Berries & Blossoms :: :: University of Virginia Library

TO MY LITTLE FRIEND, LAURA JEANNE DEBY, WHO, AS “LITTLE BELL,” FIRST SUGGESTED THIS VOLUME, It is Dedicated WITH MUCH LOVE AND MANY EARNEST HOPES AND WISHES FOR HER WELFARE.

LITTLE BELL.

“He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.”
The Ancient Mariner.

Piped the Blackbird, on the beechwood spray,
“Pretty maid, slow wandering this way,
What's your name?” quoth he.
“What's your name? Oh! stop and straight unfold,
Pretty maid, with showery curls of gold.”
“Little Bell,” said she.

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks,
Toss'd aside her gleaming, golden locks,
“Bonny bird!” quoth she,
“Sing me your best song, before I go.”
“Here's the very finest song, I know,
Little Bell,” said he.

And the Blackbird piped—you never heard
Half so gay a song from any bird;
Full of quips and wiles,
Now so round and rich, now soft and slow,
All for love of that sweet face below,
Dimpled o'er with smiles.

And the while that bonny bird did pour
His full heart out, freely, o'er and o'er,
'Neath the morning skies,
In the little childish heart below,
All the sweetness seem'd to grow and grow,
And shine forth in happy overflow
From the brown, bright eyes.

Down the dell she tripp'd, and through the glade—
Peep'd the squirrel from the hazel shade,
And, from out the tree,
Swung and leap'd and frolick'd, void of fear,
While bold Blackbird piped, that all might hear,
“Little Bell!” piped he.

Little Bell sat down amid the fern:
“Squirrel, Squirrel! to your task return;
Bring me nuts!” quoth she.
Up, away! the frisky Squirrel hies,
Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes,
And adown the tree,
Great ripe nuts, kiss'd brown by July sun,
In the little lap drop, one by one—
Hark! how Blackbird pipes, to see the fun!
“Happy Bell!” pipes he.

Little Bell look'd up and down the glade:
“Squirrel, Squirrel, from the nut-tree shade,
Bonny Blackbird, if you're not afraid,
Come and share with me!”

Down came Squirrel, eager for his fare,
Down came bonny Blackbird, I declare;
Little Bell gave each his honest share—
Ah! the merry three!

And the while those frolick playmates twain
Piped and frisk'd from bough to bough again,
'Neath the morning skies,
In the little childish heart below,
All the sweetness seem'd to grow and grow,
And shine out in happy overflow,
From her brown, bright eyes.

By her snow-white cot, at close of day,
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms, to pray.
Very calm and clear
Rose the praying voice, to where, unseen,
In blue heaven, an angel shape serene
Paused awhile to hear.

“What good child is this,” the angel said,
“That, with happy heart, beside her bed,
Prays so lovingly?”

Low and soft, oh! very low and soft,
Croon'd the Blackbird in the orchard croft,
“Bell, dear Bell!” croon'd he.

“Whom God's creatures love,” the angel fair
Murmur'd, “God doth bless with angels' care;
Child, thy bed shall be
Folded safe from harm; love, deep and kind,
Shall watch round and leave good gifts behind,
Little Bell, for thee.”

THE OWL AND THE HAWK.

A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD FABLE.

There was nothing in the pantry, no, absolutely nothing!
With a pair of saucer eyes,
The horned Owl look'd wise;
With a fussing and a fluttering,
And a sort of solemn muttering,
She fidgeted and shifted,
And poked and pried and lifted,
But alas! to her confusion,
She was forced to that conclusion,
There was nothing in the pantry, no, absolutely nothing!

'Twas an August day, if I remember rightly,
No cloud in the sky, the morning sun shone brightly.
The puzzled Owl look'd slyly out, and, winking,
Shrank back again and fell anew to thinking.
She pucker'd up her plumes and made a pother—
She stood on one leg, and then tried the other.

On her starved brood, anon, her glance would fall;
Quite out of countenance she stared them all.
And then her saucer eyes she took to closing,
So that you might have deem'd her calmly dozing;
But all was vain—still, to her dire confusion,
She came to that inflexible conclusion,
There was nothing in the pantry, no, absolutely nothing!

