The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal

O sweet Sabbath bells!
A message of musical chiming
Ye bring us from God, and we know what you say;
Now rising, now falling,
So tunefully calling
His children to seek Him, and praise Him to-day.

The day we love best!
The brightest and best of the seven,
The pearl of the week, and the light of our way;
We hold it a treasure,
And count it a pleasure,
To welcome its dawning and praise Him to-day.

O sweet Sabbath rest!
The gift of our Father in heaven;
A herald sent down from the home far away,
With peace for the weary,
And joy for the dreary:
Then, oh! let us thank Him, and praise Him to-day.

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Rejoice and be glad!
'Tis the day of our Saviour and Brother,
The Life that is risen, the Truth and the Way;
Salvation He brought us
When wand'ring He sought us,
With blood He hath bought us :then praise Him to-day!

From ‘Sacred Songs for Little Singers.’ Novello & Co.

Flowers.

Buds and bells! Sweet April pleasures,
Springing all around,
White and gold and crimson treasures,
From the cold, unlovely ground!
He who gave them grace and hue
Made the little children too!

When the weary little flowers
Close their starry eyes,
By the dark and dewy hours
Strength and freshness God supplies.
He who sends the gentle dew
Cares for little children too!

Then He gives the pleasant weather,
Sunshine warm and free,
Making all things glad together,
Kind to them and kind to me.
Lovely flowers! He loveth you,
And the little children too!

275

Though we cannot hear you singing
Softly chiming lays,
Surely God can see you bringing
Silent songs of wordless praise!
Hears your anthem, sweet and true,
Hears the little children too!

Evening Prayer.

Now the light has gone away,
Saviour, listen while I pray,
Asking Thee to watch and keep,
And to send me quiet sleep.

Jesus, Saviour, wash away
All that has been wrong to-day,
Help me every day to be
Good and gentle, more like Thee.

Let my near and dear ones be
Always near and dear to Thee;
Oh, bring me and all I love
To Thy happy home above!

Now my evening praise I give:
Thou didst die that I might live,
All my blessings come from Thee;
Oh, how good Thou art to me!

Thou, my best and kindest Friend,
Thou wilt love me to the end!
Let me love Thee more and more.
Always better than before!

276

Are they the eyes of Angels,
That always wake to keep
A loving watch above us,
While we are fast asleep?
Or are they lamps that God has lit
From His own glorious light,
To guide the little children's souls
Whom He will call to-night?

We hardly see them twinkle
In any summer night,
But in the winter evenings
They sparkle clear and bright.
Is this to tell the little ones,
So hungry, cold, and sad,
That there's a shining home for them,
Where all is warm and glad?

277

More beautiful and glorious,
And never cold and far,
Is He who always loves them,
The Bright and Morning Star.
I wish those little children knew
That holy, happy light!
Lord Jesus, shine on them, I pray,
And make them glad to-night.

‘When the morning stars sang together.’— Job xxxviii. 7.

My Little Tree.

They tell me that my little tree
Is only just my age, but see,—
Already ripe and rosy fruit
Is peeping under every shoot!
How little have I brought,
But withered leaves of foolish thought;
And angry words, like thorn,
How many have I borne!

No fruit my little tree can bring
Without the gentle rain of spring;
Nor could it ever ripen one,
Without the glowing summer sun:
O Father! shed on me
Thy Holy Spirit from above,
That I may bring to Thee
The golden fruit of love.

278

Let sunshine of Thy grace increase
The pleasant fruit of joy and peace,
With purple gleam of gentleness,
That most of all my home may bless;
While faith and goodness meet
In ruby ripeness rich and sweet,
Let these in me be found,
And evermore abound.

Thy Kingdom Come.

God of heaven! hear our singing;
Only little ones are we,
Yet a great petition bringing,
Father, now we come to Thee.

Let Thy kingdom come, we pray Thee,
Let the world in Thee find rest;
Let all know Thee, and obey Thee,
Loving, praising, blessing, blessed!

Let the sweet and joyful story
Of the Saviour's wondrous love,
Wake on earth a song of glory,
Like the angel's song above.

Father, send the glorious hour,
Every heart be Thine alone!
For the kingdom, and the power,
And the glory are Thine own.

279

The Moon.

‘The moon walking in brightness.’— Job xxxi. 26.

Not long ago the moon was dark,
No light she gave or gained;
She did not look upon the sun,
So all her glory waned.
Now through the sky so broad and high,
In robe of shining whiteness,
Among the solemn stars of God,
She walks in brightness.

Look up to Him who is the Sun,
The true and Only Light,
And seek the glory of His face,
His smile so dear and bright.
Then making gladness all around,
By gentleness and rightness,
You, too, shall shine with light divine,
And walk in brightness.

Jessie's Friend.

Little Jessie, darling pet,
Do you want a Friend?
One who never will forget,
Loving to the end;
One whom you can tell when sad
Everything that grieves;
One who loves to make you glad,
One who never leaves.

280

Such a loving Friend is ours,
Near us all the day,
Helping us in lesson hours,
Smiling on our play;
Keeping us from doing wrong,
Guarding everywhere,
Listening to each happy song
And each little prayer.

