Morn hath touched her golden strings; Earth and Sky their vows have plighted; Life and Light are reunited Amid countless carollings; Organ finer, deeper, clearer, Though it be a stranger's tone, Than the winds or waters dearer, More enchanting to the hearer, For it answereth to his own. But, of all its witching words, Those are sweetest, bubbling wild Through the laughter of a child. Harmonies from time-touched towers, Ah! 't was heard by ear far purer, Fondlier formed to catch the strain, Ear of one whose love is surer, Hers, the mother, the endurer Of the deepest share of pain; Hers the deepest bliss to treasure 'T is a mother's large affection Hears with a mysterious sense, Breathings that evade detection, Whisper faint, and fine inflection, Thrill in her with power intense. Childhood's honeyed words untaught Hiveth she in loving thought, Tones that never thence depart; For she listens - with her heart. LAMAN BLANCHARD. THE MOTHER'S STRATAGEM. AN INFANT PLAYING NEAR A PRECIPICE. WHILE on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, LEONIDAS of Alexandria (Greek). Translation THE PET LAMB. THE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!" And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied A snow-white mountain-lamb with a maiden at its side. Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone, And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone; With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel, While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal. The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took, Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook. "Drink, pretty creature, drink!" she said, in such a tone That I almost received her heart into my own. 'T was little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare ! I watched them with delight: they were a lovely pair. That God has hidden your face? Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran; I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, with dew, I bring thee draughts of milk, - warm milk it O velvet Bee! you 're a dusty fellow, is, and new. "Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in You 've powdered your legs with gold. O brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold ! O O Columbine! open your folded wrapper, And show me your nest, with the young ones in I will not steal them away: "Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky; I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet ! JEAN INGELOW. Night and day thou art safe, our cottage is hard by. Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain? Sleep, and at break of day I will come to thee again!" As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat; And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine. Again, and once again, did I repeat the song; must belong, For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, That I almost received her heart into my own." WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. WE ARE SEVEN. A SIMPLE child, That lightly draws its breath, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage girl : She was eight years old, she said; She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad; "Sisters and brothers, little maid, "And where are they? I pray you tell." "Two of us in the churchyard lie, "You say that two at Conway dwell, 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 ; "And often after sunset, sir, "The first that died was Sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; "So in the churchyard she was laid; "And when the ground was white with snow, "How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little maid's reply : "O Master! we are seven." "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" 'T was throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven !" WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. TO A CHILD, DURING SICKNESS. SLEEP breathes at last from out thee, Thy sidelong pillowed meekness; The little trembling hand Sorrows I've had, severe ones, I cannot bear the gentleness, Ah, first-born of thy mother, My light, where'er I go; To say, "He has departed" is gone, O, THOSE little, those little blue shoes ! O the price were high For they hold the small shape of feet And ceased from their totter so sweet. With a tearful pleasure, And o'er them thought and wept ! For they mind her forevermore With the look that in life they wore. A little sweet face That's a gleam in the place, With its little gold curls of hair. Then O wonder not that her heart From all else would rather part Than those tiny blue shoes That no little feet use, And whose sight makes such fond tears start ! WILLIAM C. BENNETT. OUR WEE WHITE ROSE. ALL in our marriage garden O beautiful unfathomably Its little life unfurled; And crown of all things was our wee White Rose of all the world. PICTURES OF MEMORY. AMONG the beautiful pictures 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; We roved there the beautiful summers, ALICE CARY. THE PET NAME. "The name Which from THEIR lips seemed a caress." MISS MITFORD'S Dramatic Scenes. I HAVE a name, a little name, Uncadenced for the ear, Unhonored by ancestral claim, Unsanctified by prayer and psalm The solemn font anear. 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 This name, whoever chance to call Is there a leaf that greenly grows Is there a word, or jest, or game, Assumes a mournful sound. My brother gave that name to me No shade was on us then, save one Nay, do not smile! I hear in it I hear the birthday's noisy bliss, And voices which, to name me, aye 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 With love which softens yet. Now God be thanked for every thought Which is so tender it has caught Earth's guerdon of regret. |