know the spell? -- a mother sat there ! And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. In childhood's hour I lingered near I sat, and watched her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray; And turned from her Bible to bless her child. T is past, 't is past! but I gaze on it now, With quivering breath and throbbing brow: |'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died, And memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek ; But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. ELIZA COOK WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. WOODMAN, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not! That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea, And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; O, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies! When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my handForgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand! My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend, Old tree the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall hurt it not. GEORGE P. MORRIS |