She paused no longer, but, with desperate courage,
Prepared at once to sally forth and forage;
So she put on her very closest bonnet,
With a thick sort of feathery veil upon it,
And would have taken her parasol, no doubt,
If Owls had found that useful fashion out.
Right down the glade she flew, and, who should meet her,
But Captain Hawk, who stopp'd, of course, to greet her—
“What you, Ma'am, you!—Why, sure my eyes deceive me!
Dame Owl abroad by daylight!—Who'd believe me,
If I avouch'd such miracle?”—“Alas! Sir,”
The Owl replied, “'twas thus it came to pass, Sir.

Last night, we had a little quiet party—
Just two or three near neighbours, hale and hearty,
And hungry too, for they quite clear'd our shelves, Sir,
And left us, really, nothing for ourselves, Sir.
I've four dear children—such a charming brood!
And since that time they have not tasted food—
So forth I've sallied, and may pitying Fate
A prey provide and send me back elate!
But, by the by, which way, Sir, are you going?
Straight up the glade? In that case, you'd be showing
A doting mother the most touching favour,
If you'd just give an eye to the behaviour
Of my sweet offspring.”—In his shrillest tone
The Hawk said, “Ma'am, I'll treat them as my own;
But to prevent mistakes, which I dislike,
Pray give me a slight sketch of what they're like.”
“Oh! Sir,” the Owl said, with a funny wriggle,
“That's needless, quite,”—and she began to giggle—
“They're my own darlings, and you can't mistake them;
In fact, their loveliness alone, would make them

Known at first sight to eyes so very keen;—
Four handsomer birds than mine were never seen—
And such sweet voices! If you chance to hear them,
You'll own no lark nor bullfinch can come near them.”
“Indeed! why then I've nothing more to say, Ma'am,”
Observed the Hawk—“I wish you luck!—Good day, Ma'am.”
The Owl flew on, relieved of half her fears,
By hopes of safety for her little dears.
The Hawk swept up the glade in search of quarry,
A pair of seven-leagued boots he seemed to carry,
He flew so fast. Just opposite the oak,
Where lodged the Owl, he heard a kind of croak,
Or four croaks, rather;—in his life, he ne'er
Had heard a sound he could at all compare
With that, for harshness. Fingers he had none,
Or he'd have stuff'd them in his ears to shun
The horrid discord. “Ten to one,” said he,
“They're toads, or hedgehogs—I'll look in and see.”
He thrust his neck into the hole, and saw
A sight that struck him with a sudden awe.

For the first time he winced, and stared aghast—
And “Well, I never!” he shriek'd out at last.
There lay the Owlets, dirty, bare, and yellow,
Each with his mouth wide-stretch'd, poor hungry fellow!
With saucer eyes, and voice for ever croaking
So dismally, the sound was quite provoking.
Such ugly bantlings, I suppose, were never
Seen anywhere:—no wonder that a shiver
Crept o'er the hawk. “I'd give my head,” said he,
“To know what these vile, nasty things can be!
Not birds, that's certain, and—what's just as clear,
They can't be wholesome food for me, I fear;
They don't smell nice. Just look, now, there's beauty!
He's worse than any. Come, I'll do my duty,
And wring his neck.” Thereat, with cruel smother,
Up went the Owlet, then up went another.
Up went all four:—a little shake a-piece
Was all he gave them—may they rest in peace!
Then off the Hawk flew, after that good action,
With a calm sense of inner satisfaction.

“Tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhit!”—again, “tuwhit!”—
Which meant the Owl was coming home with meat,
And quite in spirits. Oh! the dark reversal
Of that sweet scene, for which she made rehearsal!
“‘What! all my little ones, at one fell swoop!
What! all my pretty chickens!’” —a wild whoop
Burst from her—such a ghostly sound and scary!—
(By the way, you see the Owl is literary)—
When she look'd on them;—there they lay, pell-mell,
In a dark corner, and what tongue can tell
Their mother's grief and shame, when, peering round,
A grey hawk's feather in the nest she found!
“Fool that I was!”—and here she crush'd her bonnet,
And the thick sort of feathery veil upon it—
“To cheat the Captain with a pack of lies!
I might have known he'd judge with his own eyes,
And not be gull'd by my conceit and pride.
Well, truth's the best thing—that can't be denied—
Henceforth I'll tell it, let what will ensue;”
And here she sobb'd—“Tuwhoo, tuwhoo, tuwhoo.”

Macbeth.

A RHYME OF THE SNOWDROP.