Jessie, if you only knew
What He is to me,
Surely you would seek Him too,
You would ‘come and see.’
Come, and you will find it true,
Happy you will be;
Jesus says, and says to you,
‘Come, oh come to Me.’

The Bower.

Will you come out and see
My pretty bower with me,
My sweet little house that lilac boughs have made;
With windows up on high,
Through which I see the sky,
And look up to Him who made the pleasant shade?

The sunbeams come and go
So brightly to and fro,
Like angels of light, too dazzling to be seen!

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They weave a curtain fair
About my doorway there,
And paint all my walls with shining gold and green.

I have sweet music too,
And lovely songs for you,
To hear in my house among the lilac leaves;
For breezes softly play,
And robins sing all day:
I think this is praise that God on high receives.

Trust.

Sadly bend the flowers
In the heavy rain;
After beating showers,
Sunbeams come again.
Little birds are silent
All the dark night through;
When the morning dawneth,
Their songs are sweet and new.

When a sudden sorrow
Comes like cloud and night,
Wait for God's to-morrow;
All will then be bright.
Only wait and trust Him
Just a little while;
After evening tear-drops
Shall come the morning smile.

282

The Dying Sister.

Darling boy,
Sister's joy,
With your loving smile,
Kiss me now,
On my brow,
Stay with me awhile!
He who has lovèd me,
He whom I longed to see,
Calls me away;
I must not stay.

He is near,
True and dear,
Darling, do not cry!
Jesus too
Loveth you,
Loves you more than I.
Kneel by my pillow here,
Tell Him the sorrow, dear;
He is so kind,
This you will find.

Angels bright,
Robed in light,
In that happy home,
Singing wait
At the gate,
Till He bids me come.

283

Soon, brother, I shall see
Him who has died for me;
I am so glad,
Yet you are sad.

Hymn and prayer
We did share,
Many an evening past;
Jesus heard
Every word,
This may be the last.
Ere next the light grows dim,
I may be there with Him.
Praising Him too,
Waiting for you!

The Angels' Song.

Now let us sing the Angels' Song,
That rang so sweet and clear,
When heavenly light and music fell
On earthly eye and ear,—
To Him we sing, our Saviour King,
Who always deigns to hear:
‘Glory to God! and peace on earth.’

He came to tell the Father's love,
His goodness, truth, and grace;
To show the brightness of His smile,
The glory of His face;

284

With His own light, so full and bright,
The shades of death to chase.
‘Glory to God! and peace on earth.’

He came to bring the weary ones
True peace and perfect rest;
To take away the guilt and sin
Which darkened and distressed;
That great and small might hear His call,
And all in Him be blessed.
‘Glory to God! and peace on earth.’

He came to bring a glorious gift,
‘Goodwill to men;’—and why?
Because He loved us, Jesus came
For us to live and die.
Then, sweet and long, the Angels' Song
Again we raise on high:
‘Glory to God! and peace on earth.’

Who will take Care of Me?

[_]

WRITTEN FOR EMILY F. W. W. SNEPP.

Who will take care of me? darling, you say!
Lovingly, tenderly watched as you are!
Listen! I give you the answer to-day,
ONE who is never forgetful or far!

He will take care of you! all through the day,
Jesus is near you to keep you from ill;
Walking or resting, at lessons or play,
Jesus is with you and watching you still.

285

He will take care of you! all through the night,
Jesus, the Shepherd, His little one keeps;
Darkness to Him is the same as the light;
He never slumbers and He never sleeps.

He will take care of you! all through the year,
Crowning each day with His kindness and love,
Sending you blessing and shielding from fear,
Leading you on to the bright home above.

He will take care of you! yes, to the end!
Nothing can alter His love to His own.
Darling, be glad that you have such a Friend,
He will not leave you one moment alone!

Something to Do.

‘Something to do, mamma, something to do!’
Who has not heard the cry?
Something to plan and something to try!
Something to do when the sky is blue,
And the sun is clear and high;
Something to do on a rainy day,
Tired of lessons or tired of play;
Something to do in the morning walk,
Better than merely to stroll and talk.
For the fidgety feet, oh, something to do,
For the mischievous fingers something too;
For the busy thought in the little brain,
For the longing love of the little heart,
Something easy, and nice, and plain;
Something in which they can all take part;

286

Something better than breakable toys,
Something for girls and something for boys!
I know, I know, and I'll tell you too,
Something for all of you now to do!

First, you must listen! Do you know
Where the poor sick children go?
Think of hundreds all together
In the pleasant summer weather,
Lying sadly day by day,
Having pain instead of play;
No dear mother sitting near,
No papa to kiss good-night;
Brothers, sisters, playmates dear,
All away and out of sight.
Little feet that cannot go
Where the pink-tipped daisies grow;
Little eyes that never see
Bud or blossom, bird or tree;
Little hands that folded lie
As the weary weeks go by.
What if you could send them flowers,
Brightening up the dismal hours?

