But soon a nobler task demands her care.
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer,
Telling of Him who sees in secret there!--
And now the volume on her knee has caught
His wandering eye-now many a written thought
Never to die, with many a lisping sweet
His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat.
Released, he chases the bright butterfly;
Oh, he would follow-follow through the sky!
Climbs the gaunt mastiff, slumbering in his chain,
And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane ;
Then runs, and, kneeling by the fountain-side,
Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide,
A dangerous voyage; or, if now he can,
If now he wears the habit of a man,
Flings off his coat, so long his pride and pleasure
And, like a miser digging for his treasure,
His tiny spade in his own garden plies,
And in green letters sees his name arise!
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight,
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight!
Ah who, when fading of itself away,
Would cloud the sunshine of his little day!
Now is the May of life. Careering round,
Joy wings his feet, joy lifts him from the ground!
Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say,
When the rich casket shone in bright array,
"These are MY jewels!" Well, of such as he,
When JESUS spake, well might his language be,
"Suffer these little ones to come to me !"
3. TO THE BUTTERFLY.
Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight,
Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of light;
And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold,
Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold.
There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky,
Expand and shut with silent ecstacy!
-Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept,
On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept,
And such is man; soon from his cell of clay
To burst a seraph in the blaze of day!
CCLXIV. JOANNA BAILLIE, 1762-1851.
1. THE CAT.
Your witless puss,
While many a stroke of fondness glides
Along her back and tabby sides,
Dilated swells her glossy fur,
And softly sings her busy purr;
As timing well the equal sound,
Her clutching feet bepat the ground,
And all their harmless claws disclose
Like prickles of an early rose,
While softly from her whisker'd cheek
The half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.
2. THE FIELD OF VICTORY.
So thus ye lie, who with the morning sun
Rose cheerily, and girt your armour on
With all the vigour, and capacity,
And comeliness, of strong and youthful men :
Ye also, taken in your manhood's wane,
With grizzled pates, from mates whose wither'd hands
For some good thirty years had smooth'd
Alas! and ye whose fair and early growth
Did give you the similitude of men
Ere your fond mothers ceased to tend you still,
As nurselings of their care,-ye lie together.
3. PRINCE EDWARD AND HIS KEEPER.
Ed. What brings thee now? it surely cannot be The time of food: my prison hours are wont To fly more heavily
Keep. It is not food: I bring wherewith, my lord, To stop a rent in these old walls, that oft
Hath grieved me, when I've thought of you o' nights;
Thro' it the cold wind visits you.
Ed. And let it enter! it shall not be stopp'd.
Who visits me besides the winds of heaven?
Who mourns with me but the sad-sighing wind?
Who bringeth to mine ear the mimick'd tones
Of voices once beloved and sounds long past
But the light-wing'd and many-voiced wind?
Who fans the prisoner's lean and fever'd cheek
As kindly as the monarch's wreathed brows,
But the free piteous wind?
I will not have it stopp'd.
Keep. My lord, the winter now creeps on apace :
Hoar frost this morning on our shelter'd fields
Lay thick, and glanced to the up-risen sun,
Which scarce had pow'r to melt it.
Ed. Glanced to the up-risen sun! Ay, such fair morns, When ev'ry bush doth put its glory on,
Like a gemm❜d bride! your rustics now
And early hinds will set their clouted feet
Thro' silver webs, so bright and finely wrought
As royal dames ne'er fashion'd, yet plod on
Their careless way, unheeding.
Alas, how many glorious things there be
To look upon! Wear not the forests, now,
Their latest coat of richly varied dyes?
Keep. Yes, good my lord, the cold chill year advances, Therefore I pray you, let me close that wall.
Ed. I tell thee no, man; if the north air bites,
Bring me a cloak. Where is thy dog to-day?
Keep. Indeed I wonder that he came not with me
As he is wont.
Ed. Bring him, I pray thee, when thou comest again, He wags his tail and looks up to my face
With the assurèd kindliness of one
Who has not injured me.
When urged by strong temptation to the brink
Of guilt and ruin, stands the virtuous mind,
With scarce a step between, all-pitying Heav'n,
Severe in mercy, chast'ning in its love,
Oft-times, in dark and awful visitation,
Doth interfere, and leads the wand'rer back
To the straight path, to be for ever after
A firm, undaunted, onward-bearing traveller
Strong in humility, who swerves no more.
All are companions in the general glee;
Authority, hard-favoured, frowns not there.
Some, more advanced, raise up the lofty rick,
Whilst on its top doth stand the parish toast
In loose attire and swelling ruddy cheek.
With taunts and harmless mockery she receives
The tossed-up heaps from fork of simple youth,
Who, staring on her, takes his arm away,
While half the load falls back upon himself.
Loud is her laugh, her voice is heard afar :
The mower busied on the distant lawn,
The carter trudging on his dusty way,
The shrill sound know, their bonnets toss'd in air,
And roar across the field to catch her notice :
She waves her arm to them, and shakes her head.
And then renews her work with double spirit.
Thus do they jest and laugh away their toil.
CCLXV. JAMES HURDIS, 1763-1801.
I love to see the little goldfinch pluck
The groundsel's feather'd seed, and twit and twit,
And soon in bower of apple blossom perch'd,
Trim his gay suit, and pay us with a song,
I would not hold him pris'ner for the world.
The chimney-haunting swallow too, my eye
And ear well pleases. I delight to see
How suddenly he skims the glassy pool,
How quaintly dipe, and with a bullet's speed,
Whisks by. I love to be awake, and hear
His morning song twitter'd to dawning day.
But most of all it wins my admiration,
To view the structure of this little work,
A bird's nest. Mark it well, within, without.
No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut,
No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert,
No glue to join; his little beak was all,
And yet how neatly finish'd! What nice hand,
And ev'ry implement and means of art,
And twenty years apprenticeship to boot,
Could make me such another? Fondly then
We boast of excellence, whose noblest skill
Instinctive genius foils.
CCLXVI. MRS RADCLIFF, 1764-1823.
Down, down a thousand fathoms deep,
Among the sounding seas I go;
Play round the foot of every steep,
Whose cliffs above the ocean grow.
There, within their secret caves
1 hear the mighty rivers roar,
And guide their streams through Neptune's waves, To bless the green earth's inmost shore.
In coral bowers I love to lie,
And hear the surges roll above, And through the waters view on high
The proud ships sail, and gay clouds move.
And oft, at midnight's stillest hour,
When summer seas the vessel lave,
I love to prove my charmful power,
While floating on the moonlit wave.
And when deep sleep the crew has bound,
And the sad lover musing leans
O'er the ship's side, I breathe around
Such strains as speak uo mortal means.
Sometimes a single note I swell,
That softly sweet at distance dies,
Then wake the magic of my shell,
And choral voices round me rise.
The trembling youth, charm'd by my strain,
Calls up the crew, who silent bend
O'er the high deck, but list in vain ;
My song is hush'd, my wonders end.
CCLXVII. REV. J. GRAHAME, 1765-1811. THE SHIPWRECK'D SAILOR.
As is the rock his seat, gazing whole days
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