The poetical works of Lucy Larcom

Father Time, your footsteps go
Lightly as the falling snow.
In your swing I'm sitting, see!
Push me softly; one, two, three,
Twelve times only. Like a sheet
Spreads the snow beneath my feet:
Singing merrily, let me swing
Out of winter into spring!

Swing me out, and swing me in!
Trees are bare, but birds begin
Twittering to the peeping leaves
On the bough beneath the eaves.
Look! one lilac-bud I saw!
Icy hillsides feel the thaw:
April chased off March to-day;
Now I catch a glimpse of May.

Oh, the smell of sprouting grass!
In a blur the violets pass:
Whispering from the wild-wood come
Mayflowers' breath, and insects' hum.

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Roses carpeting the ground;
Orioles warbling all around:
Swing me low, and swing me high,
To the warm clouds of July!

Slower now, for at my side
White pond-lilies open wide:
Underneath the pine's tall spire
Cardinal-blossoms burn like fire.
They are gone; the golden-rod
Flashes from the dark green sod.
Crickets in the grass I hear;
Asters light the fading year.

Slower still! October weaves
Rainbows of the forest-leaves.
Gentians fringed, like eyes of blue,
Glimmer out of sleety dew.
Winds through withered sedges hiss:
Meadow-green I sadly miss.
Oh, 't is snowing; swing me fast,
While December shivers past!

Frosty-bearded Father Time,
Stop your footfall on the rime!
Hard your push, your hand is rough;
You have swung me long enough.
“Nay, no stopping,” say you? Well,
Some of your best stories tell,
While you swing me—gently, do!—
From the Old Year to the New.

PRINCE HAL.

Prince Hal is a widow's baby;
His father he never knew.
In the waning of summer he opened
His eyes of the ocean's blue:

And his mother with tender trouble
Gazed into their azure deep,
Whence the cloud of some unknown sorrow
Seemed, vague as a mist, to creep.

It broke on her heart in winter,—
A knell from the torrid isles
Where a death-sleep fell on her husband:
But the babe wore his father's smiles;

And all who beheld him loved him—
Prince Hal, with the eyes of blue

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Under the spirit-like forehead;—
Pale blossom of light and dew.

What recks Prince Hal of the season,
Enthroned on his mother's arm?
Thick snow through the air is falling,
But baby and bud are warm.

For buds are the nurslings of tempests,
And grief may cradle a joy.
On the widow's heart lies a sorrow
Whose age is the age of her boy.

But he, in the snow-wreath's glimmer,
Sees nothing but bloom and mirth.
To the royal soul of a baby
One fairy realm is the earth.

Prince Hal, he is like his father,
As a prince resembles a king;
In the crown of a manly nature,
That is nobler than anything.

For an empty crown is a bauble;
And he is a sovereign alone
Who lives to bring joy unto others,
And to make their trouble his own.

Prince Hal is the son of a widow;
His father went sailing away
To inherit a far-off kingdom:
The boy will follow, some day.

Though his mother her lifelong sorrow
Measures out by his childish years,
Their length is the span of a rainbow
That bridges a gulf of tears.

He has cheered us all, as a sunbeam
Strikes into the heart of a storm:
Through the gladness of little children
Are the frostiest lives kept warm.

Prince Hal, they alone are true princes
Who make this old world bloom anew
With the grace and the glory of manhood:
Great things are expected of you!

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AT QUEEN MAUDE'S BANQUET.

She wears no crown
Save her own flossy curls,
Rosiest, plumpest,
Of pet baby-girls;
Blue-eyed and dimpled
And dignified she,
Pouring out for us
Invisible tea;
Little Queen Maude.

Tiniest teacup
And saucer and spoon:
Baby, your banquet
Has ended too soon.
Fancy's full cupboard
Unlocks to your hand;
We, your true subjects,
Await your command,
Little Queen Maude.

Throned on the floor,
We must stoop to your state:
If a queen's little,
Can courtiers be great?
Now kiss us, dismiss us,
Red lips rosy-sweet,
For yonder 's a poet
Chained fast to your feet,
Little Queen Maude.

PEEPSY.

Girl-Peepsy to the baby sang
A drowsy little tune;
But all the while the baby lay
And whimpered for the moon.

“Dear little baby!” Peepsy said,
“Don't reach your arms out so!
But shut your eyes, and right away
To fetch the moon I'll go.”

“Now breaking promises is bad,—
As bad as telling lies,”
Said Peepsy, for the babe in sleep
That instant closed his eyes.

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“And I must go and fetch the moon
Before my brother wakes:
He shall not say that Peepsy-girl
Her promise ever breaks.

“And there the moon hangs on the hill,
Our cottage door close by.
I must run fast, or it will slip
Out into the deep sky.”

The crickets chirped, “Quick! Peepsy!—quick!”
“Quick! quick!” the katydid
Called from the elm-tree by the gate:
Down from her chair she slid.

She could not reach her broad-brimmed hat;
Upon the peg it hung.
She shut the cottage door; the gate
Behind her softly swung.

The rippling brook laughed up at her,
With all its twinkling eyes;
But rustling leaves to forest-birds
Were whispering lullabies;

And trees and rocks were fast asleep,
Folded in shadows black,
As little Peepsy trudged along
The ferny mountain-track.

The whippoorwills went gossiping
From silent tree to tree,
Among the gray eavesdropping bats;
So strange it was to see

A little girl at nightfall climb
The steep and lonesome hill!
But bravely Peepsy hastened on,
Beneath the starlight still.

A wind came rushing down the rocks,
And sighed, “Where, Peepsy, where?”
“After the moon!” The light wind laughed,
And lifted Peepsy's hair,

And kissed her forehead, and went on.
An owl called, “Who, child, who?”
“My name is Peepsy, if you please!
May I just pass by you?

“I'm only going to get the moon,
You 're willing, Mr. Owl?”

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Poor Peepsy trembled;—such a laugh!
It sounded like a howl.

And all the forest rang, “Hoo—hoo!
The like was never heard!”
Ten owls flew down and stared at her;
But she said not a word.

For now the moon seemed close at hand;
But oh! she almost cried:
It was too large for her to lift
Down to the baby's side.

If she could only reach its edge,
So even and so round,
And send it trundling like a hoop
Along the mossy ground!

Alas! it was too far! too far!
Though she on tiptoe stood.
“Oh, pretty stars!” she called aloud,
“Will you be very good,

“And give the moon a push this way?”
The silly stars, they wink,
But will not budge. She sits her down
Upon a rock to think;

And wonder why boys ask for things
Girls cannot get for them:—
But look! the Lady Moon lifts off
Her crescent-diadem,

And slips the happy Peepsy in!
See! like a silver sledge
It dashes down the gloomy hill,
Past glen and gorge and ledge!

It glides along the garden walk,
It stops beside the door!
Has katydid or cricket seen
Wonders like this before?

“Keep it!” the Moon said, “I have more;
Twelve new ones every year.
Ride in it with him every night,
The baby-brother dear!

“But tell him not to cry for me,
Since I must walk my round
Through my great nursery of stars:
So let his sleep be sound!

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“And I will kiss him every night
As I am passing by:
And you two, in your silver sledge,
May chase me through the sky.”

Girl-Peepsy rubbed her dazzled eyes;
“I thank you, Lady Moon!
I think the baby's not awake,
I have come back so soon.”

She rubbed her eyes: the baby slept.—
A strange thing does it seem
That Peepsy went and brought the moon?
She did it in a dream.

IN THE TREE-TOP.

“Rock-a-by, baby, up in the tree-top!”
Mother his blanket is spinning;
And a light little rustle that never will stop,
Breezes and boughs are beginning.
Rock-a-by, baby, swinging so high!
Rock-a-by!

“When the wind blows, then the cradle will rock.”
Hush! now it stirs in the bushes;
Now with a whisper, a flutter of talk,
Baby and hammock it pushes.
Rock-a-by, baby! shut, pretty eye!
Rock-a-by!

“Rock with the boughs, rock-a-by, baby, dear!”
Leaf-tongues are singing and saying;
Mother she listens, and sister is near,
Under the tree softly playing.
Rock-a-by, baby! mother 's close by!
Rock-a-by!

Weave him a beautiful dream, little breeze!
Little leaves, nestle around him!
He will remember the song of the trees,
When age with silver has crowned him.
Rock-a-by, baby! wake by and by!
Rock-a-by!

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WHAT SHALL WE WRAP THE BABY IN?

What shall we wrap the baby in?
Silks are too coarse, and velvets too rough,
Snowiest linens not half white enough:
A web for his blanket what fairy can spin?
What shall we wrap the baby in?

The softest of colors may cover his bed,
Delicate hues of the sky and the rose,
Tints of all buds that in May-morns unclose,
When on the bosom of Sleep drops his head:—
Wrap him in something more heavenly, instead!

What shall we wrap the baby in?
Nothing that fingers have woven will do:
Looms of the heart weave love ever anew:
Love, only love, is the right thread to spin,
Love we must wrap the baby in!

MOONSHINE.

My little pet sat in the moonshine,
A square of light on the floor,
Shaped by the open window;
And its halo dim he wore.

It turned his hair to spun silver,
His robe into folds of pearl;
Yet it was but a linen nightgown,
A tangle of flaxen curl.

He was there at play, white nestling!
A moment before he slept;
And he patted and kissed the moonbeams,
And, cooing, across them crept.

“Bring us the moonshine, baby!”
Quick sprang the little feet;
Scooping it up by lapfuls,
Hurried the fingers sweet,

To load us with unseen treasure.
He saw it, bright and plain;
Never doubted the baby
Ours was a real gain.

Firmly we also believed it;
For, after he was asleep,

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We had his moonlit picture
Always our own to keep.

It has not grown old, or faded;
It will not, it never can.
We shall have it still to look at,
When he is a bearded man.

If then he should win great riches,
He cannot bestow a gift
So rare as the one he brought us
Out of the moonbeams' drift.

May he never lose faith in moonshine!
The ore that glimmers and streams
From the mountain-clefts of beauty,
In the far-off world of dreams!

Right royally may he scatter
The wealth of unfathomed skies,
The fine gold and sheeny silver
From the mines of Paradise!

SNOW-SONG.

I hear a bird chirp in the sun;
He flutters and hops to and fro;
His tiny light tracks, one by one,
He prints on the new-fallen snow.
Little bird, sing!
Sun, give his wing
A flicker of gold as you go!
Make a smooth path for him, Snow!

