Nay, start not at that sparkling light,
"Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window-frame bedropp'd with rain:
Then, little darling, sleep again,
And wake when it is day.
O SAY what is that thing call'd light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy?
What are the blessings of the sight?
O tell your poor blind boy!
You talk of wondrous things you see;
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake,
With me 't were always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have,
My cheer of mind destroy;
While thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.
Do ye know the little wood-mouse,-
That pretty little thing
That sits among the forest-leaves
Beside the forest-spring?
Its fur is red as the red chestnut,
And it is small and slim;
And it leads a life most innocent
Within the forest dim.
"Tis a timid gentle creature, And seldom comes in sight; It has a long and wiry tail,
And eyes both black and bright.
It makes its nest of soft dry moss,
In a hole so deep and strong;
And there it sleeps secure and warm
The dreary winter long.
And though it keeps no calendar,
It knows when flowers are springing;
And waketh to its summer life
When nightingales are singing.
Upon the boughs the squirrel sits,
The wood-mouse plays below;
And plenty of food it finds itself
Where the beech and chestnut grow.
In the hedge-sparrow's nest he sits,
When its summer-brood is fled;
And picks the berries from the bough
Of the hawthorn overhead.
I saw a little wood-mouse once,
Like Oberon in his hall,
With the green, green moss beneath his feet,
Sit under a mushroom tall.
I saw him sit, and his dinner eat,
All under the forest-tree,—
His dinner of chestnut ripe and red;
And he ate it heartily.
you could have seen him there;
It did my spirit good,
To see the small thing God had made
Thus eating in the wood.
I saw that He regardeth them,-
Those creatures weak and small;
Their table in the wild is spread
By Him who cares for all.
WELCOME, Welcome, lovely May!
With breath so sweet and smiles so gay;
With sun and dew and gentle showers,
Welcome, welcome, month of flowers!
I love the violet, so sweet and blue,
When it drinks a drop of morning dew;
And the pretty web, which the spider weaves
All round and round the lupin-leaves;
And I love to hear from every spray
The warbling birds sing, "Welcome, May!"
The merry calves are full of glee,
So is the little busy bee;
And children are as glad as they
To welcome in the first of May.
LET NOT THE SUN GO DOWN UPON YOUR WRATH.
SEE, behind the crimson west
Brightly sinks the sun to rest;
Gently close the drooping flowers,
Softly fall the evening hours;
Hush'd is every woodland note,
Bee's loud hum, and linnet's throat;
Silent is the liquid breeze,
Moonbeams kiss the rustling trees.
Ere the loving stars arise,
Ere soft slumber seals your eyes,—
Children, bid contentions cease;
Let the sun go down in peace.
Join not hymns of praise to learn,
While your hearts with anger burn:
Kneel not to your evening prayer
With resentment lurking there.
God, who bids you dwell in love—
God, who sees you from above-
He is grieved your pride to see,
Every time you disagree.
Ere the silver stars arise,
Ere soft slumber seals your eyes,—
Children, bid your quarrels cease;
Let the sun go down in peace.
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