Then the hospitals for others,
For the fathers and the mothers;
Where the weary sufferers lie,
While the weeks go slowly past,
Some with hope of cure at last,
Some to suffer till they die.

287

Now, while you are scampering free,
In your happy spring-tide glee,
They are lying sadly there,
Weak and sick—oh, don't you care?
Don't you want to cheer each one?
Don't you wish it could be done?

Then the poor old people too,
In the dreary workhouse-room,
Nothing all day long to do,
Nothing to light up the gloom!
Older, weaker, every day,
All their children gone away;
Nothing pleasant, nothing bright,
For the dimming, aching sight.
Would it not be nice to send
Nosegays by some loving friend?

Then if you could only see
Where so many thousands live,
All in sin and misery,
Dirt and noise and poverty,
What, oh, what would you not give,
Just some little thing to do
That might do a little good!
Don't you want to help them too?
I will tell you how you could!
Gather flowers for Jesus' sake,
For a loving hand to take
Into all those dreadful places,
Bringing smiles to haggard faces,

288

Bringing tears to hardened eyes;
Bringing back the memories
Of the home so long ago
Left for wickedness and woe,
Of the time, so far away,
When they learned to sing and pray.
Oh, you cannot guess the power
Of a little simple flower!

And yet the message they should bear,
Of God our Father's love and care,
Is never really read aright
Without the Holy Spirit's light;—
Without the voice of Jesus, heard
In His own sweet and mighty word.
And so we never send the flowers
With only messages of ours;
But every group of buds and bells
The story of salvation tells.
Let every little nosegay bring
Not only fragrance of the spring,
But sweeter fragrance of His Name,
Who saves and pardons, soothes and heals,
The living Saviour, still the Same,
Who every pain and sorrow feels.
The little texts are sweeter far
Than lily-bell or primrose star;
And He will help you just to choose
The very words that He will use.

289

To find them out and make a list
Of promise-words, so strong and bright,
So full of comfort and of light,
That all their meaning can't be missed!
Think how every one may be
God's own message from above
To some little girl or boy,
Changing sadness into joy,
Soothing some one's dreadful pain,
Making some one glad again,
With His comfort and His love!
Calling them to Jesus' feet,
Showing them what He has done!
Darlings, will it not be sweet
If He blesses only one?
Only one? Nay, ask Him still,
Ask Him every one to bless!
He can do it, and He will;
Do not let us ask Him less!

Now then, set to work at once,
If you're not a thorough dunce!
Cut the little holders squarely,
Keep the edges smooth and straight:
Now the paint-box: artists bold!
Paint the borders firm and fairly
With your prettiest red or gold!
Easy this, at any rate.
Now for writing—clearest, neatest,
(Or it may be gently hinted,
Better still if neatly printed.)
Tracing words the strongest, sweetest,—

290

Words that must and will avail,
Though the loveliest blossoms fail.
Then away, away, the first fine day!
Follow the breeze that is out at play,
Follow the bird and follow the bee,
Follow the butterfly flitting free,
For I think they know
Where the sweetest wildflowers grow;
Bluebells in the shady dingle,
Where the violet-odours mingle;
Where the fairy primrose lamp
Seems to light the hawthorn shade;
Orchis in the meadow damp,
Cowslip in the sunny glade.
(But not the pale anemone,
For that will fade so speedily.)
Hedge and coppice, lane and field,
Gather all the store they yield!
Buttercups and daisies too,
Though so little prized by you,
Will be gold and silver treasure,
In their power of giving pleasure
To the poor in city alleys,
Far away from hills and valleys,
Who have never seen them grow
Since their childhood, long ago;
Or to children pale and small,
Who never saw them grow at all!
And don't forget the fair green leaves
That have their own sweet tales to tell,
And waving grass that humbly weaves
The emerald robe of bank and dell.

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Is there some one at home who cannot go
To gather the flowers as they grow?
Then there is plenty for her to do
In making the nosegays up for you;
Getting them ready to travel away,
In time for the work of the coming day.

But oh, how busy you will be
When the packing must be done!
Oh, the bustle and the glee,
Will it not be famous fun?
And when the box is gone away,
The pleasure need not all be past
I think it will not be the last!
Just set to work another day!
And send some more
From the beautiful store
Which God keeps sending you fresh and new,
And thank Him too
That He has given you ‘Something to do!’

Loving Messages for the Little Ones.

[Every little flower that grows]

Every little flower that grows,
Every little grassy blade,
Every little dewdrop, shows
Jesus cares for all He made:
Jesus loves, and Jesus knows!
So you need not be afraid!

292

[Fair the blossoms opening early!]

Fair the blossoms opening early!
For the dew
Fell upon them, cool and pearly,
Brightening every hue.
Like a little thirsty flower,
Lift your face,
Seek the gentle, holy shower
Of the Spirit's grace.

[Grace and glory! They are yours]

Grace and glory! They are yours
Through the Saviour's dying love;
For His own sweet word endures
Longer than the stars above.
It shall never pass away,
So trust His living love to-day.

[Have you not a song for Jesus?]