I see a child out there at play;
His footfall is light on the snow;
His curls catch a swift golden ray
Of the sun, while the merry winds blow.
Little child, run!
Shine on him, Sun!
Blow him fair weather, Wind, blow!
Make a white path for him, Snow!

The little bird's home is the sky,
Or the ground, or a nest in the tree.
The little child some day will fly
From his doorstep, new regions to see.
Bird-like and free
May his sunny flight be!
And wherever on earth he may go,
May his footsteps be whiter than snow!

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THE WIND-FLOWER.

Wind-Flower, Wind-Flower, why are you here?
This is a boisterous time of the year
For blossoms as fragile and tender as you
To be out on the roadsides, in spring-raiment new!
The snow-flakes yet flutter abroad in the air,
And the sleet and the tempest are weary to bear.
Have you not come here, pale darling, too soon?
You would seem more at home with the blossoms of June.

“Why have I come here?” the Wind-Flower said;
“Why?” and she gracefully nodded her head
As a breeze touched her petals; “Perhaps to show you
That the strong may be sometimes the delicate, too.
I am fed and refreshed by these cold, rushing rains;
The first melting snow-drifts brought life to my veins;
The storm rocked my cradle with lullabies wild:
I am here with the Wind,—because I am his child!”

MARCH.

March! March! March! They are coming
In troops to the tune of the wind:
Red-headed woodpeckers drumming,
Gold-crested thrushes behind;
Sparrows in brown jackets hopping
Past every gateway and door;
Finches with crimson caps stopping
Just where they stopped years before.

March! March! March! They are slipping
Into their places at last:
Little white lily-buds, dripping
Under the showers that fall fast;
Buttercups, violets, roses;
Snowdrop and bluebell and pink;
Throng upon throng of sweet posies,
Bending the dewdrops to drink.

March! March! March! They will hurry
Forth at the wild bugle-sound;
Blossoms and birds in a flurry,
Fluttering all over the ground.
Hang out your flags, birch and willow!
Shake out your red tassels, larch!
Up, blades of grass, from your pillow!
Hear who is calling you—March!

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RED-TOP AND TIMOTHY.

Red-Top and Timothy
Come here in the spring;
Light spears out of emerald sheaths
Everywhere they swing:
Harmless little soldiers,
On the field they play,
Nodding plumes and crossing blades
All the livelong day.

Timothy and Red-Top
Bring their music-band:
Some with scarlet epaulets,
Strutting stiff and grand;
Some in sky-blue jackets,
Some in vests of pink:
Black and white their leader's coat,—
Restless Bob-o'-link!

Red-Top's airy feathers
Tremble to his notes,
In themselves an orchestra;
Then a thousand throats
Set the winds a-laughing,
While the saucy thing
Anywhere, on spike or spear,
Sways himself to sing.

Red-Top and Timothy
Have a mortal foe;
There 's a giant with a scythe
Comes and lays them low;
Shuts them in barn-prisons;
Spares not even Sweet Clover:
Bob-o'-link leads off his band,
Now the campaign 's over.

Timothy and Red-Top
Will return again,
With familiar songs and flowers,
Through the April rain.
Though their giant foeman
Will not let them be,
One who swings a keener scythe
Cuts down such as he.

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JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

Crackle! crack! the ice is melting;
From the west the rain falls pelting:
Swish and gurgle, splash and spatter!
“Halloo! good folks, what 's the matter?
Seems to me the roof is leaking!”—
Jack from down below is speaking.

You know little Jack? In the spring he is seen on the swampy edge
Of the hemlock-wood, looking out from the shade of the fern-wreathed ledge:
But in winter he cuddles close under a thatch of damp leaves.—
Now the water is trickling fast in through his garret-eaves;
And he opens his eyes, and up he starts, out of his cosy bed,
And he carefully holds, while he climbs aloft, his umbrella over his head.
High time for you to be up, Jack, when every growing thing
Is washing and sunning itself, Jack, and getting ready for spring!

Little Jack, the country preacher,
Thinks, “These rustics need a teacher:
I shall scold the wild young flowers
For coquetting with the showers
That invade my honest dwelling:
What I'll tell them—there 's no telling.”

They call him Jack-in-the-Pulpit, he stands up so stiff and so queer
On the edge of the swamp, and waits for the flower-folk to come and hear
The text and the sermon, and all the grave things that he has to say;
But the blossoms they laugh and they dance,—they are wilder than ever, to-day;
And as nobody stops to listen, so never a word has he said;
But there in his pulpit he stands, and holds his umbrella over his head.
And we have not a doubt in our minds, Jack, you are wisely listening
To the organ-chant of the winds, Jack, and the tunes that the sweet birds sing!

SIR ROBIN.

Rollicking Robin is here again.
What does he care for the April rain?
Care for it? Glad of it. Does n't he know
That the April rain carries off the snow,
And coaxes out leaves to shadow his nest,
And washes his pretty red Easter vest,

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And makes the juice of the cherry sweet,
For his hungry little robins to eat?
“Ha! ha! ha!” hear the jolly bird laugh.
“That is n't the best of the story, by half!”

Gentleman Robin, he walks up and down,
Dressed in orange-tawny and black and brown.
Though his eye is so proud and his step so firm,
He can always stoop to pick up a worm.
With a twist of his head, and a strut and a hop,
To his Robin-wife, in the peach-tree top,
Chirping her heart out, he calls: “My dear,
You don't earn your living! Come here! Come here!
Ha! ha! ha! Life is lovely and sweet;
But what would it be if we 'd nothing to eat?”

Robin, Sir Robin, gay, red-vested knight,
Now you have come to us, summer 's in sight.
You never dream of the wonders you bring,—
Visions that follow the flash of your wing;
How all the beautiful By-and-by
Around you and after you seems to fly!
Sing on, or eat on, as pleases your mind!
Well have you earned every morsel you find.
“Aye! Ha! ha! ha!” whistles Robin. “My dear,
Let us all take our own choice of good cheer!”

GOWNS OF GOSSAMER.

They're hastening up across the fields; I see them on their way!
They will not wait for cloudless skies, nor even a pleasant day;
For Mother Earth will weave and spread a carpet for their feet;
Already voices in the air announce their coming sweet.

One sturdy little violet peeped out alone, in March,
While cobwebs of the snow yet hung about the sky's gray arch;
But merry winds to sweep them down in earnest had begun:
The violet, though she shook with cold, stayed on to watch the fun.

And now the other violets are crowding up to see
What welcome in this blustering world may chance for them to be:
They lift themselves on slender stems in every shaded place,
Heads over heads, all turned one way, wonder in every face.

There shiver, in rose-tinted white, the pale anemones;
There pink, perfumed arbutus trails from underneath bare trees;
Hepatica shows opal gleams beneath her silk-lined cloak,
Then slips it off, and hides amid the gnarled roots of the oak.

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They like the clear, cool weather well, when they are fairly out,
And they are happy as the flowers of sunnier climes, no doubt.
When little star-shaped innocence makes every field snow-white
With her four-cornered neckerchiefs, there is no lovelier sight.

And when the wild geranium comes, in gauzy purple sheen,
Forerunner of the woodland rose, June's darling, Summer's queen,
With small herb-robert like a page close following her feet,
Jack-in-the-pulpit will stand up in his green-curtained seat:

Marsh-marigold and adder's-tongue will wade the brook across,
Where cornel-flowers are grouped, in crowds, on strips of turf and moss
And wood-stars white, from lucent green will glimmer and unfold,
And scarlet columbines will lift their trumpets, mouthed with gold.

Then will the birds sing anthems; for the earth and sky and air
Will seem a great cathedral, filled with beings dear and fair;
And long processions, from the time that bluebird-notes begin
Till gentians fade, through forest-aisles will still move out and in.

Unnumbered multitudes of flowers it were in vain to name
Along the roads and in the woods will old acquaintance claim;
And scarcely shall we know which one for beauty we prefer,
Of all the wayside fairies clad in gowns of gossamer.

CALLING THE VIOLET.

Dear little Violet,
Don't be afraid!
Lift your blue eyes
From the rock's mossy shade!
All the birds call for you
Out of the sky:
May is here, waiting,
And here, too, am I.

Why do you shiver so,
Violet sweet?
Soft is the meadow-grass
Under my feet.
Wrapped in your hood of green,
Violet, why
Peep from your earth-door
So silent and shy?

Trickle the little brooks
Close to your bed;
Softest of fleecy clouds
Float overhead;

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“Ready and waiting!”
The slender reeds sigh:
“Ready and waiting!”
We sing,—May and I.

Come, pretty Violet,
Winter 's away:
Come, for without you
May is n't May.
Down through the sunshine
Wings flutter and fly;—
Quick, little Violet,
Open your eye!

Hear the rain whisper,
“Dear Violet, come!”
How can you stay
In your underground home?
Up in the pine-boughs
For you the winds sigh:
Homesick to see you,
Are we,—May and I.

Ha! though you care not
For call or for shout,
Yon troop of sunbeams
Are winning you out.
Now all is beautiful
Under the sky:
May 's here—and violets!
Winter, good-by!

SHOWER AND FLOWER.

Down the little drops patter,
Making a musical clatter,
Out of the clouds they throng:
Freshness of heaven they scatter
Little dark rootlets among.
“Coming to visit you, Posies!
Open your hearts to us, Roses!”
That is the Raindrops' song.

Up the little seed rises:
Buds of all colors and sizes
Clamber up out of the ground.
Gently the blue sky surprises
The earth with that soft-rushing sound.
“Welcome!” the brown bees are humming:
“Come! for we wait for your coming!”
Whisper the wild-flowers around.

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“Shower, it is pleasant to hear you!”—
“Flower, it is sweet to be near you!”—
This is the song everywhere.
Listen! the music will cheer you!
Raindrop and blossom so fair
Gladly are meeting together
Out in the beautiful weather:
Oh, the sweet song in the air!

THE MYSTERY OF THE SEED.

Children dear, can you read
The mystery of the seed,
The little seed, that will not remain
In earth, but rises in fruit and grain?

A mystery, passing strange,
Is the seed, in its wondrous change;
Forest and flower in its husk concealed,
And the golden wealth of the harvest-field.

Ever, around and above,
Works the Invisible Love:
It lives in the heavens and under the land;
In blossom and sheaf and the reaper's hand.

—Sower, you surely know
That the harvest never will grow,
Except for the Angels of Sun and Rain,
Who water and ripen the springing grain!

Awake for us, heart and eye,
Are watchers behind the sky:
There are unseen reapers in every band,
Who lend their strength to the weary hand.

