Singing many a tuneless song, Lavish of a heedless tongue; Simple maiden, void of art, Babbling out the very heart, Yet abandon'd to thy will, Yet imagining no ill, Yet too innocent to blush; Like the linnet in the bush To the mother-linnet's note Moduling her slender throat, Chirping forth thy petty joys, Wanton in the change of toys ; Like the linnet green in May Flitting to each bloomy spray; Wearied then and glad of rest, Like the linnet in the nest ;This thy present happy lot This, in time will be forgot: Other pleasures, other cares, Ever-busy Time prepares; And thou shalt in thy daughter see This picture, once, resembled thee. AMBROSE PHILIPS. To T. L. H. SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNESS. SLEEP breathes at last from out thee, My little, patient boy; And balmy rest about thee Smooths off the day's annoy. I sit me down, and think Of all thy winning ways; Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, That I had less to praise. Thy sidelong pillowed meekness, The little trembling hand Sorrows I've had, severe ones, BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST. WE were crowded in the cabin, 'Tis a fearful thing in Winter To be shattered in the blast, So we shuddered there in silence,- As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy in his prayers, "We are lost!" the captain shouted As he staggered down the stairs. But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand: "Isn't God upon the ocean Just the same as on the land?" Then we kissed the little maiden, JAMES T. FIELDS. LITTLE BELL. He prayeth well, who loveth well ANCIENT MARINER. PIPED the blackbird on the beechwood spray: "Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, What's your name?" quoth he"What's your name? Oh stop and straight unfold, Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, All for love of that sweet face below, Dimpled o'er with s.niles. And the while the bonny bird did pour In the little childish heart below Down the dell she tripped and through the glade, Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, And from out the tree Swung and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear, While bold blackbird piped that all might hear "Little Bell," piped he. Little Bell sat down amid the fern"Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return— Bring me nuts," quoth she. Up, away the frisky squirrel hiesGolden wood-lights glancing in his eyesAnd adown the tree, Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, In the little lap dropped one by oneHark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun! "Happy Bell," pipes he. Little Bell looked up and down the glade"Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid, Come and share with me!" Down came squirrel eager for his fareDown came bonny blackbird, I declare; Little Bell gave each his honest share Ah the merry three! And the while these frolic playmates twain Pretty maid with showery curls of gold,"- Piped and frisked from bough to bough "Little Bell," said she. Little Bell sat down beneath the rocksTossed 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. And the blackbird piped; you never heard Half so gay a song from any bird again, 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below From her blue, bright eyes. By her snow-white cot at close of day Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray THE RECONCILIATION. As thro' the land at eve we went, And kiss'd again with tears. When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears! For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years, There above the little grave, ALFRED TENNYSON. GOLDEN-TRESSÈD ADELAIDE. A SONG FOR A CHILD. SING, I pray, a little song, Neither sad nor very long: It is for a little maid, Golden-tressèd Adelaide! Pure at thy death, as at thy birth, Despair was in our last farewell, As closed thine eye; Tears of our anguish may not tell When thou didst die; Words may not paint our grief for thee; Thou wert a vision of delight, To bless us given; A type of heaven! So dear to us thou wert, thou art Thy bright, brief day knew no decline'Twas cloudless joy; Sunrise and night alone were thine, Beloved boy! This morn beheld thee blythe and gay; That found thee prostrate in decay; Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear, And ere a third shone, clay was clay, Mother dear! Casa Wappy! Gem of our hearth, our household pride, Earth's undefiled, Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, Humbly we bow to Fate's decree; Do what I may, go where I will, Thou meet'st my sight; There dost thou glide before me still— A form of light! I feel thy breath upon my cheek- Methinks thou smil'st before me now, With glance of stealth; The hair thrown back from thy full brow I see thine eyes' deep violet light- The nursery shows thy pictured wall, Thy bat-thy bow— Thy cloak and bonnet-club and ball; A corner holds thine empty chair; Even to the last, thy every word— Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird In outward beauty undecay'd, We mourn for thee, when blind, blank night The chamber fills; We pine for thee, when morn's first light The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, And though, perchance, a smile may gleam Of casual mirth, It doth not own, whate'er may seem, We miss thy small step on the stair;— Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, In life's spring-bloom, Down to the appointed house below The silent tomb. But now the green leaves of the tree, 'Tis so; but can it be-while flowers Man's doom, in death that we and ours Oh can it be, that, o'er the grave, It cannot be; for were it so Life were a mockery-thought were woe→ Heaven were a coinage of the brain— Then be to us, O dear lost child! A star, death's uncongenial wild Soon, soon thy little feet have trod Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair, That heaven is God's, and thou art there, With him in joy; There past are death and all its woes; There beauty's stream for ever flows; And pleasure's day no sunset knows, Casa Wappy! |