Then did the little maid reply, "You run about, my little maid; "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied: "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. My stockings there I often knit ; I take my little porringer, "The first that died was Sister Jane; Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. I sit me down, and think Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, Thy sidelong pillowed meekness; The little trembling hand Sorrows I've had, severe ones, But when thy fingers press Ah, first-born of thy mother, My light, where'er I go; To say, "He has departed "His voice". "his face To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on, Ah, I could not endure To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep insure That it will not be so. "is gone," 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 And afterward, when I am dead, 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 Is there a word, or jest, or game, 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 As part thereof. The mirth being done, He calls me by it still. Nay, do not smile! I hear in it I hear the birthday's noisy bliss, And voices which, to name me, aye Their tenderest tones were keeping, To some I nevermore can say An answer, till God wipes away In heaven these drops of weeping. My name to me a sadness wears; No murmurs cross my mind. Now God be thanked for these thick tears, Which show, of those departed years, Sweet memories left behind. Now God be thanked for years enwrought Now God be thanked for every thought Earth saddens, never shall remove, And e'en that mortal grief shall prove And heighten it with Heaven. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT. OLD Master Brown brought his ferule down, Then Anthony Blair, with a mortified air, And Anthony Blair seemed whimpering there, For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful curls, And oggled them over his sleeve. ANONYMOUS. THE SMACK IN SCHOOL. A DISTRICT School, not far away, As 't were a battery of bliss 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! Before the whole set school to boot, What evil genius put you to 't?" "'T was she herself, sir," sobbed the lad, "I did not mean to be so bad; But when Susannah shook her curls, I could n't stand it, sir, at all, boo-hoo BLESSINGS on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy, I was once a barefoot boy! Prince thou art, - the grown-up man Let the million-dollared ride! O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, For, eschewing books and tasks, O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides ! Still, as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy! 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! Cheerly, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: Quick and treacherous sands of sin. AMONG the beautiful pictures That seemeth best of all; That sprinkle the vale below; That lean from the fragrant ledge, Where the bright red berries rest, 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, But his feet on the hills grew weary, My neck in a meek embrace, ALICE CARY. HARRY ASHLAND, ONE OF MY LOVERS. I HAVE a lover, a little lover, he rolls on the grass and plays in the clover; He builds block-houses and digs clay wells, and makes sand-pies in his hat. On Sundays he swings in the little porch, or has a clean collar and goes to church, And asks me to marry him, when he grows up, and live in a house "like that." He wears a great apron like a sack, it's hard they don't put him in trousers and jackets; But his soul is far above buttons, and his hopes for the future o'ershoot them, For Harry, like larger lovers, will court, without any visible means of support, And ask you to give him your heart and hand, when he does n't know where to put them. |