When the wonderful light breaks through
From above, on the work we do,
We can see how near us our helpers are,
Who carry the sickle and wear the star.

—Sower, you surely know
That good seed never will grow,
Except for the Angels of Joy and Pain,
Who scatter the sunbeams and pour the rain!

—Child, with the sower sing!
Love is in everything!
The secret is deeper than we can read:
But we gather the grain if we sow the seed.

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EASTER DAWN.

Breaks the joyful Easter dawn,
Clearer yet, and stronger;
Winter from the world has gone,
Death shall be no longer!
Far away good angels drive
Night and sin and sadness;
Earth awakes in smiles, alive
With her dear Lord's gladness.

Roused by Him from dreary hours
Under snow-drifts chilly,—
In His hand He brings the flowers,
Brings the rose and lily.
Every little buried bud
Into life He raises;
Every wild-flower of the wood
Chants the dear Lord's praises.

Open, happy flowers of spring,
For the Sun has risen!
Through the sky glad voices ring,
Calling you from prison.
Little children dear, look up!
Toward His brightness pressing,
Lift up every heart, a cup
For the dear Lord's blessing!

NATURE'S EASTER-MUSIC.

The flowers from the earth have arisen,
They are singing their Easter-song;
Up the valleys and over the hillsides
They come, an unnumbered throng.

Oh, listen! The wild-flowers are singing
Their beautiful songs without words!
They are pouring the soul of their music
Through the voices of happy birds.

Every flower to a bird has confided
The joy of its blossoming birth—
The wonder of its resurrection
From its grave in the frozen earth.

For you chirp the wren and the sparrow,
Little Eyebright, Anemone pale!

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Gay Columbine, orioles are chanting
Your trumpet-note, loud on the gale.

The buttercup's thanks for the sunshine
The goldfinch's twitter reveals;
And the violet trills, through the bluebird,
Of the heaven that within her she feels.

The song-sparrow's exquisite warble
Is born in the heart of the rose—
Of the wild-rose, shut in its calyx,
Afraid of belated snows.

And the melody of the wood-thrush
Floats up from the nameless and shy
White blossoms that stay in the cloister
Of pine-forests, dim and high.

The dust of the roadside is vocal;
There is music from every clod;
Bird and breeze are the wild-flowers' angels,
Their messages bearing to God.

“We arise and we praise Him together!”
With a flutter of petals and wings,
The anthem of spirits immortal
Rings back from created things.

And nothing is left wholly speechless;
For the dumbest life that we know
May utter itself through another,
And double its gladness so!

The trees have the winds to sing for them;
The rock and the hill have the streams;
And the mountain the thunderous torrents
That waken old Earth from her dreams.

She awakes to the Easter-music;
Her bosom with praise overflows;
The forest breaks forth into singing,
For the desert has bloomed as the rose.

And whether in trances of silence
We think of our Lord arisen,
Or whether we carol with angels
At the open door of His prison,

He will give us an equal welcome
Whatever the tribute we bring;
For to Him who can read the heart's music
To blossom with love is to sing.

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FARTHER ON.

We two went Maying up the hill—
Our little Hal and I—
Led onward by a linnet's trill;
The wind was soft, the sea was still,
And violet-blue the sky.

And blue as glimpses of the sea
Shone level violet-beds,
Far down below bare crag and tree;
And, sweetly shy as flowers can be,
White wind-flowers hung their heads.

Great crowds of scarlet columbines
Made sunrise in the wood,
Against the darkness of the pines;
In lilac gauze amid green vines
The wild geranium stood.

There are no hillsides pleasanter
Than ours, far on in May;
Light sea-winds leaf and blossom stir,
Never grew wood-flowers lovelier,
And yet I could not stay.

Some strange bewildering of the hour
My restless footsteps won;
Some whisper from a pine-tree bower,
Some fragrance of an unseen flower
A little farther on.

Till on a summit gray with moss
I found myself alone;
And saw, the billowy woods across,
The ocean-billows foam and toss,
And heard from both one moan.

What had I gained by climbing there?
The flowers were pale and thin
Around my feet; but all the air
Held hints of unknown sweetness rare,
Hid sky and wave within.

My boy-mate bounded up the steep,
His lithe arms heaped with bloom—
A treasure for a day to keep:
Saw he that grand horizon sweep,
That glory of vast room?

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I know not; but his flowers were bright,
And full of perfume, too;
And he had felt a keen delight
In every sound and smell and sight,
The cheerful woodland through.

Yet hope I that he may not rest
In earthly sweetness won;
Since we in seeking are most blest,
And life hides evermore its best
A little farther on.

THE RIVULET.

Run, little rivulet, run!
Summer is fairly begun.
Bear to the meadow the hymn of the pines,
And the echo that rings where the waterfall shines;
Run, little rivulet, run!

Run, little rivulet, run!
Sing to the fields of the sun,
That wavers in emerald, shimmers in gold,
Where you glide from your rocky ravine, crystal-cold;
Run, little rivulet, run!

Run, little rivulet, run!
Sing of the flowers, every one:
Of the delicate harebell and violet blue;
Of the red mountain rosebud, all dripping with dew;
Run, little rivulet, run!

Run, little rivulet, run!
Carry the perfume you won
From the lily, that woke when the morning was gray,
To the white waiting moonbeam adrift on the bay;
Run, little rivulet, run!

Run, little rivulet, run!
Stay not till summer is done!
Carry the city the mountain-birds' glee;
Carry the joy of the hills to the sea;
Run, little rivulet, run!

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THE BROWN THRUSH.

There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree,
“He 's singing to me! He 's singing to me!”
And what does he say, little girl, little boy?
“Oh, the world 's running over with joy!
Don't you hear? don't you see?
Hush! Look! In my tree
I'm as happy as happy can be!”

And the brown thrush keeps singing, “A nest do you see,
And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper-tree?
Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy,
Or the world will lose some of its joy!
Now I'm glad! now I'm free!
And I always shall be,
If you never bring sorrow to me.”

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
To you and to me, to you and to me;
And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,
“Oh, the world 's running over with joy!
But long it won't be,
Don't you know? don't you see?
Unless we are as good as can be!”

A HAREBELL.

Mother, if I were a flower
Instead of a little child,
I would choose my home by a waterfall,
To laugh at its gambols wild,
To be sprinkled with spray and dew;
And I 'd be a harebell blue.

Blue is the color of heaven,
And blue is the color for me.
But in the rough earth my clinging roots
Closely nestled should be;
For the earth is friendly and true
To the little harebell blue.

I could not look up to the Sun
As the bolder blossoms look;
But he would look up with a smile to me
From his mirror in the brook;
And his smile would thrill me through,—
A trembling harebell blue.

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The winds would not break my stem
When they rushed in tempest by;
I would bend before them, for they come
From the loving Hand on high,
That never a harm can do
To a slender harebell blue.

I would play with shadow and breeze;
I would blossom from June till frost.
Dear mother, I know you would find me out,
When my stream-side cliff you crossed;
And I 'd give myself to you,—
Your own little harebell blue.

PUSSY-CLOVER.

Pussy-Clover's running wild,
Here and there and anywhere,
Like a little vagrant child
Free of everybody's care.

All unshaded roadsides know
Pussy-Clover's sunburnt head,
That by cabin door-steps low
Lifts itself in tawny red.

Lady-Rose is shy and proud;
Maiden-Lily bashful-sweet:
Pussy-Clover loves a crowd,
Seeks the paths of hurrying feet.

When tow-headed children run
Jostling to the railway track,
Pussy-Clover 's in the fun,
Nodding forward, nodding back.

Matters little who sits there,
In the thundering car swept by;
Blossoms bow, and children stare,
Neither offering reason why.

Downy heads to hoary turn;
Scarcely noted is the change:
But the fair world's face grows stern;
Wayside blossoms wan and strange.

Like all faithful, homely things,
Pussy-Clover lingers on
Till the bird no longer sings,
And the butterfly is gone.

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When the latest asters go,
When the golden-rod drops dead,
Then, at last, in heaps of snow
Pussy-Clover hides her head.

HAL'S BIRTHDAY.

Four years old when the blackberries come!
After the roses have blossomed and gone,
And you only hear the wild-bee's hum
In the bough that the robin sang upon.

Columbines will not nod from the rock,
Nor blue-eyed violets hide in the grass,
Nor the wind with the sweet-breathed clover talk,
When pussy and I down the meadow pass.

But she will run after me, all the same,
With her spotted back and her frisky tail,
And will stop and look when I call her name,
Or spring at my curls from the high fence-rail.

Cherries and strawberries, you may go;
We shall not fret about you in the least,
Out where the plump, sweet blackberries grow,—
Pussy and I, at my birthday feast.

If there 's a grasshopper left in sight,
Or a locust spinning his long, dry tune,
They are the guests that we will invite
To eat with us in the shade at noon.

Overhead will the sky be blue,
And the grass we tread will be short and green,
And a late field-daisy—one or two—
Will, may be, among the vines be seen.

And perhaps, perhaps I shall go to the wood
Where the pines bend down to the feathery ferns,
And the cardinal-flowers bloom as red as blood,
And the moss to gold in the sunshine turns.

And there I shall gather my basket full
Of fragrant clethra as white as snow,
And partridge-berries and club-moss pull,
And play by the pond where the lilies grow.

Mother, and all of us,—pussy, too,—
Will eat our supper under the trees,
Before it is time for the sunset dew;
Then loiter homeward, slow as we please;

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Watching the squirrels peep from the wall,
Mocking the whistle of scared chewink,
Hearing the cows for the milkers call;
Pleasant our walk will be, I think.

Months of summer will soon pass by;
Time slips along, who is guessing how?
Fast and faster the merry days fly;—
But don't you wish it was August now?

BERRYING SONG.

Ho! for the hills in summer!
Ho! for the rocky shade,
Where the groundpine trails under the fern-leaves.
Deep in the mossy glade.
Up in the dewy sunrise,
Waked by the robin's trill;
Up and away, a-berrying,
To the pastures on the hill!

Red lilies blaze out of the thicket;
Wild roses blush here and there:
There 's sweetness in all the breezes,
There 's health in each breath of air.
Hark to the wind in the pine-trees!
Hark to the tinkling rill!
Oh, pleasant it is a-berrying
In the pastures on the hill!

We'll garland our baskets with blossoms,
And sit on the rocks and sing,
And tell one another old stories,
Till the trees long shadows fling;
Then homeward, with laughter and carol,
Mocking the echoes shrill.
Oh, merry it is a-berrying
In the pastures on the hill!

