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, And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, 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, A mother wandered with her child: 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! My birthday lessons are done. "Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; 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, And two are gone to sea, You were bright- ah, bright — but your light Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, 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? Sweet maid, how this may be." Then did the little maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the churchyard lie Beneath the churchyard tree." "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, My kerchief there I hem; And sing a song to them. "And often after sunset, sir, "The first that died was Sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. 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, The summers of long ago; And, one of the autumn eves, I made for my little brother A bed of the yellow leaves. 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. ALICE CARY. THOMAS WESTWOOD. |