Snowdrop, Snowdrop, why dost thou stay?
Greybeard Winter hath fled away,
Green grow the fields in the sunny ray,—
Snowdrop, Snowdrop, why dost thou stay?

“Just to see—oh! just to see
The first pretty Primrose of the lea!
For a Primrose-star is fairer far,
I've been told, than all sky-blossoms are—
Oh! tend me well and show me where
I may find this beauty, past compare.”

Snowdrop, Snowdrop, look this way—
In the grasses, underneath the grey
Old oak, behold the Primrose gay!
Primrose, Primrose, a moment's space—
Let little Snowdrop see your face!

“I see, I see, on the upland lea,
A sweet face smiling tenderly—
Oh! pretty Primrose, lovest thou me?
Oh! love me; let my prayer prevail!
I shall live, I shall thrive, I shall not fail,
Though I look so weary, and weak, and pale;—
Oh! love me, and I shall live to see
The blossoming almond and apple tree,
And the May-bloom woed by the honey bee!
What doth she say? Oh! what doth she say?
Will she love me well, the Primrose gay?”

Now nay, now nay, the Primrose gay
Hath given, she voweth, her love away;
Troth-bound is she to the Violet,
And oh! poor Snowdrop never was yet
A flower so modest, and fresh, and fair
As the Violet, dower'd with odours rare!
Die, Snowdrop, die, ere the bridal day—
No love for thee hath the Primrose gay!

“I die, I die! it was always so—
Poor weeds! upspringing in winter's snow,
Lonely, so lonely! vex'd and worn,
By the bitter blasts, we live forlorn,—
There is nought that loveth us 'neath the sky,—
It was always so—I die, I die!”

WILLIE.

“Oh! where is Willie, my brother?
Up and down the stair,
And in the porch, and over the lawn,
And under the milk-white blossoming thorn,
I seek, but he is not there.
Oh! where is Willie, my brother?”
Not a sound doth she hear
But the solemn knell
Of a funeral bell,
In the old church tower anear.

“Oh! Willie, Willie, my brother—
So wan thy face had grown!
When I saw thee, darling, yesterweek,
And kiss'd thy lip, and kiss'd thy cheek,
And soothed thy sobbing moan—
Oh! Willie, Willie, my brother!”
Not a sound doth she hear,
But the solemn knell
Of a funeral bell,
In the old church tower anear!

“Oh! Willie, the day is dreary!
Oh! Willie, I cannot play;—
To hear thy little foot on the floor,
And thy sweet, shrill laugh ring out once more,
I'd give my life away!
Oh! Willie, Willie, my brother!”
Not a sound doth she hear,
But the solemn knell
Of a funeral bell,
In the old church tower anear.

“Oh! Willie, I love thee dearly,—
Oh! darling, listen to me;
If thou hast left me, and gone afar
To the land where the blessed children are,
Oh! send an angel from that bright star,
To take me up to thee!
Oh! Willie, Willie, my brother!”—
Not a sound doth she hear,
But the solemn knell
Of a funeral bell,
In the old church tower anear.

THE LION OF SAMARCAND.

Here's a tale you may rely on,
From a far and foreign land:
There was once a famous Lion,
On the hills of Samarcand.

And this Lion used to ravage
All the flocks and folds, by night;
When his roar rose, fierce and savage,
Quaked the shepherds with affright.

Many hunters had beset him,
Some in ambush, some with snare,
But he slew each foe that met him,
And their bones lay bleaching there.

Little children, too, left straying,
In wild gorge or lonely glen,
He snatch'd up, amid their playing,
And devour'd them in his den.

Warriors shook their spears of iron,
Women wail'd throughout the land,
Crying, “Woe befall this Lion
On the hills of Samarcand!”

In a hut, beside the river,
Dwelt a widow and her son—
Oft she bless'd the gracious Giver
For that dear and only one.

He was all her hope and glory,
All her store and all her stay,
And his noble deeds, my story
Shall declare to you this day.

He was steadfast and true-hearted,
Fond and faithful as a dove;
Never had his feet departed
From the paths of truth and love.

But, an eagle in his daring,
Much he ponder'd on the wrong
Wrought by that fierce foe, unsparing,
Peasant homes and hearts among.

Of a warrior race the scion,
He vow'd, inly, to withstand,
And, with God's help, slay the Lion
On the hills of Samarcand.

