 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
LITTLE BRIDGET'S COUNTRY WEEK.
Through the bleak December day
Little pale-faced Bridget lay
On her shabby trundle-bed,
Covered with a threadbare spread.
Little pale-faced Bridget lay
On her shabby trundle-bed,
Covered with a threadbare spread.
Down the dim and dingy wall
Scarce a sunbeam crept at all;
Or, if one astray did come,
Never seemed it quite at home.
Scarce a sunbeam crept at all;
Or, if one astray did come,
Never seemed it quite at home.
Little Bridget lay alone,
Trying not to cry or moan
For her mother, who must stay
Out at work the livelong day.
Trying not to cry or moan
For her mother, who must stay
Out at work the livelong day.
No one by her bedside sat;
Rusty stove and ragged mat,
Chair and table, window, door,
Her companions;—nothing more.
Rusty stove and ragged mat,
Chair and table, window, door,
Her companions;—nothing more.
Poor the room was, poor and plain;
But the narrow window-pane
Let her out into free air,
Into landscapes wide and fair.
But the narrow window-pane
Let her out into free air,
Into landscapes wide and fair.
173
Out beyond the dreary street
Sped her fancy's flying feet,
Over hillside, meadow, dell:
Ah! she knew it all so well!
Sped her fancy's flying feet,
Over hillside, meadow, dell:
Ah! she knew it all so well!
Once, when summer days were long,
Once, when she was brisk and strong,
Kind hands bore her far away
Into the green fields to play.
Once, when she was brisk and strong,
Kind hands bore her far away
Into the green fields to play.
Oh, the happy Country Week,
When the children went to seek
Flowers and sunshine on the hills,
Far away from city ills!
When the children went to seek
Flowers and sunshine on the hills,
Far away from city ills!
Little Bridget lived it over:
Smelt again the sweet red clover;
Watched the frisky squirrels play,
Fed the birds, and tossed the hay.
Smelt again the sweet red clover;
Watched the frisky squirrels play,
Fed the birds, and tossed the hay.
All the beautiful wild-flowers
Came to cheer her lonesome hours;
Smiling, one by one they came,—
Blossoms she had learned to name:
Came to cheer her lonesome hours;
Smiling, one by one they came,—
Blossoms she had learned to name:
Hardhack, with its pale, pink spire;
Cardinals, flashing crimson fire;
Golden daisies, through the bars
Shining up at her, like stars.
Cardinals, flashing crimson fire;
Golden daisies, through the bars
Shining up at her, like stars.
Once more, on the river's breast
Large white lilies swayed in rest;
Waved for her the meadow-sweet;
Pussy-clover brushed her feet.
Large white lilies swayed in rest;
Waved for her the meadow-sweet;
Pussy-clover brushed her feet.
Once again her footsteps turn
Toward the woodlands, fresh with fern;
Up the hill, and down the lane:
'T was the Country Week again.
Toward the woodlands, fresh with fern;
Up the hill, and down the lane:
'T was the Country Week again.
Little Bridget's eyes were bright
When her mother came, that night.
“Thoughts have wings,” she said, “and I
With them through the window fly.
When her mother came, that night.
“Thoughts have wings,” she said, “and I
With them through the window fly.
“I forget the cold,” she said,
“I forget my aching head,
While I wander, long, long hours,
As I used to, gathering flowers.”
“I forget my aching head,
While I wander, long, long hours,
As I used to, gathering flowers.”
Brighter little Bridget's eyes
Shone with wonder and surprise,
Gazing on her window-pane
When the morning dawned again.
Shone with wonder and surprise,
174
When the morning dawned again.
Who had been there in the night,
Tracing, all in outlines white,
Blossoms, ferns, and feathery grass
On her little square of glass?
Tracing, all in outlines white,
Blossoms, ferns, and feathery grass
On her little square of glass?
Nodding harebells, daisy-stars,
Pine-clad cliffs, and even the bars
That she used to clamber through
Into fields where lilies grew.
Pine-clad cliffs, and even the bars
That she used to clamber through
Into fields where lilies grew.
Down the chill gray dawning fell
Echoes of a Christmas bell!
Little Bridget scarce could speak,
But a flush suffused her cheek,
Echoes of a Christmas bell!
Little Bridget scarce could speak,
But a flush suffused her cheek,
And her heart with joy grew faint.—
“Mother, did the angels paint
Flowers and ferns I used to see,
For a Christmas gift to me?
“Mother, did the angels paint
Flowers and ferns I used to see,
For a Christmas gift to me?
“More than common flowers they seem:
Mine in many a happy dream
They have been before; they grow
In the fields of heaven, I know.
Mine in many a happy dream
They have been before; they grow
In the fields of heaven, I know.
“In my dreams they bloom so fair!
And the little children there
With me lovely blossoms seek;—
Heaven is like the Country Week!”
And the little children there
With me lovely blossoms seek;—
Heaven is like the Country Week!”
Happy Bridget! more than health,
More than luxury or wealth,
Hers the blessed gift, to find
Beauty where the world is blind!
More than luxury or wealth,
Hers the blessed gift, to find
Beauty where the world is blind!
And her angel-guides they were
Who in summer went with her,
Beauty's secret to explore,
One glad week, by hill and shore.
Who in summer went with her,
Beauty's secret to explore,
One glad week, by hill and shore.
Heaven's great gates are open here!
Angels far and angels near
Toward the little children lean,
Winning them to pastures green.
Angels far and angels near
Toward the little children lean,
Winning them to pastures green.
And no grand cathedral shows
Windows half so fine as those
Little Bridget gazed upon
In the cold, white Christmas dawn.
Windows half so fine as those
Little Bridget gazed upon
In the cold, white Christmas dawn.
175
For the heavenly artists brought
Their own seeing to her thought;
Taught her from her heart to paint;—
Little Bridget, baby-saint!
Their own seeing to her thought;
Taught her from her heart to paint;—
Little Bridget, baby-saint!
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |