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, Merry and clear, the voice I hear, Of each glad-hearted rover. Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my roses; Under my window, under my window, 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, CHILDHOOD. In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay flowers, Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand CHARLES LAMB. THE MOTHER'S SACRIFICE. THE cold winds swept the mountain's height, And pathless was the dreary wild, And mid the cheerless hours of night A mother wandered with her child: As through the drifting snow she pressed, And colder still the winds did blow, And darker hours of night came on, And deeper grew the drifting snow : Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone. "O God!" she cried in accents wild, She stripped her mantle from her breast, And smiled to think her babe was warm. At dawn a traveller passed by, And saw her 'neath a snowy veil; The frost of death was in her eye, Her cheek was cold and hard and pale. He moved the robe from off the child, The babe looked up and sweetly smiled! The lambs play always, they know no better; And, in the churchyard cottage, I They are only one times one. O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low. Dwell near them with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell, You were bright - ah, bright—but your light Yet ye are seven ! is failing; You are nothing now but a bow. You Moon! have you done something wrong in heaven, That God has hidden your face? I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place. O velvet Bee! you're a dusty fellow, You've powdered your legs with gold. O Columbine! open your folded wrapper, O Cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple clapper And show me your nest, with the young ones in it, I will not steal them away; I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet! I am seven times one to-day. WE ARE SEVEN. JEAN INGELOW. A SIMPLE child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? Thy sidelong pillowed meekness; The little trembling hand Sorrows I've had, severe ones, Ah, first-born of thy mother, My light, where'er I go; 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 un fold, Pretty maid with showery curls of gold." "Little Bell," said she. Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks, Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks, "Bonny bird," quoth she, "Sing me your best song before I go." "Here's the very finest song I know, Little Bell," said he. -- Little Bell sat down amid the fern: "Squirrel, Squirrel, to your task return; Bring me nuts," quoth she. Up, away! the frisky Squirrel hies, Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes, And adown the tree Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, In the little lap drop one by one. Hark, how Blackbird pipes to see the fun! "Happy Bell!" pipes he. Little Bell looked up and down the glade: "Squirrel, Squirrel, from the nut-tree shade, Bonny Blackbird, if you 're not afraid, Come and share with me!" Down came Squirrel, eager for his fare, And the while those 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, And shine out in happy overflow From her brown, bright eyes. By her snow-white cot, at close of day, Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms, to pray; Very calm and clear Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, In blue heaven, an angel-shape serene Paused awhile to hear. "What good child is this," the angel said, "That with happy heart beside her bed Prays so lovingly?" Low and soft, O, very low and soft, "Bell, dear Bel!!" crooned he. "Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care; Child, thy bed shall be Folded safe from harm. Love, deep and kind, Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee!" THOMAS WESTWOOD. TO A CHILD. WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM. SMALL service is truc service while it lasts : Of humblest friends, bright creature! scorn not one: The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 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; Light as the down of the thistle, And, one of the autumn eves, I made for my little brother My neck in a meek embrace, Lodged in the tree-tops bright, That hang on Memory's wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all. THE PET NAME. ALICE CARY. "The name Which from THEIR lips seemed a caress." I HAVE a name, a little name, Uncadenced for the ear, Unhonored by ancestral claim, Unsanctified by prayer and psalm The solemn font anear. |