Through the day and through the night, Talked with me from fall to fall; Still, as my horizon grew O, for festal dainties spread, Cheerily, then, my little man, Every evening from thy feet Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ere it passes, barefoot boy! - John G. Whittier LITTLE BELL. PIPED the blackbird on the beechwood spray, "Pretty maid, slow wandering this way,. What's your name?" quoth he "What's your name? O stop, and straight unfold, Pretty maid with showery curls of gold.” 'Little Bell," said she. Little Bell sat down beneath the rocksTossed aside her gleaming golden locks "Bonny bird," quoth she, song, Sing me your best before I go." "Here's the very finest song I know, Little Bell," said he. And the blackbird piped; you never heard Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, And the while the bonny bird did pour In the little childish heart below, All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, From the blue, bright eyes. Down the dell she tripped, and through the glade Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, And, from out the tree Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear, While bold blackbird piped, that all might hear, "Little Bell!" piped he. Little Bell sat down amid the fern: Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, Little Bell looked up and down the glade ;"Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid, Come and share with me!" Down came squirrel, eager for his fare, – And the while these frolic playmates twain Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below, All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, From her blue, bright eyes. By her snow-white cot at close of day, Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, "What good child is this," the angel said, Low and soft, oh! very low and soft, "Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair Folded safe from harm. Love, deep and kind, Little Bell, for thee." T. Westwood. |