HAPPY FIELDS OF SUMMER.

Happy fields of summer, all your airy grasses
Whispering and bowing when the west wind passes,—
Happy lark and nestling, hid beneath the mowing,
Root sweet music in you, to the white clouds growing!

Happy fields of summer, softly billowed over
With the feathery red-top and the rosy clover,

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Happy little children seek your shady places,
Lark-songs in their bosoms, sunshine on their faces!

Happy little children, skies are bright above you,
Trees bend down to kiss you, breeze and blossom love you;
And we bless you, playing in the field-paths mazy,
Swinging with the harebell, dancing with the daisy!

Happy fields of summer, touched with deeper beauty
As your tall grain ripens, tell the children duty
Sweeter is than pleasure;—tell them both are blended
In the best life-story, well begun and ended!

LITTLE HUGH.

Little Hugh is awake at the breaking of day,
And out in the sunny fields beaded with dew;
Wherever I wander, I soon hear him say
From somewhere behind, “Here is Hugh!
Now where are you going? I want to go, too!”

At noon, when no bird can be heard in the tree,
And the air is still as if wind never blew,
As brisk as a little red squirrel is he;
On the doorstep he cries, “Here is Hugh!
Now where shall we go? I am going with you!”

If I hide by the side of a tumble-down wall,
Or under a sweet-brier clump, out of view,
Or deep in the meadow, his laugh and his call
Ring close to my ear, “Here is Hugh!
Wherever you go, I am going with you!”

On the warm pasture-ground all around us there grow
Wild grasses, and blossoms so sweet,—not a few!
He runs hither and thither, with brown cheeks aglow,
And a flower in his hand: “Here is Hugh!
And oh! here is something so pretty, for you!”

We look into the sky, Hugh and I, and we trace
In the clouds every moment a fantasy new,—
An angel, a lamb, or a soft baby-face;
And he says, “Stay till sunset! for Hugh
Likes to look at the clouds and make pictures, with you.”

The still, lonely hillside before me lies green;
It holds in its shadow a little lake blue;
And a small, sunburnt boy always slips in between,
With a dance and a shout: “Here is Hugh!
You can't get away! I am going with you!”

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And the wish that I send, little friend, far away,
Where you rove here and there in the prairie-lands new,
Is that they whom you follow may not lead astray,
When you trustingly call, “Here is Hugh!
Wherever you go, I am going with you!”

NID-NODDING.

Nid-nid-nodding in the sun,
Poppy buds hang over, one by one;
All the garden alleys glow with heat;
Slow and languid are the little feet,
Glad to linger in the doorway cool,
Home at noon from school.

Nid-nid-nodding in the sun,
Where the lazy little brooklets run
Through the meadow, swings an idle bird;
Chirps the faintest carol ever heard,
Twittering through the tinkle of the rill;
Then the nest is still.

Nid-nid-nodding in the sun,
Droop the heavy grasses, every one,
Kissing down the drowsy laddie's eye;
Croons a locust from the field close by:
Lost in dells of dream-land, cool and deep,
He is fast asleep.

SWINGING ON A BIRCH-TREE.

Swinging on a birch-tree
To a sleepy tune,
Hummed by all the breezes
In the month of June!
Little leaves a-flutter,
Sound like dancing drops
Of a brook on pebbles;
Song that never stops.

Up and down we seesaw:
Up into the sky;
How it opens on us,
Like a wide blue eye!
You and I are sailors
Rocking on a mast;
And the world 's our vessel:
Ho! she sails so fast!

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Blue, blue sea around us;
Not a ship in sight!
They will hang out lanterns
When they pass, to-night.
We with ours will follow
Through the midnight deep;
Not a thought of danger,
Though the crew 's asleep.

Oh, how still the air is!
There an oriole flew;
What a jolly whistle!
He 's a sailor, too.
Yonder is his hammock
In the elm-top high:
One more ballad, messmate!
Sing it as you fly!

Up and down we seesaw;
Down into the grass,
Scented fern, and rosebuds,
All a woven mass.
That 's the sort of carpet
Fitted for our feet!
Tapestry nor velvet
Is so rich and neat.

Swinging on a birch-tree!
This is summer joy,
Fun for all vacation;
Don't you think so, boy?
Up and down to seesaw,
Merry and at ease,
Careless as a brook is,
Idle as the breeze!

LITTLE NANNIE.

Fawn-footed Nannie,
Where have you been?
“Chasing the sunbeams
Into the glen;
Plunging through silver lakes
After the moon;
Tracking o'er meadows
The footsteps of June.”

Sunny-eyed Nannie,
What did you see?
“Saw the fays sewing.
Green leaves on a tree;

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Saw the waves counting
The eyes of the stars;
Saw cloud-lambs sleeping
By sunset's red bars.”

Listening Nannie,
What did you hear?
“Heard the rain asking
A rose to appear;
Heard the woods tell
When the wind whistled wrong;
Heard the stream flow
Where the bird drinks his song.”

Nannie, dear Nannie,
Oh, take me with you,
To run and to listen,
And see as you do!
“Nay, nay! you must borrow
My ear and my eye,
Or the beauty will vanish,
The music will die.”

A LILY'S WORD.

Oh, my delicate lily,
Blossom of fragrant snow,
Breathing on me from the garden,
How does your beauty grow?
Tell me what blessing the kind heavens give!
How do you find it so sweet to live?

“One loving smile of the sun
Charms me out of the mould:
One tender tear of the rain
Makes my full heart unfold.—
Welcome whatever the kind heavens give,
And you will find it as sweet to live.”

PURPLE SANDWORT.

'T is a little roadside flower,
Glad of leave to live an hour,
Just to wonder and to doubt
What the world can be about.

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Tiniest rosy-purple stars
Strewn beneath the pasture-bars,
Or along the path, so small,
Few perceive a flower at all.

Burning sand and burning sun
This small blossom loves as one;
Well content in drawing thence
One short hour of light intense.

Opal rays it gathers up
In its tinted baby-cup,
Drinks and gives its draught of sun,
Then its pleasant life is done.

Opals are but sand refined;
These are gems,—a simpler kind;
All the light around they fling,
That can fill so small a thing.

Pretty sand-stars! ye have wrought
Round our feet a mesh of thought:
Clinging to the wagon's track,
Finding there nor loss nor lack:

Happy in your patch of sand
As the rose in gardens grand;
Happier, since a spot so bare
Feels your life, your tints can wear.

Just to live is joy enough,
Though where roads are dull and rough.
Fill your cup and share it! can
More be done by flower or man?

Usually called “Red Sandwort:” its color is really a pale amethyst-purple.

ROSEBUD.

Oh, little maid, in your rosebud-bower,
Dreaming of growing old,
Wishing youth always would linger, a flower
Never in haste to unfold;
Lift from the shadow your sunshiny head!
Growing old is nothing to dread!

Oh, little maid, in the rose-tree shade,
See how its dry boughs shoot!
The green leaves fall, and the blossoms fade;
But youth is a living root.
There are always buds in the old tree's heart,
Ready at beckon of spring to start.

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Oh, little maid, there is joy to seek,
Glory of earth and sky,
When the rosebud-streak fades out of your cheek,
And the dewy gleam from your eye:
Deeper and wider must life take root;
Redder and higher must glow its fruit.

Oh, little maid, be never afraid
That youth from your heart will go:
Reach forth unto heaven, through shower and shade!
We are always young, while we grow.
Breathe out in a blessing your happy breath!
For love keeps the spirit from age and from death.

GRACE AND HER FRIENDS.

Your walk is lonely, blue-eyed Grace,
Down the long forest-road to school,
Where shadows troop, at dismal pace,
From sullen chasm to sunless pool.
Are you not often, little maid,
Beneath the sighing trees afraid?

“Afraid,—beneath the tall, strong trees,
That bend their arms to shelter me,
And whisper down, with dew and breeze,
Sweet sounds that float on lovingly,
Till every gorge and cavern seems
Thrilled through and through with fairy dreams?

“Afraid,—beside the water dim
That holds the baby-lilies white
Upon its bosom, where a hymn
Ripples forth softly to the light
That now and then comes gliding in,
A lily's budding smile to win?

“Fast to the slippery precipice
I see the nodding harebell cling:
In that blue eye no fear there is;
Its hold is firm, the frail, free thing!
The harebell's Guardian cares for me:
So I am in safe company.

“The woodbine clambers up the cliff
And seems to murmur, ‘Little Grace,
The sunshine were less welcome, if
It brought not every day your face.’
Red leaves slip down from maples high,
And touch my cheek as they flit by.

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“I feel at home with everything
That has its dwelling in the wood;
With flowers that laugh, and birds that sing;
Companions beautiful and good,
Brothers and sisters everywhere;
And over all, our Father's care.

“In rose-time or in berry-time,
When ripe seeds fall or buds peep out,
While green the turf or white the rime,
There 's something to be glad about:
It makes my heart bound just to pass
The sunbeams dancing on the grass.

“And when the bare rocks shut me in
Where not a blade of grass will grow,
My happy fancies soon begin
To warble music, rich and low,
And paint what eyes could never see:
My thoughts are company for me.

“What does it mean to be alone?
And how is any one afraid,
Who feels the dear God on His throne
Sending His sunshine through the shade,
Warming the damp sod into bloom,
And smiling off the thicket's gloom?

“At morning, down the wood-path cool
The fluttering leaves make cheerful talk;
After the stifled day at school,
I hear, along my homeward walk,
The airy wisdom of the wood,
Far easiest to be understood.

“I whisper to the winds; I kiss
The rough old oak and clasp his bark;
No farewell of the thrush I miss;
I lift the soft veil of the dark,
And say to bird and breeze and tree,
‘Good night! Good friends you are to me!’”

THE BROOK THAT RAN INTO THE SEA.

“Oh, little brook,” the children said,
“The sea has waves enough;
Why hurry down your mossy bed
To meet his welcome rough?

“The Hudson or the Oregon
May help his tides to swell:

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But when your few bright drops are gone,
What has he gained, pray tell?”

“I run for pleasure,” said the brook,
Still running, running fast;
“I love to see you bend and look,
As I go bubbling past.

“I love to feel the wild weeds dip;
I love your fingers light,
That dimpling from my eddies drip,
Filled with my pebbles bright.

“My own mysterious life I love,
Its shadow and its shine;
And all sweet voices that above
Make melody with mine.

“But most I love the mighty Voice
Which calls me, draws me so,
That every ripple lisps, ‘Rejoice!’
As with a laugh I go.