When, at last, that vow was spoken,
White and wan his mother grew,
And her aged heart seem'd broken,
And her tears fell fast, like dew.

But he soothed her grief, and kneeling
At her feet, he strove to say,
With a fervent glance, appealing,
“Mother, bless thy son, this day!”

And she kiss'd him and she bless'd him,
Half in joy, and half in pain;
And her clinging arms caress'd him,
Till the youth leap'd up again,

Heart of steel, and will of iron,
Strong to struggle and withstand—
So, he went to fight the Lion
On the hills of Samarcand.

All day long he sought him vainly,
Sought him with a steady mind;
But at dead of midnight, plainly,
Came his roaring on the wind.

Not from out the forest olden,
Rose that voice of savage strain;
But afar, where, full and golden,
Fell the moonlight on the plain.

Sprang the youth to instant action,
Humming, as he strode along,
In his soul's great satisfaction,
Words of some wild battle song.

'Neath a tall green palm-tree, blooming
O'er a little way-side well,
He beheld a blackness looming,
And two eyes flash fierce and fell.

Fast he clutch'd his spear of iron,
Lightly leap'd he o'er the sand,
Face to face he met the Lion
Of the hills of Samarcand!

With a burst of bellowing thunder
He look'd up his foe to greet,
And the desert trembled under,
When he bounded to his feet.

Smiled the youth, that fury shaming,
One brief prayer he breathed to God;
Then, his spear, like lightning flaming,
Steep'd the tawny hide in blood.

But the desert king, in wonder,
Dash'd the weapon from the wound,—
'Neath his paw 'twas snapp'd asunder,
With his tail he lash'd the ground.

One fierce spring, and stunn'd and gory
Sank the youth upon the sod—
Oh! the widow's hope and glory!
Who can save him now but God!

Rolling over, rolling under,
Scarce the struggling youth can breathe;
In his ear, that deafening thunder,
In his flesh, those rending teeth.

Gasp and groan, and sob and smother—
Faint he grows with cruel pain,
When a thought of that poor mother
Gives him back his strength again.

He leaps up with sudden stagger,—
Curls his lip and flames his brow;
In his grasp there gleams a dagger,—
Ha! its long blade's hidden now,—

Hidden deep, oh! that, rely on,
By a firm and faithful hand,
In the heart of the great Lion
Of the hills of Samarcand.

Back the brute falls, grim and gory,
On the stain'd and trampled sod,
And the youth gives all the glory,
Offers all the praise to God!

When, through gorge and glen defiling,
Came the multitude at morn,
Faint the hero lay, yet smiling,
Like a warrior, battle-worn.

All his open wounds untended,
Weary and too weak to rise,
But a radiance, pure and splendid,
Flashing from his earnest eyes.

And beside the spear of iron,
Stark upon the bloody sand,
There they saw the famous Lion
Of the hills of Samarcand.

Loving looks the youth surrounded,
Children to his feet were led,
Shouts of grateful joy resounded,
Tender tears the maidens shed.

And the women knelt before him,
All his wounds they staunch'd with care,
Pour'd the balm of pity o'er him,
Kiss'd his hands and sleek'd his hair.

So ere long, from where they found him,
Home the happy youth was borne,
With the cymbals clashing round him,
And the echoing hunter's horn.

And strong men, with nerves of iron,
Three by three, on either hand,
Bore the carcase of the Lion
From the hills of Samarcand.

Down the glens and o'er the mountains,
Through embattled cities fair,
Where the sheeny foam of fountains
Sheds a glory on the air;

Through the pastures, dew-enamell'd,
Gleaming in the golden morn,
Through the green glades, sunbeam-trammell'd,
Home the happy youth was borne.

And the people press'd to greet him,
In a still increasing throng,
All the land came out to meet him,
Came with shouting and with song.

Gorgeous flowers along his traces
By untiring hands were cast,
From high windows sunny faces
Smiled in beauty as he pass'd.

Through the glens, athwart the meadows,
Down the cedarn alleys dim,
Where the sunbeams pierced the shadows,
As it were, to follow him.

With the cymbals, loud and glorious,
Doubling drum and echoing horn,
Like a wounded king victorious,
Home the happy youth was borne.

When his mother's eyes perceived him,
Forth she flew to meet her son,
Tottering, trembling, she received him,
Him, her dear and only one.