Have you not a song for Jesus?
All the little buds and flowers,
All the merry birds and breezes,
All the sunbeams and the showers,
Praise Him in their own sweet way!
What have you to sing to-day?
Bring your happiest songs, and sing
For your Saviour and your King.

[Knowing Christ was crucified]

Knowing Christ was crucified,
Knowing that He loves you now
Just as much as when He died
With the thorns upon His brow,—
Stay and think! oh, should not you,
Love this blessèd Saviour too?

293

[Opening flowers I send to you]

Opening flowers I send to you
With a message sweet and true.
They may fade, but Jesus lives,—
Peace and grace and joy He gives.
Come to Him and you will know
What He waiteth to bestow!

Six floral cards for Caswell.

F. R. H.'s Thanks.

FOR A PENCIL-CASE FROM HER BIBLE-CLASS.

O Thou who gatherest with loving arm
The tender lambs, who in each dark alarm
Wilt fold them safely,—listen to my prayer
Borne upwards on the silent morning air!
O Saviour, e'en to these extend Thy love,
And let them know its sweetness,—from above
Pour down on them Thy Spirit's quickening showers
That they may flourish as sweet heaven-born flowers!
O let Thy smile beam on them, let them be
For ever gladdened with its radiancy!
May they reflect Thine image pure and bright
As burnished silver, spotless in Thy sight;
Cleansed by Thy blood from every sinful stain,
Let not its free stream pour for them in vain.
When Thou in glory at the last Great Day
Shalt come, when earth and heaven shall flee away,
When, waking at the archangel's clarion sound,
The sleeping ones arise, and gather round
The great tribunal, then let each one here
At Thy right hand redeemed and saved appear,

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And in the Book of Life let each one be
Inscribed as in eternal lines by Thee!
O Saviour, let each name be written there,
Not one be wanting in those pages gleaming!
Hear, Shepherd of the lambs, this fervent prayer,
For ever be Thy blessings o'er them streaming!

F. R. H.'s Thanks,

WITH A COPY OF ‘SONGS OF GRACE AND GLORY,’ TO CLARA O., FOR THIRTY BUNCHES OF ASTLEY VIOLETS.

Sweet flowers of Spring,
All fresh and fair to see,
You sent to me;
Sweet holy ‘Songs of Grace
And Glory,’ too,
I send to you.

Grace all-sufficient may
You find, and know
On earth below,
Till God's own glory crown
Your faith and love,
In heaven above.

Inscription in a Copy of ‘Life's Morning.’

By Him ‘Life's Morning’ lovelit be,
Who loved, and lived and died for thee:
So shall thy Noontide never know
Earth's burning thirst, or withering glow:
And thou shalt fear no gathering night;
At Eventide it shall be light.

295

Little Nora.

Far off upon a western shore,
Where wildest billows roam,
Beneath the great grim rocks there stands
A tiny cabin home;

And in it dwells a little one,
With eyes of laughing blue,
And lips as red as any rose
With early sparkling dew.

Her father was a fisher, and
Went out with every tide,
While Nora sat and watched alone
By her sick mother's side.

It was a weary thing to sit
For many a long, long day,
Without a ramble on the beach,
Or e'en a thought of play;

But Nora did not think it hard,
She loved her mother so,
And in a thousand ways she tried
Her earnest love to show.

One day she left the cabin door,
And walked a long, long way—
Now high upon the breezy cliffs,
Now close to ocean spray.

296

She went to seek some remedy
To ease her mother's pain,
Tho' little hope there was that she
Could e'er be well again.

The ruby clouds have curtained o'er
The golden glowing west,
Where 'neath the white-winged wavelets now
The sun hath gone to rest;

But little Nora comes not yet!
The mother's fears arise,
The evening breeze brings nothing save
The seabird's mournful cries.

The twilight hour is passing fast
In weariness and pain,
She waits and listens for her child,
As yet she waits in vain.

Hark, hark! a bounding step is heard
Along the pebbly shore,
And now a tiny hand is laid
Upon the cabin door;

‘Oh, mother, darling mother, I
Have such good news to tell!
Far more than medicine I have brought
To make you glad and well!’

297

More brightly gleamed her joyous eye,
And rosier grew her cheek,
While forth she poured the happy words,
As fast as tongue could speak.

‘I bought the medicine, mother dear,
And turned to come away,
When by me stood a kind grave man,
And gently bade me stay;

‘And then he spoke sweet words to me,
About the Saviour's love,
And of the glorious home where all
His children meet above.

‘He told me Jesus loved us so
That He came down to die,
And suffered all instead of us;—
And then it made me cry:

‘He said His blood was quite enough
To wash our sins away,
And make us fit for Heaven at once
If we should die to-day.

‘So, mother dear, we shall not need
To purgatory go;
If Jesus has forgiven all,
That is enough, you know!’

298

The rosy glow had rested on
The mother's whitening cheek;
'T was fading now, and Nora ceased—
Then came a long wild shriek,—

‘Oh, mother, speak to me once more,—
Oh, is she really dead?’
'T was even so, the hand was cold,
And stilled the throbbing head;

Yes, even while those blessèd words
Like angel-music fell,
Her weary spirit passed away,
But whither! who may tell?