“My drop of freshness to the Sea
In music trickles on:
Nor grander could my welcome be
Were I an Amazon.

“And if his moaning waves can feel
My sweetness near the shore,
Even to his heart the thrill may steal:—
What could I wish for, more?

“The largest soul to take love in
Knows how to give love best;
So peacefully my tinkling din
Dies on the great Sea's breast.

“One heart encircles all that live,
And blesses great and small;
And meet it is that each should give
His little to the All.”

THE SING-AWAY BIRD.

Have you ever heard of the Sing-away bird,
That sings where the Runaway River
Runs down with its rills from the bald-headed hills
That stand in the sunshine and shiver?

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“Oh, sing! sing-away! sing-away!”
How the pines and the birches are stirred
By the trill of the Sing-away bird!

And the bald-headed hills, with their rocks and their rills,
To the tune of his rapture are ringing;
And their faces grow young, all the gray mists among,
While the forests break forth into singing.
“Oh, sing! sing-away! sing-away!”
And the river runs singing along;
And the flying winds catch up the song.

'T was a white-throated sparrow, that sped a light arrow
Of song from his musical quiver,
And it pierced with its spell every valley and dell
On the banks of the Runaway River.
“Oh, sing! sing-away! sing-away!”
The song of the wild singer had
The sound of a soul that is glad.

And, beneath the glad sun, every glad-hearted one
Sets the world to the tune of his gladness:
The swift rivers sing it, the wild breezes wing it,
Till Earth loses thought of her sadness.
“Oh, sing! sing-away! sing-away!”
Oh, sing, happy soul, to joy's Giver,—
Sing on, by Time's Runaway River!

THE MAGIC FLOWER.

When I was a little child
On the seaward hillsides playing,
By my pretty dreams beguiled,
Hither, thither, went I straying.

Sometimes 't was a fairy-book;
Sometimes, my own fancy's spinning;
Laugh of sunbeam, lisp of brook;—
Who has tracked a dream's beginning?

Once I heard my blithe heart say,
Like a queen within her bower,
“Child, come forth! we will to-day
Seek the magic leaf and flower.

“Often have we read of them
In old legends, wizard-haunted,
Where a daisy's diadem
Crowns some hidden prince enchanted.

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“What if, on the hill-top there,
Lady bright or noble lover
Still in fragrant bondage were,
Stifled, shut in rose or clover?”

So my heart and I went forth
On the wide gray hills together,
All our homely northern earth
Glowing in the radiant weather.

And, oh wonder! where I trod
Sprang a gold-and-purple glory
Never seen before! the sod
Read to me a fairy story!

Disk and ray so star-like were!
This was the enchanted blossom:
I was its discoverer:—
How my heart danced in my bosom!

Who could guess but at its root
My true knight for me was waiting;
Royal playmate, crowned, though mute,
Smiling through his prison-grating?

Long I kept my secret well;
But the blossom passed, unwitting,
Whither, I could never tell;
Who has tracked a fairy's flitting?

“It was but a common flower,”
Afterward the cold years told me:
Still my childhood's dream has power
With a sweet warmth to enfold me.

Out of elf-land's magic haze
Many a wise, clear voice has spoken:
And the old enchantment stays,
Though the enchanter's spell is broken.

Though no witch-wand may unroll
From a wild-flower human features,
Every form implies a soul:
God makes only living creatures.

Ever since, fresh mysteries
From the ground I tread have risen;
Each sweet spirit flower-like is,
Blooming in its earthly prison.

Every blossom gives a hint
Of some friend I know and cherish,

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In its grace of mien or tint:—
Friends and flowers, alas, must perish!

Still, of both, the life remains,—
All they gave me of their glory:
And upon celestial plains
I may read their perfect story.

PLAYTHINGS.

Not much to make us happy
Do any of us need;
But just the right thing give us,
And we are rich indeed.

Even as with men and women
It is with girls and boys;
Why should you shower on Jeanie
So many dear-bought toys?

Some bits of broken china,
A handful of corn-floss,
A shred or two of ribbon,
A strip of velvet moss;

With her family of rag-children,
And the wide clean earth around,—
No happier little housewife
Can anywhere be found.

But Nannie dear would rather
Leave Jeanie to her play,
And wander by the streamlet,
Or on the hill-top stray.

For a little white cloud passing,
A ripple on the brook,
Much more her heart enriches
Than playhouse, doll, or book.

Half Nannie's wealth lies hidden
Under the rock's green shelf:
You cannot find it for her;
She keeps the key herself.

Wild John likes forest-freedom,
And room for boundless noise,
Better than spending-money,
Or a cityful of toys.

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And small Ned with a shingle
Digs in his heap of sand;
Never swayed Inca sceptre
Upon a throne so grand.

With large and little children
The trouble is the same;
What pleases us, to others
Is wearisome and tame.

Good friends, your entertainment
A well-meant plan may be;
But he 's our benefactor
Who simply leaves us free.

FLOWER-GIRLS.

Oh, my little seaside girl,
What is in your garden growing?
“Rock-weeds and tangle-grass,
With the slow tide coming, going;
Samphire and marsh-rosemary
All along the wet shore creeping;
Sandwort, beach-peas, pimpernel,
Out of nooks and corners peeping.”

Oh, my little prairie girl,
What 's in bloom among your grasses?
“Spring-beauties, painted cups,
Flushing when the south-wind passes:
Beds of rose-pink centaury;
Compass-flowers, to northward turning;
Larkspur, orange-gold puccoon;
Leagues of lilies flame-red burning.”

Oh, my little mountain girl,
Have you anything to gather?
“White-everlasting bloom,
Not afraid of wind or weather;
Sweet-brier, leaning on the crag
That the lady-fern hides under;
Harebells, violets white and blue:
Who has sweeter flowers, I wonder?”

Oh, my little maidens three,
I will lay your pretty posies,
Sea-scented, cloud-bedewed,
Prairie grasses, mountain roses,

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On a bed of shells and moss;
Come and bend your bright heads nearer!
Though your blossoms are so fair,
You three human flowers are dearer!

SWING AWAY.

Swing away,
From the great cross-beam,
Hid in heaps of clover-hay,
Scented like a dream.

Higher yet!
Up, between the eaves,
Where the gray doves cooing flit
Through the sun-gilt leaves.

Here we go!
Whistle, merry wind!
'T is a long day you must blow,
Lighter hearts to find.

Swing away!
Sweep the rough barn floor;
Looking through on Arcady,
Framed in by the door!

One, two, three!
Quick! the round red sun,
Hid behind yon twisted tree,
Means to end the fun.

Swing away,
Over husks and grain!
Shall we ever be as gay,
If we swing again?

A LITTLE CAVALIER.

When I was very young indeed,—
Ages ago, my dear,—
I had, to stand by me at need,
A little cavalier;
The prettiest lad I ever met,
Black-eyed, red-cheeked, and fat:
His face I never can forget;
His name? Well—it was Nat.

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I saw him first one pleasant day,
Beside his mother's door;
His third year had not slipped away,
And I was scarcely four.
Upon his arm a wooden gun
He bore right soldierly;
I know not which it was first won
My heart, that gun or he.

There never was a clumsier trap
By child of mortal seen.
A button at its side went—snap!
The gun was painted green.
But, shouldering it with martial tread,
Proudest of girls was I;
While like a flag above his head
Would my pink bonnet fly.

For Nat I gathered currants fine,
And flowers that bloomed around;
Though only yellow celandine
And blue gill-over-the-ground
Grew underneath the gray stone-wall,
Still they retain their charm—
Those homely blossoms which recall
That early sunshine warm.

I never tasted gingerbread,
Or doughnuts crisp and new,
But in my mother's ear I said,
“For little Nat some, too.”
The days were dull and dark when him
To school I could not lead.
That love like ours at last grew dim
A pity seems, indeed.

To me he brought no cake or toy;
But then you know, my dear,
That he was nothing but a boy,
And boys have ways so queer!
They do not stop to think of things
That give us girls delight;
But take the best that fortune brings
As if it were their right.

'T was no such trifle made us part:
He loved my gifts to take,
And it was comfort to my heart
To see him eat my cake.
It happened thus: One afternoon,
As from the school we came,—
The day was sultry, late in June,
Our faces both aflame,—

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Beneath the blooming locust-trees
We loitered, I and Nat;
His hair was lifted by the breeze;
I firmly held his hat
By its long bridle-string of green,
And lightly held his hand:
No happier tiny twain were seen
Than we, in all the land.

A freckled girl was passing by,
And down she gazed at me,
As if we children, Nat and I,
Were something strange to see.
I looked at him and looked at her;
Why did she scan us so?
The cruel words she uttered were,
“I guess you 've got a beau!”

“A beau! What! he?” At once I dropped
The little hand and hat,
And home I ran, and never stopped
Till I lost sight of Nat.
A beau! Some monstrous thing, no doubt,
All tusks and fangs and claws;
The one they read to me about
A boa-constrictor was.

None did I with my grief annoy,
None should my terror know;
But, oh, I wondered if a boy
Must always be a beau!
And so my happy days were done!
That innocent-looking Nat,
The owner of that darling gun,
How came he to be that?

Nat's doorstep nevermore I sought;
No sign of woe gave he;
Much more of him I doubtless thought
Than ever he of me.
Forgetting is not hard, for men
As young as he, my dear,
And so I lost him there and then,—
My little cavalier.

A FACE IN THE TONGS.

A child's round face in the tongs;
She is rubbing the brasses bright,
While merry old-fashioned nursery-songs
She croons with a child's delight.

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She sees in the glittering sphere
Her broadened baby-face
Smiling back on itself with a wordless cheer,
And filling the globe-like space.

Little friend, by my name once known,
I am rubbing the tongs to-day;
But the face that I gaze on you would not own,
It has lost your child-look gay.

Oh, your world was golden and glad:
Your happy heart was enough,
Though that and the sunshine were all you had,
And earth underfoot was rough.

But one thing I learned from you
I have not forgotten, quite;
No pleasanter work can a mortal do
Than to keep one small world bright.

And, thinking about you, dear,
The face in the tongs has smiled;
In a dream I went back to your shining sphere,
And played with myself, a child.

A LITTLE OLD GIRL.

What is this round world to Prudence,
With her round, black, restless eyes,
But a world for knitting stockings,
Sweeping floors, and baking pies?

'T is a world that women work in,
Sewing long seams, stitch by stitch;
Barns for hay, and chests for linen;
'T is a world where men grow rich.