Oh! she kiss'd him and she bless'd him,
And her tears fell fast, like rain,
And her clinging arms caress'd him,
And he cheer'd her heart again.

But, for many a night and morrow,
By his couch her hours were past,
Half in joy, and half in sorrow,
Till the youth rose up at last,

Heart of steel, and frame of iron,
Just as strong to strive and stand,
As before he fought the Lion
On the hills of Samarcand.

And that valiant action made him
So beloved, that rich and poor
Universal tribute paid him,
And beside his cottage door

Chiefs and captains stood, bareheaded,
Doing homage to his worth;
And ere long the youth was wedded
To a maid of royal birth.

So, when foes beset the nation,
And their chief in fight was slain,
And misrule and desolation
Threaten'd to set up their reign;

When the stricken people trembled,
And the strong their fears confess'd,
All the lords of state assembled,
And the noblest and the best

Chose the man they could rely on,
To uphold the sinking land,
And the Slayer of the Lion
Was made King of Samarcand!

The name of Samarcand in ancient times belonged to a wide region round about the town now so called.

TO LITTLE JEANNE.

Though the winter tempests beat
Down the uplands airy,
Here's Maybloom and Meadowsweet
For thy crown, my fairy.

No such flowers, you'll say, have smiled
In the dells or round them,
Yet quite close at hand, dear child,
Have I sought and found them.

In my heart those blooms were shrined,
And my love, unchary,
Was the gardener, fond and kind,
Cu'lld them for my fairy.

See, I twine them in thy hair,
Round thy brow I wreathe them,
And I kiss the forehead fair
And dear eyes beneath them.

And I pray, God bless thee, child!
Pray, God's love enfold thee!
Keep thee pure and keep thee mild,
Cherish and uphold thee!

So, when Life's wild tempests beat
Round thee, dark and dreary,
Still Maybloom and Meadowsweet
Shall be thine, my fairy.

THE CHILD AND THE SPARROW.

Child.

Sparrow, in the cherry-tree,
Won't you drop one down for me?

Sparrow.

Presently, presently.

Child.

Sparrow, Sparrow, greedy-pate,
There's a fine one! drop it straight!

Sparrow.

Little boys should learn to wait.

Child.

Sparrow, without more ado,
Come, be kind, and drop me two.

Sparrow.

They're not ripe enough for you

Child.

Saucy Sparrow, cease your fun!
What! you're off, and give me none!

Sparrow.

All are gone, all are gone!

THE LARK'S GRAVE.

We'll plant a corn-flower on his grave,
And a grain of the bearded barley,
And a little blue-bell to ring his knell,
And eyebright, blossoming early;
And we'll cover it over
With purple clover,
And daisies, crimson and pearly.

And we'll pray the Linnet to chant his dirge,
With the Robin and Wren for chorus;
His mate, on high, shall rain from the sky
Her benedictions o'er us,
And the Hawks and Owls,
Those pitiless fowls,
We'll drive away before us.

And then we'll leave him to his rest,
And whisper soft above him,
That ever his song was sweet and strong,
Nor cloud nor mist could move him;
In his strain was a gladness
To cure all sadness,
And all fair things did love him.

LILY ON THE HILL-TOP.

Lily went up on the hill-top wide,
With her net to catch the wind.
“Hollo! hollo!” the little winds cried,
“Here'll be some sport to our mind!”
But with hurly-burly,
Solemn and surly,
And mumbling and rumbling,
And growling and grumbling,

The great North Wind leap'd up from his lair,
And caught the little child by the hair!

Lily was five years old,
A brisk, fleet-footed creature,
With a pair of blue eyes, blithe and bold,
And a smile in each small feature;
A frolicsome face, all fresh and sheen,
Like a little red rose its leaves between,
On an April morning early,
Was Lily's, that day, on the hill-top green,
'Mid its locks, so glossy and curly.

For Lily had long brown hair,
That danced and floated and flutter'd;
And the great North Wind, like an angry bear,
The while he mumbled and mutter'd,
Tugg'd hard and fast at those pretty curls,
With passionate pulls and wicked whirls,
And as for the fairy bonnet
Of satin and silk, as white as milk,
With a blackcock's feather upon it,

It was blown and bent and whisk'd from her head,
With a strength she could not master,
And “Hollo! hollo!” the little winds said,
As they puff'd it farther and faster.