Oh, bitter were the tears which fell
From little Nora's eye,
And many a day and night had passed
Ere they again were dry.

But bitterest were they when she thought,
‘Oh, I can never tell
If with that blessèd Saviour now,
Sweet mother, thou dost dwell!

‘Ah! had I only sooner known
What I have heard to-day,
I would have told her more of Him
Before she went away;

‘For perhaps she did not hear me then,
So she could never know
The way that Jesus Christ has made
To His bright home to go.

299

‘I love Him, yes, I'm sure I do,
Then He will take me home
To be with Him for evermore,
Where sorrow cannot come;

‘But oh, I cannot bear to think,
When I His glory see,
And rest within the Saviour's arms—
Where will my mother be?’

Dear children, you have learnt the way
To that bright home above,
You have been told of Jesus and
His deep and tender love;

In Ireland there are little ones
Whose hearts are very sad,
Oh, won't you try and send to them
Sweet words to make them glad?

‘Come over and Help Us.’

THE IRISH CHILD'S CRY.

Oh, children of England, beyond the blue sea,
Your poor little brothers and sisters are we;
'Tis not much affection or pity we find,
But we hear you are loving and gentle and kind;
So will you not listen a minute or two,
While we tell you a tale that is all of it true?

We live in a cabin, dark, smoky, and poor;
At night we lie down on the hard dirty floor;

300

Our clothes are oft tattered, and shoes we have none;
Our food we must beg, as we always have done;
So cold and so hungry, and wretched are we,
It would make you quite sad if you only could see.

There's no one to teach us poor children to read;
There's no one to help us, and no one to lead;
There's no one at all that will tell us the way
To be happy or safe, or teach us to pray:
To the bright place above us we all want to go,
But we cannot,—for how to get there we don't know.

They tell us the Virgin will hear if we call,
But sure in one minute she can't hear us all.
And the saints are too busy in Heaven, we hear;
Then often the priests make us tremble with fear
At the fire of purgatory, which, as they tell,
Is almost as dreadful as going to hell.

Oh, will you not help us, and send us a ray
Of the light of the Gospel, to brighten our way?
Oh, will you not tell us the beautiful story
Of Jesus, who came from His dwelling of glory
To save little children, and not only you,
But even the poor ragged Irish ones too?

The English Child's Reply.

We have heard the call from your fair green Isle;
Our hearts have wept at your saddening tale;
And we long to waken a brighter smile
By a story of love which shall never fail.

301

We should like you to come to our Bible-land,
And share our comforts and blessings too;
We would take you all with a sister's hand,
And try to teach and to gladden you.

But you're so far off that it cannot be,
And we have no wings, or to you we'd fly;
So we'll try to send o'er the foaming sea
Sweet words to brighten each heavy eye,—

Sweet words of Him, who was once so poor,
That He had not where to lay His head;
But hath opened now the gleaming door
To the palace of light, where His feast is spread.

There you may enter; He calls each one,—
You're as welcome there as the greatest king!
Come to Him then, for He casts out none,
And nothing at all do you need to bring.

He will change your rags for a robe of white,
An angel-harp, and a crown of gold;
You may dwell for aye in His presence bright,
And the beaming smiles of His love behold.

We will gladly save from our little store
Our pennies, our farthings, from day to day,
And only wish we could do far more;
But for Erin's children we'll always pray.

302

The Disappointed Carol Singers.

Oh, must we not sing our Christmas hymn,
And will you not hear our song?
With joyous voice, but with weary limb,
We have roamed the whole day long!

We have thought of the merry Christmas time
For many a week before,
And have gleefully learnt our Christmas rhyme
To carol at your door.

There are no merry larks to wake you now,
No blackbirds in woody dell;
The nightingale loves not the leafless bough,
The humming bee sleeps in his cell.

Oh, winter is gloomy and dark enough,
And must it be silent too?
Are the chorus of winds and the storm-song rough
The only sweet music for you?

But we are the birds of the winter day,
When all else is dark and still;
Then, lady, send us not all away,
And with sorrow our eager hearts fill.

Oh, do not thus wave your beautiful hand,
And bid us unheard to go;
For the carolling time of our little band
Comes but once a year, you know.

303

The Happiest Christmas Day.

Sybil, my little one, come away,
I have a plan for Christmas Day:
Put on your hat, and trot with me,
A dear little suffering girl to see.

'Tis not very far, and there's plenty of time,
For the bells have not begun to chime;
So, Sybil, over the sparkling snow
To dear little Lizzie let us go.

Dear little Lizzie is ill and weak,
Only just able to smile and speak.
Yesterday morning I stood by her bed;
Now, shall I tell you what she said?

‘Christmas is coming to-morrow,’ said I.
‘I shall be happy!’ was Lizzie's reply;
‘Happy, so happy!’ I wish you had heard
How sweetly and joyously rang that word.

‘Dear little Lizzie, lying in pain,
With never a hope to be better again,
Lying so lonely, what will you do?
Why will the day be so happy to you?’