Ten years old is little Prudence;
Ten years older still she seems,
With her busy eyes and fingers,
With her grown-up thoughts and schemes.

Sunset is the time for candles;
Cows are milked at fall of dew,
Beans will grow, and melons ripen,
When the summer skies are blue.

Is there more than work in living?
Yes; a child must go to school,
And to meeting every Sunday;
Not a heathen be, or fool.

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Something more has haunted Prudence
In the song of bird and bee,
In the low wind's dreamy whisper
Through the light-leaved poplar-tree.

Something lingers, bends above her,
Leaning at the mossy well;
Some sweet murmur from the meadows,
On the air some gentle spell.

But she will not stop to listen:—
May be there are witches yet!
So she runs away from beauty,
Tries its presence to forget.

'T is the way her mother taught her;
Prudence is not much to blame.
Work is good for child or woman;
Childhood's jailer,—'t is a shame!

Meanwhile at the romping children
Their grave heads the gossips shake;
Saying, with a smile for Prudence,
“What a good wife she will make!”

IN FAIRY-LAND.

A little knight and little maid
Met on the rim of Fairy-Land;
A rippling stream betwixt them played;
The little knight reached out his hand,

And said, “Now may I cross to you,
Or will you come across to me?”
Out spoke the little maiden true:
“Sir Knight, nor this nor that can be:

“For I am here white flowers to sow,
That little maidens far behind,
Or wandering on the plains below,
Their pathway up the hill may find.

“And you are there good work to do;
To clear the brambles from the way,
That little knights who follow you
May not upon the mountains stray.

“But see! the stream, as up we climb,
Is narrowing to a rivulet.
Hark! airy bells above us chime,
And nearer every hour we get.

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“Up where the fountain falls in gold
It lies—the cool, sweet Fairy-Land,
Where child-hearts never can grow old;
And we will walk there, hand in hand.

“And in that country strange and blest,
We'll find some lovely work to do
For many an earth-bewildered guest,—
For wearier folk than I or you.

“And upward, upward as we go,
The fairy-secret we shall guess—
The secret that we almost know—
Of living other hearts to bless.

“Sweet voices call us through the air;
New languages we understand.
Is this our own world, grown so fair?
Sir Knight, we are in Fairy-Land!”

IF I WERE A SUNBEAM.

If I were a sunbeam,
I know what I 'd do:
I would seek white lilies
Rainy woodlands through;
I would steal among them,
Softest light I 'd shed,
Until every lily
Raised its drooping head.

“If I were a sunbeam,
I know where I 'd go:
Into lowliest hovels,
Dark with want and woe;
Till sad hearts looked upward,
I would shine and shine;
Then they'd think of heaven,
Their sweet home and mine.”

Art thou not a sunbeam,
Child, whose life is glad
With an inner radiance
Sunshine never had?
Oh, as God has blessed thee,
Scatter rays divine!
For there is no sunbeam
But must die, or shine.

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A CHILD'S NIGHT-THOUGHTS.

They put her to bed in the darkness,
And bade her be quiet and good;
But she sobbed in the silence, and trembled,
Though she tried to be brave as she could.

For the Night was so real, so awful!
A mystery closing around,
Like the walls of a deep, deep dungeon,
That hid her from sight and sound.

So stifling, so empty, so dreary—
That horror of loneliness black!
She fell asleep, moaning and fearing
That morning would never come back.

A baby must bear its own sorrow,
Since none understands it aright;
But at last from her bosom was lifted
That terrible fear of the night.

One evening the hands that undressed her
Led her out of the door close by,
And a voice bade her look for a moment
Up into the wonderful sky,

Where the planets and constellations,
Deep-rooted in darkness, grew
Like blossoms from black earth blooming,
All sparkling with silvery dew.

It seemed to bend down to meet her—
That luminous purple dome;
She was caught up into a glory,
Where her baby-heart was at home,

Like a child in its father's garden,
As glad as a child could be,
In the feeling of perfect protection
And limitless liberty.

And this had been all around her,
While she shuddered alone in bed!
The beautiful, grand revelation,
With ecstasy sweet she read.

And she sank into sound child-slumber,
All folded in splendors high,
All happy and soothed with blessings
Breathed out of the heart of the sky.

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And in dreams her light, swift footsteps
Those infinite spaces trod;
A fearless little explorer
Of the paths that lead up to God.

The darkness now was no dungeon,
But a key into wide release;
And the Night was a vision of freedom—
A Presence of heavenly peace.

And I doubt not that in like manner
Might vanish, as with a breath,
The gloom and the lonely terror
Of the mystery we call Death.

STARLIGHT.

Mother, see! the stars are out,
Twinkling all the sky about;
Faster, faster, one by one,
From behind the clouds they run.
Are they hurrying forth to see
Children watching them, like me?

Oft I wonder, mother dear,
Why so many stars appear
Through the darkness every night,
With their little speck of light:
Hardly can a ray so small
Brighten up the world at all.

“Ah, you know not, little one,
Every dim star is a sun
To some planet-circle fair,
In its far-off home of air:
Rays that here so faint you call
There in radiant sunshine fall.

“I have sometimes wondered, too,
(Scarcely wiser, dear, than you,)
Why unnumbered souls had birth
On this wide expanse of earth;
Wondered where the need was shown
For so many lives unknown.

“He who calls the stars by name,
At his mighty word they came
Out of heaven's deep light, to bless
Life's remotest wilderness.
Every soul may be a sun;
You and I, too, little one!”

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THE LAST FLOWER OF THE YEAR.

The gentian was the year's last child,
Born when the winds were hoarse and wild
With wailing over buried flowers,
The playmates of their sunnier hours.

The gentian hid a thoughtful eye
Beneath dark fringes, blue and shy,
Only by warmest noon-beams won,
To meet the welcome of the sun.

The gentian, her long lashes through,
Looked up into the sky so blue,
And felt at home; the color there
The good God gave herself to wear.

The gentian searched the fields around;
No flower-companion there she found.
Upward, from all the woodland ways
Floated the aster's silvery rays.

The gentian shut her eyelids tight
On falling leaf and frosty night;
And close her azure mantle drew,
While dreary winds around her blew.

The gentian said, “The world is cold;
Yet one clear glimpse of heaven I hold.
The sun's last thought is mine to keep!
Enough—now let me go to sleep.”

WHAT THE TRAIN RAN OVER.

When the train came shrieking down,
Did you see what it ran over?
I saw heads of golden brown,
Little plump hands filled with clover.
Yes, I saw them, boys and girls,
With no look or thought of flitting;
Not a tremble in their curls;—
Where the track runs they were sitting.

From the windows of the train
I could see what they were doing;
I could see their faces, plain:
Some with dreamy eyes pursuing

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Flight of passing cloud or bird;
Others childish ditties flinging
On the air; I almost heard
What the song was they were singing.

They were well-known faces, too;
Do you marvel that I shiver
As I picture them to you
Playing there beside the river?
With them I myself have played
On that very spot: I wonder
Why I never was afraid
Of the coming railway-thunder.

Little, sunburnt, barefoot boys
In the shallow water wading,
Sea-birds scattering with your noise,
Ragged hats your rogue-looks shading,
Will your sparkling eyes upon
Yonder waves again flash never?
Is your heartsome laughter gone
From the tired old world forever?

Dimpled Ruth, with brow of snow!
Never thought I to outlive her,
While we watched the white boats go
Up and down the small tide-river,
Past dark steeps of juniper,
Ever widening, ever flowing
To the sea; I mourn for her,
Gone so far beyond my knowing!

Well, the cruel train rolls on.
What! your eyes with tears are filling
For my pretty playmates gone?
Child, I am to blame for chilling
All your warm young fancies so:
There are real troubles, plenty!
They lived—forty years ago;
And the road has run here twenty.

And those children,—I was one,—
Busy men and women, wander
Under life's midsummer sun.
One or two have gone home yonder
Out of sight. But still I see
Golden heads amid the clover
On the railway-track; to me
This is what the train runs over.

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THE BARN WINDOW.

The old barn window, John,—
Do you remember it,—
How just above it, on the beam,
The tame doves used to sit,
And how we watched the sunshine stream
Through motes and gossamer,
When down they fluttered, John,
With such a breezy whirr?

I think the sunsets, John,
Are seldom now as red;
They used to linger like a crown
Upon your auburn head,
From the high hayloft looking down
To tell me of the nest
The white hen hid there, John,—
The whole brood's handsomest!

Those times were pleasant, John,
When we were boy and girl,
Though modern young folk style them “slow;”
Alack! a giddy whirl
The poor old world is spinning now,
To stop, who guesses when?
Be thankful with me, John,
That we were children then!

Have you forgotten, John,
That Wednesday afternoon
When the great doors were opened wide,
And all the scents of June
Came in to greet us, side by side,
In the high-seated swing,
Where flocks of swallows, John,
Fanned us with startled wing?

Up to the barn eaves, John,
We swung, two happy things,
At home and careless in the air
As if we both had wings.
The mountain-side lay far and fair,
Beyond the blue stream's shore;
I cried, “Swing higher, John!”
And—fell upon the floor.

Next time I saw you, John,
You stood beside my bed;
Tears trembled in your clear boy-glance;
I thought that I was dead.

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But felt my childish pulses dance
To be beside you still:
I lived to love you, John,
As to the end I will.

We swing no longer, John;
We sit at our own door,
And watch the shadows on the hill,
The sunshine on the shore.
But the window in the barn is still
A magic-glass to me;
For through its cobwebs, John,
Our childhood's days I see.

BLACK IN BLUE SKY.

An artist one day at his easel stood,
And sketched, with a pencil free,
The gold of the meadow, the green of the wood,
And the purple and gray of the sea;
A child stood watching, a little way back,
And questioned the artist, “Why
Do you mix with your color a touch of black,
When you paint the blue of the sky?”

“Because there is black in the blue, my child;
I am painting the sky as it is!”
And he softly said, while he sadly smiled,
“It is one of earth's mysteries:
Not the lily itself wears a perfect white,
Nor the red rose an unmixed dye:
There is light in shadow, and shadow in light,
And black in the blue of the sky.”

There are films over nature everywhere
To soothe and refresh our sight;
For mortal eyes were not made to bear
The dazzle of undimmed light.
Our consolation and our complaint;
Awaking both smile and sigh:
There are human faults in the holiest saint,
Like the black in the blue of the sky.

What then? Shall we say that the skies are not blue,
Lilies white, nor the roses red?
Shall we doubt whether ever the crystal dew
Drops pearls on the paths we tread?
We may dwell where there is no blur in the air,
Over beauty no veil, by and by:
But good is good always and everywhere,
Though black may steal into blue sky.

