 | Poetry for children |  |
Letter from a little Western Emigrant Girl.
Here are huge forests, cousin. The great elm
With that low bench around it, where we sat
At Summer's eve and ate our bread and milk,
Thinking its green head reach'd into the sky,
Was nothing to these tall, thick-woven trees
That shut the sun out, here. I often think
Of the sweet cherry-tree I us'd to call
My own,—from which we gathered crimson fruit,
So rich and ripe, and of the little bed
Of tulips, which we two so oft would tend.
Who helps you make your garden now? I hope
Sometimes when you walk there, your heart will turn
To your poor cousin, who remembers you,
And has no garden.
With that low bench around it, where we sat
At Summer's eve and ate our bread and milk,
Thinking its green head reach'd into the sky,
Was nothing to these tall, thick-woven trees
That shut the sun out, here. I often think
Of the sweet cherry-tree I us'd to call
My own,—from which we gathered crimson fruit,
So rich and ripe, and of the little bed
Of tulips, which we two so oft would tend.
Who helps you make your garden now? I hope
Sometimes when you walk there, your heart will turn
To your poor cousin, who remembers you,
And has no garden.
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Tell my butterflies,
Those red and black wing'd ones, that us'd all day
To hover round our flowers, I wish they'd come
On to this western country. They would find
With their slight forms, and pinions swift as light,
The journey but a trifle, which to us
Was a sore labor, sure. We toil'd along,
And toil'd, up hill and down, through dangerous roads,
Plunging in rivers 'till the horses swam,
And camping 'neath our waggon in the night,
The baby always crying, as if he
Who least could know the value of our home,
Griev'd most to leave it. Yet 'tis pleasant here,
And there are many birds, and father says
'Tis a good land.
Those red and black wing'd ones, that us'd all day
To hover round our flowers, I wish they'd come
On to this western country. They would find
With their slight forms, and pinions swift as light,
The journey but a trifle, which to us
Was a sore labor, sure. We toil'd along,
And toil'd, up hill and down, through dangerous roads,
Plunging in rivers 'till the horses swam,
And camping 'neath our waggon in the night,
The baby always crying, as if he
Who least could know the value of our home,
Griev'd most to leave it. Yet 'tis pleasant here,
And there are many birds, and father says
'Tis a good land.
My elder sister mourns
Because there is no school;—but as for me,
I like to play all day among the hills,
And frisk with the young lambs. When Sunday comes,
And there is no sweet echoing bell, no church,
No children with their lessons hasting on,
Clean drest and happy,—in my breast there swells
A sorrow unto tears, and by myself
Where the thick bushes bend, I go and weep,
Because I think my mother looks more sad
To see her children grieving, and we ought
To cheer her heart, who bears so much for us.
—O cousin, love your teachers, love their voice
Who bring you wisdom from the Book of God.
And when you hear the tuneful bell that calls
You to his house, lift up your heart in praise,
And breathe a prayer, that we, poor emigrants,
May share the blessings that you thus enjoy.
Because there is no school;—but as for me,
I like to play all day among the hills,
And frisk with the young lambs. When Sunday comes,
And there is no sweet echoing bell, no church,
No children with their lessons hasting on,
Clean drest and happy,—in my breast there swells
A sorrow unto tears, and by myself
Where the thick bushes bend, I go and weep,
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To see her children grieving, and we ought
To cheer her heart, who bears so much for us.
—O cousin, love your teachers, love their voice
Who bring you wisdom from the Book of God.
And when you hear the tuneful bell that calls
You to his house, lift up your heart in praise,
And breathe a prayer, that we, poor emigrants,
May share the blessings that you thus enjoy.
| Poetry for children | |