Lizzie looked up with a smile as bright
As if she were full of some new delight;
And the sweet little lips just parted to say,
‘I shall think of Jesus all Christmas Day!

304

How would you like to take her the spray
Of red-berried holly I gave you to-day?
And what if we gave her the pretty wreath too
That Bertha has made with ivy and yew?

The green and the scarlet would brighten the gloom
Of dear little Lizzie's shady room;
And, Sybil, I know she would like us to sing
A Christmas song of the new-born King.

Sybil, my little one, if we do,
It will help us to ‘think of Jesus’ too;
And Lizzie was right, for that is the way
To have the happiest Christmas Day!

Coming into the Shade.

Out in the midsummer sunshine,
Out in the golden light,
Merrily helping the gardener,
Ever so busy and bright,—
With tiny barrow and rake and hoe,
Helena flitted to and fro.

But the midsummer sun rose higher
Over the flowery spot;
‘I must rest a little now,’ she said,
‘I am so tired and hot.
Oh, let me come to you, and look
At the pictures in your beautiful book.’

305

Why we should leave the sunny lawn
She did not understand,
But cheerily, trustfully, Helena laid
In mine, her little brown hand,
And I led her away to a shady room,
To rest in the coolness and the gloom.

For she could not have seen the pictures
Out in that dazzling light;
The book was there with its colours fair,
But the sunshine was too bright.
But in the shade I could let her look
At the pictures in my beautiful book.

‘I have never seen them before,’ she said,
‘I am so glad I came!
And the gardener will manage the flowers, I think,
Without me, just the same!
And I need not trouble at all, you know,
About my barrow and rake and hoe.’

So page after page was gently turned,
As I showed her one by one,
And told her what the pictures meant,
Till the beautiful book was done.
And then—I shall not soon forget
The loving kiss of my tiny pet.

And now—I shall not soon forget
The lesson she had taught,
How from the sunshine into the shade
God's little ones are brought,
That they may see what He could not show
Among the flowers in the summer glow.

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Begin at Once.

[_]

BAND OF HOPE SONG.

Begin at once! In the pleasant days,
While we are all together,
While we can join in prayer and praise,
While we can meet for healthful plays,
In the glow of summer weather.
Begin at once, with heart and hand,
And swell the ranks of our happy band.

Begin at once! For we do not know
What may befall to-morrow!
Many a tempter, many a foe
Lieth in wait where'er you go,
With the snare that leads to sorrow.
Begin at once! nor doubting stand,
But swell the ranks of our happy band.

Begin at once! There is much to do;
Oh, do not wait for others!
Join us to-day !—be brave and true;
Join us to-day !—there's room for you,
And a welcome from your brothers.
Begin at once! for the work is grand
That God has given to our happy band.

Begin at once! In the strength of God,
For that will never fail you!

307

Under His banner, bright and broad,
You shall be safe from fear and fraud,
And from all that can assail you.
Begin at once,—with resolute stand,
And swell the ranks of our happy band.

‘That's not the Way at Sea.’

[_]

Reply of Captain Bourchier of the training-ship Goliath, when his boys entreated him to save himself from the burning wreck. 1876.

He stood upon the fiery deck,
Our Captain kind and brave!
He would not leave the burning wreck,
While there was one to save.
We wanted him to go before,
And we would follow fast;
We could not bear to leave him there,
Beside the blazing mast.
But his voice rang out in a cheery shout,
And noble words spoke he,—
‘That's not the way at sea, my boys,
That's not the way at sea!’

So each one did as he was bid,
And into the boats we passed,
While closer came the scorching flame,
And our Captain was the last.
Yet once again he dared his life,
One little lad to save;
Then we pulled to shore from the blaze and roar,
With our Captain kind and brave.

308

In the face of Death, with its fiery breath,
He had stood,—and so would we!
For that's the way at sea, my boys,
For that's the way at sea!

Now let the noble words resound,
And echo far and free,
Wherever English hearts are found,
On English shore or sea.
The iron nerve of duty, joined
With golden vein of love,
Can dare to do, and dare to wait,
With courage from above.
Our Captain's shout among the flames
A watchword long shall be,—
‘That's not the way at sea, my boys,
That's not the way at sea!’

Welcome to Winterdyne.

Francie and Willie, welcome to you!
Alfred and Alice, welcome too!
To an English home and English love
Welcome, each little Irish dove!
Never again we hope to be
Kept apart by an angry sea.
A thousand welcomes, O darlings mine,
When we see you at Winterdyne!

Welcome all to a warm new nest,
Just the place for our doves to rest,

309

Through the oaks and beeches looking down
On the winding valley and quaint old town,
Where ivy green on the red rock grows,
And silvery Severn swiftly flows,
With an extra sparkle and glitter and shine
Under the woods of Winterdyne.

On a quiet evening in lovely spring,
In the tall old elms the nightingales sing;
Under the forest in twilight grey,
I have heard them more than a mile away,
Sweeter and louder and far more clear
Than any thrush you ever did hear;
Perhaps, when the evenings grow long and fine,
They will sing to you in Winterdyne.