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A ROADSIDE PREACHER.

Dead, is he,—in a pauper's bed,
The good old Larkin Moore?
Was there no place for that white head,
None but the workhouse floor?
Oh, bear him out with reverent tread,
Under blue heaven once more!

He came and went across our youth
Like some arisen saint.
He flung his random dart of truth
In fashion wild and quaint:
His figure and his garb, in sooth,
Were something strange to paint.

His tunic fluttered in the wind,
Each thin hand held a cane;
With silvery locks blown far behind,
He hurried through the lane,
Some straggling listener to find,
And seldom sought in vain.

For often, in the dusty street,
Men paused from work to hear
The echoes of the hills repeat
The shrill voice of the seer;
And boys forgot each playful feat,
And idly clustered near.

The baby left its mother's arm
To hear the old man sing;
And cream-white fingers, plump and warm,
Around his lips would ring,
To pluck the song's mysterious charm;
The winsome, witless thing!

And little girls, upon a bank
Of blossoms red and white,
Pausing amid some pretty prank,
Their eyes with fun still bright,
Listened, while timidly they shrank;
It was a pleasant sight:

For he was harmless in his mood,
And told, with cheerful tone,
True stories of the wise and good,
To Hebrew ages known:
In ways we little understood,
His seeds of truth were sown.

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And so he wandered east and west,
And up and down the land:
We wondered if, at night, his rest
Were on the hard, bare sand;
He surely had one sheltering nest,—
The hollow of God's hand.

It seemed to us he could not die,
Nor yet with years grow old.
His home was somewhere in the sky,
For aught we could have told;
And had he, wingless, tried to fly,
Who would have thought him bold?

Thou weird apostle of the Past,
Among the shoots of May
Was thy unsifted seed-grain cast;
And with her blossoms gay
The wayside word has bloomed at last,
More beautiful than they.

Dead? In thy right mind thou dost sit
Upon Life's farther shore,
Bathed in the Light that men of wit
With dazed eyes shrink before;
While on a pauper's grave is writ,
“Here slumbers Larkin Moore.”

OUR LADY OF THE LILIES.

Our Lady of the lilies—
The valley-lilies fair!
Her brow was pure as any babe's,
And silvery-white her hair.

The snows of ninety winters
Had fallen upon her head;
Within her clear, benignant eyes
A history sweet you read.

She walked among the flowers
That her own hands had sown;
With lilies-of-the-valley white
Her paths were overgrown.

Through the old, grassy garden
Year after year they stole;
Their fragrance seemed the very breath
Of our dear Lady's soul.

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She gave away her lilies
Freely as wild birds sing;
They bore to sick and lonely ones
The first glad hint of spring.

Our Lady of the lilies
Loved other blossoms, too;
She was our Sweet-Pea Grandmamma,—
The dearest flower she knew.

With earliest heats of summer
Came forth the sweet-pea's blush,
Pink as the soft tint of her cheek,
Or sunset's last, faint flush.

And, clipping bud and tendril
In morning's dewiest hours,
Her thoughts on lovely errands ran:—
“Now, who shall have my flowers?”

Surely her love was in them,
Like sun and dew and air;
For sweet-peas wonderful as hers
Blossomed not anywhere.

They crowded through the fence-rail,
They sprang to meet her touch,
All winged and waiting for a flight:
Where shall we now find such?

And oh! what fairer blossoms
Can grow around her feet,
In that new country where she walks,
Within heaven's climate sweet?

I think they must have brought her
The dear, old-fashioned flowers,
Before her heart felt quite at home
Even in the angels' bowers.

Our Lady of the lilies
Even there her name may be;
While here fond memories cling to her
As Grandmamma Sweet-Pea.

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“LIKE ANY OTHER LITTLE GIRL.”

A little girl across the sea
Lives in a palace: one of three
Gay little princesses is she,
Light-hearted as the greenwood merle,
And fond as any child of play;
Fond, too, of having her own way;
And she would keep her holiday
Like any other little girl.

She would not have the soldiers go
Before, behind her, in a row,
That all the gazing crowd might know
She was of Queen Victoria's blood;
And so the royal children spent
Their holiday in merriment
Without alloy, because they went
As any other children would.

Wise little Maude! to learn so soon
That, underneath the sun and moon,
God gives to none a richer boon
Than His own breath, our common air;
To think our thought as others think,
Our life with other lives to link,
And out of one full cup to drink,
Free unto all men, everywhere.

Nothing that grandest, loveliest is,
In all this lovely world of His,
Was made alone for princesses:
The toiler's child can see the sky,
And feel the sun, and pluck the flower,
And catch the beauty of the hour,
And be at home with that Great Power
Who takes no note of low or high.

Wise little princess! always so
In happy freedom come and go!
And yet—this world is full of woe,
And little people in the whirl
Of care, and crime, and pain are caught:
Give to their piteous fate a thought!
Not all the blessings of your lot
Fall upon every little girl.

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Yet they are also princesses;
A King their Father; each, being His,
A child of heavenly lineage is,
Just like yourself, dear Princess Maude!
And pale indeed is every gem
That stars your future diadem
Beside the crown-rays lighting them—
Your sisters, daughters of your God.

Ah! be it ever your sweet will
To share their load of good and ill!
So glory that is queenlier still
Than gleam of ruby or of pearl
Your sign of royalty will be;
By right of your humanity
Heiress of all things glad and free,
Like any other little girl!

The three daughters of the Prince of Wales having been promised a visit to the Tower of London, Maude, the youngest, insisted that she would not go unless she could go “just like any other little girl.” She carried her point, and the royal children had a good time according to their own ideas.

THE COUNTRY BOY.

“I pity the poor little country boy,
Away on his lonely farm!
The holidays bring him no elegant toy;
He has no money, there is no shop;
Even Christmas morning his work does n't stop:
He has cows to milk, he has wood to chop,
And to carry in on his arm.”

Did you hear that, Fred, as you came through the gate,
With your milk-pail full to the brim?
No envy hid under your curly brown pate;
You were watching a star in the morning sky,
And a star seemed shining out of your eye;
Your thoughts were glad, you could n't tell why,
But they were not of toys, or of him.

Yet the city boy said what he kindly meant,
Walking on by his mother's side,
With his eyes on the toy-shop windows bent,
Wishing for all that his eyes could see;
Longing and looking and teasing went he,
Nor dreamed that a single pleasure could be
Afar in your woodlands wide.

You ate your breakfast that morning, Fred,
As a country boy should eat;
Then you jumped with your father upon the sled,
And were off to the hills for a load of wood;
Quiet and patient the oxen stood,
And the snowy world looked cheerful and good,
While you stamped, to warm your feet.

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Then your father told you to take a run,
And you started away up the hill;
You were all alone, but it was such fun!
The larch and the pine-tree seemed racing past
Instead of yourself, you went so fast;
But, rosy and out of breath, at last
You stood in the sunshine still.

And all of a sudden there came the thought,
While a brown leaf toward you whirled,
And a chickadee sang, as if they brought
Something they meant on purpose for you,
As if the trees to delight you grew,
As if the sky for your sake was blue,—
“It is such a beautiful world!”

The graceful way that the spruce-trees had
Of holding their soft, white load,
You saw and admired; and your heart was glad,
As you laid on the trunk of a beech your hand,
And beheld the wonderful mountains stand
In a chain of crystal, clear and grand,
At the end of the widening road.

Oh, Fred! without knowing, you held a gift
That a mine of gold could not buy;
Something the soul of a man to lift
From the tiresome earth, and to make him see
How beautiful common things can be;
How heaven may be glimpsed through a wayside tree;
The gift of an artist's eye!

What need had you of money, my boy,
Or the presents money can bring,
When every breath was a breath of joy?
You owned the whole world, with its hills and trees,
The sun, and the clouds, and the bracing breeze,
And your hands to work with; having these,
You were richer than any king.

When the dusk drew on, by the warm hearth-fire,
You needed nobody's pity;
But you said, as the soft flames mounted higher,
And the eye and cheek of your mother grew bright,
While she smiled and talked in the lovely light,—
A picture of pictures, to your sight,—
“I am sorry for boys in the city!”

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SNOW-FANCIES.

Oh, snow! flying hither,
And hurrying thither,
Here, there, through the air—you never care whither—
Do you see me here sitting,
A-knitting, a-knitting,
And wishing myself with you breezily flitting,
Like any wild elf?

Each light as a feather,
The merry flakes gather
In rifts and in drifts, glad enough of cold weather;
Gay throngs interlacing,
On the slant roofs embracing,
They slip and they fall! down, down they are racing,
I after them all!

One large flake advances:
'T is a white steed that prances;
At the bits, as he flits, how he foams, like my fancies!
Up softly I sidle
From where I sit idle,—
I snatch, as it flies, at the gossamer bridle,—
I am mounted, I rise!

Away we are bounding,
No hoof-note resounding,
Still as light is our flight through the armies surrounding;
No murmur, no rustling,
Though millions are jostling;
A host is in camp, but you heard neither bustling,
Nor bugle, nor tramp.

And the truce-flag is lifted!
Unfurled it lies drifted
Over hill, over rill, where its snow could be sifted;
And now I'm returning
To parley concerning
The beautiful cause that awakened my yearning;
The trouble that was.

Ho! ho! a swift fairy,—
A pearl-shallop airy!
I am caught, quick as thought! fleece-muffled and hairy,
Her grim boatman tightens
His grasp, and he frightens
Me sore, as we sail to the east, where it lightens
On waves of the gale.

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White, dimpled, and winning,
The fairy sits spinning,
From her hair, floating fair, coils of cable beginning
Her shallop to tether
In stress of bleak weather,
While the boatman and I, wrapped in ermine together,
Drift on through the sky.

Stay! the boat is upsetting!
My fairy, forgetting
Her coil and her toil, to escape from a wetting,
Has now the one notion:
Below boils the ocean!
I scream,—I am heard! up, in arrowy motion,
I am borne by a bird;—

A gray eagle!—over
The seas flies the rover;
And I ride as his guide, a new world to discover.
He bears me on, steady,
Through whirlwind and eddy;
I cling to his neck, and he ever is ready
To pause at my beck.

White doves through the ether
Come flocking together:
How they crowd to me, proud if I smooth one soft feather!
Oh, what is the matter?
They startle,—they scatter!
On the wet window-pane hear my eagle's claws clatter!—
The snow 's turned to rain!