Then Lily laugh'd outright,
She never ceased her laughter,
As she flew o'er the turf like a beam of light,
And the Wind came flying after.
It pluck'd at her skirt, it twitch'd her sash,
It pounced on her cloak with a sudden dash,
But all the louder laugh'd Lily,
And when weary and out of breath she grew,
She sat on the ground and laugh'd anew,
On a bed, all yellow and pied and blue,
Of orchis and daffodilly.

Now the North Wind, though a terrible bear,
Is not so black as he's painted;
And that sweet little laugh so tickled his ear,
That his great rough heart relented.

“And really,” said he, “if the truth be told,
She's a charming child, this Lily!
I thought to sweep her up to the sky,
Or drive her down the gully hard by,
But to hurt a creature so merry and fair,
With such blithe blue eyes, and such curly hair,
Were surely cruel and silly!”

Then the North Wind furl'd his wings o'erhead,
And left off racing and running;
And “Hollo! hollo!” the little ones said,
“So here's an end of our funning!”
For they saw their sire drop down from his whirls,
And pat little Lily, and sleek her curls,
And kiss each dear little dimple,
And fan her fair, fresh cheek, till it grew
Like an autumn apple, ruddy of hue,
And smooth her tippet and wimple,
While Lily look'd sly before and behind,
And open'd her net to catch the wind.

But “Ho! little breezes,” the North Wind cried,
“Come hither, come hither, come hither!
And you and I and Lily beside
Will all go roaming together.
You shall shake down the cones from the tree,
And the ripe wood-apples so rosy,
And snap off the woodbine, waving free,
For Lily to twine a posy;
While I soar up to the mountain top,
Or sweep o'er the purple heather,
A trophy to bring from the falcon's wing,
Or the kingfisher's bluest feather.
And so high we'll go, and so low we'll go,
And so far and wide we'll wander,
That Lily shall come with a full net home
To her mother's cot down yonder.
And ho! little breezes, take care, take care,
Lest harm or evil befal her;
Lest buzzard or bat her senses scare,
Or toad or viper appal her.

And be sure you make her a pathway clear
In the wood, wherever she passes,
And puff the nettle aside, and bear
Low down the bearded grasses,
For Lily to-day is your playmate dear,
And the very blithest of lasses.”

“Hollo! hollo!” each little wind said,
“Hollo! Lily, my lady!
Hollo! hollo! and follow, follow,
Through dingles sunny and shady.
Hollo! hollo! we'll have such fun,
We'll pipe, we'll whistle, we'll gambol;
And never your feet a thorn shall meet,
Of prickly briar and bramble.
Hollo! hollo! come, follow, follow,
And let us set out on our ramble!”

So they flutter'd their wings and piping still
They push'd little Lily down the hill,
And Lily laugh'd and scamper'd,

While some little folks that I know well,
(Though you must not ask me their names to tell,)
Would only have whined and whimper'd.
And up the hill, and down the hill,
And over moorland and meadow,
The child and her madcap gossips gay
Roam'd to and fro, through the live-long day,
'Mid shifting sun and shadow.
But Lily's doings, and what befel,
And their mirth and mischief in field and fell,
And the “hide and seek” they play'd so well
In the hill-caves hollow and hoary,
You must fancy; for I've no skill to tell
That part of the wondrous story.
But this I know, that never had child
Friends so frisky and merry and wild.

In her ivy porch, by snatches,
Lily's mother works and watches,
Hears afar a merry humming,
Looks and sees her Lily coming,

Marks her toddling slowly, slowly,
Down the green hill-side,
With her little net fill'd wholly,
And her lap beside.
Berries, apples, buds, and posies,
Glossy feathers, dewy roses,
All her wealth the child discloses;
And the mother sees,
While she gazes, smiles and praises,
These and more than these—
Sees the little eyes beam brightly,
And the forehead lifted lightly,
And a look of pleasure spreading
Over cheek and brow, and shedding
Beauty better than all other.
Happy Lily! happy mother!

“Hollo! hollo!” sing the breezes,
“Now we'll wager that it pleases
Lily's mother oft to let her

Climb the hill where we shall find her,
With her little net behind her,
Full of mischief, fun, and gambol
Ready for another ramble—
And pray what could suit us better?”

THE MOORLAND CHILD.

Upon the bleak and barren moor
I met a wandering child;
Her cheeks were pale, her hair hung lank,
Her sunken eyes gleam'd wild.