Little to sadden, and nothing to fear;
Priest and Fenian never come here;
Only the sound of the Protestant bells
Up from the valley pleasantly swells,
And a beautiful arch, to church, is made
Under the sycamore avenue's shade;
You pass where its arching boughs entwine,
Out of the gates of Winterdyne.

Welcome to merry old England! And yet
We know that old Ireland you will not forget;
Many a thought and prayer will fly
Over the mountains of Wales so high,
Over the forest and over the sea,
To the home which no longer yours must be.
But farewells are over, O darlings mine,
Now it is Welcome to Winterdyne!

310

To Jericho and Back.

[_]

Suggested by a child's remark, ‘What a queer place Jericho must be, if all the persons and things get there that are wished there!’

Once on a time I a visit had paid,
All very pleasant as long as I made
Remarks on the topics I fancied or guessed
Any one present was sure to like best.
Then came the trial of courage and skill;—
(Oh for a talent for gilding the pill!)
Out of my pocket with tremulous thought
A card for collecting was cautiously brought.

What the result, there is no need to tell;
Collectors are often received very well,
Sometimes, alas! it is quite the reverse,
So you take up the work for better, for worse;
Still, I was conscious 'twas better to go
After revealing my errand, and so
Forth in the mist of the evening I wandered,
And on changes of tone and of countenance pondered!

Weary the feet, and closing the day;
Is there not danger of losing the way?
Strange are the hills and the forests around;
Where shall a home-leading pathway be found?
I cannot turn back, and I cannot advance;—
Is it a nightmare, or is it a trance?
Shadowy figures are faintly seen,
Spectral and silent, dimly serene;

311

Persons and things in range on range,
All familiar, yet all so strange;
Shades of all things that ever annoyed,
All that ever one wished to avoid.

Strange though it be, I need not fear;
'Tis a wonderful region, and how I came here
I cannot explain, but as it is so,
Let me investigate whether or no,
And enumerate some of the objects I find;
No names shall be mentioned, so no one will mind.

Determining thus, I quickly began
Everything round me more closely to scan,
Hoping to make a report of the case
To friends who had never discovered the place;
Having set out on this singular track,
Not in a hurry was I to get back.

Aid unexpected was close to my side,
Soon I perceived an invisible guide,
Only a voice, clear, quiet, and low,
Telling me all that I wanted to know.

People of every age and class
Under review appeared to pass;
Some I recognised perfectly well,
(More of these than I choose to tell!)
Of others I learnt the name and degree
From the bodiless guide who followed me.

There were several sharp little girls
Who had made remarks on chignons and curls,

312

And dozens and dozens of dreadful boys
With special talents for mischief and noise;
Specimens, too, in greatest variety,
Of every sort of bores of society,—
Boorish bores, and bores polite,
People who stay too late at night,
People who make long morning calls,
People who think of nothing but balls,
People who never a move will make,
People who never a hint can take;
Strong-minded bores, and weak-minded too,
Masculine, feminine, not a few;
People who borrow books to lose,
People who will not wipe their shoes,
People who keep your mind on the rack
Lest some pussy escape from the sack;
Over stupid, and over clever;
People who seem to talk for ever;
People who mutter, and people who drawl,
People who will not talk at all.

There were ledgers and day-books in piles on piles,
And letters and papers in files on files;
Foolscap and parchment, deeds and wills;
And oh, such a mass of unpaid bills!

There was a wonderful heap of slates,
Scribbled all over with sums and dates,
With names of counties and names of towns,
With Latin verbs and German nouns,
Vulgar fractions and multiplication,
And plenty more of the like vexation.

313

And finished was seldom seen;
Many a half-worked cushion and screen,
Many a drawing just half done,
Plenty of things in haste begun;
Soon might Patience and Perseverance
Among this collection effect a clearance.

Now and then throughout my stay
Things arrived in a wholesale way;
Sometimes a house came gliding down,
Sometimes a village or even a town;
Sometimes a borough my eyes would meet,
With candidates, voters, and votes complete;
‘But,’ whispered my guide, ‘the person who sent it
Was never the man who could represent it.’

‘The person who sent it! that's not at all clear:
Who has the power to send things here?
What is the power, and how does one use it?
Can any one have it if only they choose it?’
‘Every one has it,’ responded my guide;
‘Oft by yourself has the power been tried,
On yourself too, or you would not be here,
In this region of shadows so dismal and drear.
Only a wish is the power that brings
Hither this medley of persons and things;
Only a wish of the opposite kind
Loosens the spell, as you'll presently find.
Some one has wished you farther away,
That is the reason you came here to-day;
Some one may wish you were speedily near,
Then you no longer may stay with us here.

314

Watch your companions, you'll see at a glance
A few are awake, but most in a trance.
Thousands are sent who never know it,
Editors sending many a poet,
Children sending half their teachers,
Listeners sending half their preachers.
There are some who send their dearest friends
If they happen to cross their private ends,
Or give advice which is good and true,
If it's not the thing that they wish to do;
Or to be a little too quick of sight.’
(If they never came back, it would serve them right!)