ON THE STAIRWAY.

The little children on the stairway,
Cased in a slippery glare of sleet,
By post and railing vainly clamber;
Slight hold is there for baby-feet.
High in the cold air swings the school-bell:
“Come up! come up!” its clang commands:
A quick thought flies from lips to fingers,—
“'T is easier, taking hold of hands.”

Now laughter lights their rosy faces;
Strong arms the faltering strugglers lift;
Now all at last have won the threshold,
And out of sight within they drift,
Flinging back bloom upon the snow-wreaths;
The blank, white world reflects their smile;
Their word has cleared for us a pathway,
Though Alps of ice the highroad pile.

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We all are children on a stairway,
Weary of vain attempts to climb,
Or, strong ourselves, forgetting others;
While silver peals of duty chime
High in the beckoning heaven above us;
And, welcome we or dread the call,
Upon the steps we may not linger;
Ascend we must, slide back, or fall.

Whose is the fault if this one stumbles,
If that laments a hopeless bruise,
Or if another sits despairing?
Yours, mine, who timely aid refuse.
Small honor to go up unhindered,
While a tired brother by us stands:
The little children, they shall teach us;
“'T is easier, taking hold of hands.”

Still up and down on Virtue's ladder
Unnumbered beings come and go,
With faces turned to nether darkness,
Or sunned with a celestial glow.
The truants out of Duty's heaven,
The white and dazzling seraph-bands,
Are brethren still; and, struggling upward,
“'T is easier, taking hold of hands.”

THE TAMBOURINE-GIRL.

I remember a dear little girl
Whose feet kept time to a tambourine,
The sunless walls of the street between.
Her hair had a breezy curl,
Her brown eye was merry and wild,
That gay little child
Who danced up and down
The brick-red walks of the tiresome town.

I watched her day after day;
And I wished I could have her for my own,
To dance in the fields, among daisies blown,
With the wind in her hair at play,
And her heart as light as a breeze,
Swaying under the trees
Unto bird-notes, swung
Through the blossomed boughs that above her hung.

That little motherless maid!
(No mother would let her darling go
Through the wicked streets of the city so)

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I know not where she has strayed;
But her memory shadows my dreams,
And her brown eye gleams
Upon me in reproof
That I hold so long from her fate aloof.

Every sweet little girl I see
Growing up like a rose at a cottage-door,
Or softly at play on the forest floor,
Or under the orchard tree,
Seems to murmur in my ear,
So sadly, so clear!
“Alas! we miss a mate!
For the dear little dancing girl we wait.”

Yet I knew not her home or name;
And one and another passed her by,—
Nobler and richer women than I.—
To whom belongs the blame,
When a blossom of snow and fire
Trodden down in the mire
Of the city is seen?
Ah me! for my child with the tambourine!

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.

Down the dim and dingy wall
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.

No one by her bedside sat;
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.

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Out beyond the dreary street
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.

Oh, the happy Country Week,
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.

All the beautiful wild-flowers
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.

Once more, on the river's breast
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.

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.

“I forget the cold,” she said,
“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,

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Gazing on her window-pane
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?

Nodding harebells, daisy-stars,
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,

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?

“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.

“In my dreams they bloom so fair!
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!

And her angel-guides they were
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.

And no grand cathedral shows
Windows half so fine as those
Little Bridget gazed upon
In the cold, white Christmas dawn.

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For the heavenly artists brought
Their own seeing to her thought;
Taught her from her heart to paint;—
Little Bridget, baby-saint!

A CHRISTMAS THOUGHT.

Oh, Christmas is coming again, you say,
And you long for the things he is bringing:
But the costliest gift may not gladden the day,
Nor help on the merry bells ringing.
Some getting is losing, you understand,
Some hoarding is far from saving;
What you hold in your hand may slip from your hand;
There is something better than having:
We are richer for what we give;
And only by giving we live.

Your last year's presents are scattered and gone;
You have almost forgotten who gave them;
But the loving thoughts you bestow live on
As long as you choose to have them.
Love, love is your riches, though ever so poor;
No money can buy that treasure;
Yours always, from robber and rust secure,
Your own, without stint or measure:
It is only love that can give;
It is only by loving we live.

For who is it smiles through the Christmas morn,—
The Light of the wide creation?
A dear little Child in a stable born,
Whose love is the world's salvation.
He was poor on earth, but He gives us all
That can make our life worth the living;
And happy the Christmas Day we call
That is spent, for His sake, in giving:
He shows us the way to live;
Like Him, let us love and give!

AT NIGHTFALL.

What is it that we children feel,
When by our little beds we kneel,
And speak to Some One out of sight
Above the heavens so high, so bright?
It scarce is wonder, scarce is fear,
That thrills our thoughts, of Some One near.

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We say “Our Father!” when we wake.
What, with the sunrise, seems to break
Through every flower, like a surprise—
As if a thousand loving eyes
Looked out from sunbeams, buds, and dew,
And said, “He is our Father, too!”

We little children stand and gaze
At the white evening star, whose rays
Beam down upon us, like an eye
Forever open in the sky;
Through the strange twilight asking this
Of one another: “Is it His?”

We little children find it sweet
To cling about His unseen feet,
When in some troubled dream we moan,
And wake to find ourselves alone;
So sweet, that we are in His care
Who sees us, loves us, everywhere!

Who is He? That we cannot say.
He is. And by His side to stay,
To love Him in the flowers and birds,
In dear home-faces, tender words,
In all things beautiful and true,—
No more than this we ask to do.

Our Father, every day more dear
It seems to live, with Thee so near.
Thou carest for even the smallest star,
And safe within thy heart we are.
If left alone on earth are we,
We are not orphans! we have Thee!

CHRISTMAS GREEN.

Bring in the trailing forest-moss,
Bring cedar, fir, and pine,
And green festoon, and wreath, and cross,
Around the windows twine!

Against the whiteness of the wall
Be living verdure seen,
Sweet summer memories to recall,
And keep your Christmas green.

It is His dear memorial-day,
Who broke Earth's frozen sleep,

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And who for her hope's gladdening ray
Forever bright will keep.

He gives all loveliness that grows:
The strong and graceful trees,
The winter moss, the fresh June-rose,
The dear Lord saves us these,

Who saves us from the piteous wreck
Of souls adrift in sin:
So not alone the churches deck,
But peaceful homes within,—

Made peaceful by His constant love,—
Let thoughts of Him abide!
To find us our lost home above,
He homeless lived and died.

And where would be the heart to smile,
Where any cheer or mirth,
If from its sin-blot, black and vile,
He could not cleanse the earth?

Not for a superstition's sake,
Borne down from ages dead,
We love to see this morning break
In sunshine overhead;

Not as a day of heedless mirth,
A feast-day rude and wild,
We hail its dawn,—but for the birth
Of the world's dearest Child,

We keep the bright home-festival;
And, with a childlike cheer,
His angel-ushered birthday call
The merriest of the year.

Yes,—merry Christmas let it be!
A day to love and give!
Since every soul's best gift is He
Who came that we might live;

And all things beautiful are His,
And His He maketh ours;
So bring each bud that bursting is,
All Christmas-blooming flowers;

All blossoms that in windows shine,
With leaves to light unfurled,—
In memory of that Flower Divine
Whose fragrance fills the world!

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Be all old customs honored so,
That good to others mean!
Bring cross and garland from the snow,
And keep your Christmas green!

WINTER.

“Who is that white-faced old man
Outside, at the window-pane,
That muttered and sighed, as away he ran
Into the sleet and rain,
Crying to some one behind;
Calling to some one before;
One whom he cannot find,
One who will come no more?”

That old man has sisters three;
One he has never seen;
On a throne of roses afar sits she,
And the whole world owns her a queen:
But out of her riches and power
Nothing has she to spare—
Not so much as a flower—
For the lonesome wanderer there.

One sister beside him delayed,
And tries his thin fingers to hold;
But the storm her garments shredded and frayed,
And she sank benumbed with the cold.
And ever he prays and cries,
And over her silence grieves;
Behind him, alas! she lies
Buried in golden leaves.

One happy young face before
Looks back, between cloud and drift,
With a sudden smile, and is seen no more;
And the pilgrim follows, swift
As a flash of the noon-day light;
With wail and reproach and shout
He follows, through day and night,
Till again the face peeps out.

This fairest sister of all
Will laugh in the old man's face,
Will challenge him onward with merry call,
To measure with her a race,
Till, weary and lame, he falls,
Amid rosebuds and springing fern:

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She flies with the wind; he calls;
But never will she return.

For the pale-faced pilgrim without
Is Winter, the lonesome king,
Calling back to Autumn with dreary shout,
And hurrying on toward Spring.
As Summer rules over the flowers,
Over ice and snow reigns he:
Lo! there at the pane he glowers,
And shakes his white sceptre—see!

MY CHILDREN.

They are a beauteous family,
Sweet sisters and brave brothers;
Too many for one house, you see,
And so I have to let them be
In care of other mothers.

They go by other names than mine,
But names have little meaning:
They know me by some secret sign;
And roseleaf cheeks and fingers fine
Towards me come clinging, leaning.

None of them all I claim alone—
With other hearts I share them;
But this the common lot is known:
All mothers, when their babes are grown,
To the wide world must spare them.

My loveliest children never go
Out of my happy dwelling;
No mortal parentage they know,
Though on the walls “Correggio”
And “Raphael” you are spelling.

Not quite so dear as flesh and blood,
They are to me most real:
In them I see heaven's childhood bud;
These little human stars that stud
The skies of the Ideal.

That land of glorious mystery
Whither we all are wending
A lonely sort of heaven will be,
If there no baby-family
Awaits my love and tending.

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Windows of mansions in the skies
Must glow with infant faces,
Or somewhere else is Paradise:
The lovely laughter of their eyes
Lights up all heavenly places.

My darlings! by my mother-heart
I have found, I shall find them:
Though some from me are worlds apart,
And, thinking of them, tears will start
Into my eyes, and blind them.

O little ones whom I have found
Among earth's green paths playing,
Though listening far behind, around,
There comes to me no sweeter sound
Than words I hear you saying!

O little ones whom I shall see
On floors of golden glory,
I guess how fair your looks will be
When your sweet voices lisp to me
Your beautiful new story!

It was a little Child who swung
Wide back that City's portal
Where hearts remain forever young;
And, all things good and pure among,
Shall childhood be immortal.

University of Virginia Library

CHILDHOOD SONGS.

TO PRINCE HAL AND LITTLE QUEEN MAUDE.

IN TIME'S SWING.