“And have you no kind mother, child?”
I ask'd with soften'd tone.
“My mother went away lang syne,
And left me here alone.

“'Twas in the winter weather, black,
The night lay on the moor;
The angry winds went howling by
Our creaking cottage door.

“My mother lay upon her bed,
She shook and shiver'd sore;
She clasp'd me in her trembling arms,
She kissed me o'er and o'er.

“I knelt beside her on the ground,
I wail'd in bitter sorrow;
The wind without upon the moor
My wailing seem'd to borrow.

“My mother strove to soothe my grief;
But while she spoke, alas!
Across her sunken face I saw
A sudden shadow pass.

“And she fell back, so weak and wan,—
Oh! sir, I never heard
Her voice again, or caught the sound
Of one fond farewell word!

“The black winds blew—my eyes were dry;
I hush'd my bitter moan,
But I knew that she was gone away,
And I was left alone.

“The black winds blew—the heavy hail
On hill and holt was driven;
But she went up the golden stair,
And through the gate of heaven.

“They bore her to the churchyard grave;
The little daisies love it;
But I never sit the mound beside,
Nor shed a tear above it.

“My mother is not there; in dreams,
When winter woods are hoary,
I see her on the golden stair,
Beside the gate of glory.

“Her eyes are calm, her forehead shines,
Amid the heav'nly splendour;
On earth her face was kind, but ne'er
Wore smiles so sweet and tender.

And, sir, one night, not long ago,—
December storms were beating,—
I heard her voice, so fond and dear,
Float down, my name repeating.

“The fir-trees rock'd upon the hill,
And blast to blast was calling—
She said, ‘The earth is dark and drear;
Come home, come home, my darling!’

“The black winds blew—the heavy hail
On hill and holt was driven—
She said, ‘Come up the golden stair,
And through the gate of heaven!’

“And soon, oh soon!”—but here her speech
Broke off; a sudden lightness
Pass'd o'er the child's pale cheek and brow,
As with a sunbeam's brightness,

And she went wand'ring o'er the moor
Low crooning some wild ditty;—
God's calm, I said, be on her shed,
And God's exceeding pity!

A BLUE-BELL'S CONFESSION.

Blue-bell, Blue-bell,
Ring me out a chime, and tell
How you got those pearls so bright,
That you wear
With such an air,
Blue-bell, in the morning light.

“Ring-a-ting! ring-a-ting!”
Chimed the Blue-bell; “don't you know?
Ring-a-ting! ring-a-ting!
Why, how very dull you grow!
I've a fairy sweetheart, sir,
And at nightfall, when the stir
Of the day is hush'd and over,
Up the lane, a constant lover,
Comes he, smiling
And beguiling

All my cares and all my pains, sir,
So that not a trace remains, sir.
How I wish you heard his song!
Ring-a-ting! ring-a-ting!
Nought so sweet the woods among—
Ring-a-ting! ring-a-ting!
And his kiss—dear me! my blue
Changes to a purple hue,
At the very thought; and, oh!
He's so loth, good sir, to go,
That, sometimes, I let him stay,
Chatting—now, don't frown, I pray—
With me till the break of day;
And, of course, for such a favour,
He puts on his best behaviour,
And—come, can't you guess?—these gems,
Dew-pearls, fit for diadems,
He strings round my little bells,
While their tinkling music swells,
Ring-a-ting! ring-a-ting!

And o'erflows in fond farewells!
Ring-a-ting! ring-a-ting!
But it takes him long to find them,
Longer still to string and wind them,
And to see not one is missing,
And, besides, to—leave off kissing;
So, the truth, sir, now you know,
Ring-a-ting! ring-a-ting!
You'd have guess'd it long ago,
But, oh, dear! so dull you grow!—
Ring-a-ting! ring-a-ting!”

THE PET LAMB.

INSCRIBED TO E. C. R.

Storm upon the mountain,
Night upon its throne!
And the little snow-white lamb
Left alone, alone!
Storm upon the mountain,
Rainy torrents beating,
And the little snow-white lamb,
Bleating, ever bleating!

Down the glen the shepherd
Drives his flock afar;
Through the mirky mist and cloud,
Shines no beacon star.

Fast he hurries onward,
Never hears the moan
Of the pretty snow-white lamb,
Left alone, alone!