Plenty of music went on meanwhile,
Not in the Handel Festival style!
For hither most people agree to despatch
New violins, with players to match,
Old pianos that rattle and jingle,
Or Broadwood grands that make your ears tingle
With polkas and waltzes four hours a day;
All barrel organs, whatever they play;
All German bands that won't play in tune;
People who practise too late or too soon;
Contraltos that groan, and sopranos that squall,
Basses that bellow, and tenors that bawl.
Suddenly, while these melodious strains
Filled up the measure of puzzles and pains,
Everything faded away from my gaze,
Into the deepening darkness and haze;
All the unbearable chaos of sound
Melted away into silence profound.

315

How I came back, to this day I don't know,
Only I found myself all in a glow,
Hastening into the parlour to see
If I had kept them all waiting for tea.
Welcoming voices said,—‘We were afraid
You with some neighbour the evening had staid;
Your presence is wanted to brighten and cheer;
Where have you been? we were wishing you here!’
‘Thanks,’ cried I; ‘you have called me away
From a limbo of dreary shades to-day.
May you never the pathway know
Leading away to JERICHO!
Or if you are sent on that dismal track,
May loving wishes soon summon you back!’

My Nest.

My lodging was on the cold rough ground,
And my pillow a rocky shelf;
And the Poet's Corner was full of dust,
And bits of stick and dead leaves, just
An emblem of myself!

But lo! I find that some little birds,
With busy beak and wing,
Have made for me a cosy nest,
The very sort that I like best,
Where I can lie in pleasant rest,
And twitter, if not sing!

316

And the Poet's Corner is swept so clean,
And made so nice and neat,
That really I should feel quite rude,
If I don't, in common gratitude,
Produce some verses on the spot,
And pour them out all fresh and hot,
For my little birds so sweet.

Ethelbert's ‘Coming Home in the Dark.’

Did I tell you how we went to tea,
All by ourselves, with kind Mrs. B.?
And how we came home in the dark so late,
I think it was nearly half-past eight!
We liked the tea, and all the rest,
But coming home in the dark was best,—
Best of all! oh, it was such fun,
The nicest thing we have ever done.
Nurse took Willie, and Bertha took me,—
Bertha is such a great girl, you see;
She sometimes says to us, ‘Now, little boys,
Don't you make such a dreadful noise,
You will wake little Sybil with all your riot!’
And then we have to be—oh, so quiet!
She is nearly eight, and ever so tall;
But Willie and I are not very small;
We are six years old, and our birthdays came
Both on one day, the very same.
So people say we are little twins,
And as much alike as two little pins.

317

And Papa likes having a pair of boys,
Although we make such a dreadful noise;
‘Much more amusing,’ we heard him say,
‘Than a couple of odd ones any day!’

It was only so very dark down below
Along the lane where the blackberries grow,
For the little stars were out in the sky,
And we laughed to see them, Willie and I,
For they twinkled away, so quick and bright,
I think they were laughing at us that night.
A bright one got up from behind a tree,
And peeped at Bertha and Willie and me;
And round the corner we saw another
Playing at hide-and-seek with his brother,
Popping out from a cloud, and then
Running behind it to hide again.

And then the kind little Moon came out
To take care of the Stars as they played about;
She looked so quiet and good, we thought
That perhaps they went to her school to be taught,
And to learn from her how to shine so bright;
But Grandmamma told us we did not guess right,
For the Moon goes to school herself to the Sun:
Do you think she meant it only in fun?

Then all of a sudden the Wind ran by,
And flew up to kiss the Stars in the sky;
He tucked them up, and said good-night,
And drew the curtain round them tight.
That was a great dark cloud, you see,
That hid the Stars from Willie and me.
I think they were sorry to go to bed,
For they did not look tired at all, we said;

318

And one or two of them tried to peep;
But very soon they were all asleep,
For the Wind kept singing their lullaby,
And we felt quite vexed with him, Willie and I.

I think the Moon asked if she might not stay
To light us a little bit more of the way,
But he whistled quite loud, and we thought he said,
‘No, no, no! you must go to bed!’
The good little Moon did what she was bid,
And under the curtains her pretty face hid;
And then it got darker and darker still;
Nurse said she was setting behind the hill.
So perhaps she was tired, and glad to go;
It's a long way across the sky, you know.

We were not afraid, but we did not talk
As we came along the avenue walk;
And we did not quite like looking back,
For the pretty green trees were all quite black.
But I whispered to Willie that God was there,
And we need not be frightened, for He would take care.

And then all at once we saw the light
In the dining-room window, ever so bright;
And up we came through the little gate,—
Oh, it was so nice to come home so late!
And then we gave a famous shout,
For dear Mamma herself came out
To meet us, just as we got to the door;
But she had not expected us home before.
And then we took it by turns to talk,
And tell them about the tea and the walk;
And Papa did laugh so,—we wondered why!
At what we told him, Willie and I.

University of Virginia Library

Chords for Children.

Sunday Bells.