At the shepherd's doorway,
Stands his little son;
Sees the sheep come trooping home,
Counts them, one by one;
Counts them full and fairly—
Trace he findeth none
Of the little snow-white lamb,
Left alone, alone!

Up the glen he races,
Breasts the bitter wind
Scours across the plain, and leaves
Wood and wold behind;—
Storm upon the mountain,
Night upon its throne—
There he finds the little lamb,
Left alone, alone!

Struggling, panting, sobbing,
Kneeling on the ground,
Round the pretty creature's neck
Both his arms are wound;
Soon, within his bosom,
All its bleatings done,
Home he bears the little lamb,
Left alone, alone!

Oh! the happy faces,
By the shepherd's fire!
High, without, the tempest roars,
But the laugh rings higher.
Young and old, together,
Make that joy their own—
In their midst, the little lamb,
Left alone, alone!

THE BEE AND THE LILY.

Buzz! went the Bee, with a merry din.
“Who's there?” cried the Lily, her cup within.
“Your gossip, the Bee, with a tale so funny,
To hum in your ear while you brew your honey;
But you must not repeat it, for love or money!”
Buzz! went the rogue, with a merry din,
As the Lily open'd and let him in.

“Why, Lily, I vow it's a palace, quite,
This kitchen of yours, so warm and white,
And such fine honey!—Now, might I venture
To sniff, for a moment, to ... taste, to sip
A morsel, merely to moisten my lip,
Without incurring, thereby, your censure?”
“Oh!” said the Lily, “pray eat your fill.”
So the Bee set to with a right good will;

He flutter'd and buzz'd, he tried and tasted;
Nothing was miss'd and nothing wasted;
He ate and he ate—it was really funny
To see him swallow such heaps of honey.
He swallow'd it all; and, when cups and platters,
And saucers and jars, and other matters,
Were emptied, at last, and not a drop
Remain'd,—“Well, now,” said the Lily, “stop,
And be sober and steady, my gossip dear,
While you whisper, cosily, in my ear,
That tale you promised, so rare and new.”
“Buzz!” said the Bee, and away he flew.

THE OWL.

In a brown oak-stump sat the moping Owl,
Like a monk, with his solemn face in a cowl;—
Winking his eye, and nodding his head,
“What's he about?” cried the Robin so red;
“He's in a brown study,” the Jackdaw said.

“But he looks so dreary and dull, poor body!
Let us wake him out of that grim brown study.”
Winking his eye, and nodding his head,
“Let him alone, O Robin so red;
That's all he's good for!” the Jackdaw said.

THE MAGPIE'S WOOING.

“Cuckoo! cuckoo!” in the golden morning;
“Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!” clear and strong.
Cried the Magpie, all concealment scorning,
“There's the bird for me, and that's his song.”
“Cuckoo! cuckoo.”

“For such mate, how long, alas! I've tarried,
He'll rejoice me with his constant clack.”
So the Magpie and the Cuckoo married.
“Cuckoo! cuckoo!” Echo answered back,
“Cuckoo! cuckoo!”

“Cuckoo! cuckoo!” in the golden morning,
“Cuckoo! cuckoo!” May and April through;
But when June came, wood and wild adorning,
Mute and glum that busy babbler grew.
No more “Cuckoo!”

All in vain the Magpie fumed and fretted,
And by turns protested and complain'd;
All in vain! for whether spurn'd or petted,
Mute and glum her rebel mate remain'd.
No more “Cuckoo!”

So her health gave way; oh! fatal warning!
And, when April came again, she died.
Off flew Cuckoo, in the golden morning,
“Cuckoo! cuckoo!” piping far and wide-
“Cuckoo! cuckoo!”

THE BALLAD OF GIANT DESPAIR AND THE LITTLE PRINCE GOODCHILD.

Giant Despair lived down in a den,
Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
Behind was a mountain, before was a fen;
Ding-dong!
Giant Despair look'd out and saw
Little Prince Goodchild play at the ball,
Outside the court and the castle wall;
And he grumbled, and said, “I've a hungry maw;
I have never enough! Oh! that some fine day
That sweet little Prince would come this way!
Aha! how I'd catch him, in spite of his moans,
And nibble his flesh, and pick his bones!”
Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

Little Prince Goodchild play'd at the ball;
Oh! the merry wind's piping!
Outside the court and the castle wall;
Oh! the merry wind's piping!
A good little lad was he, and light
His innocent heart, and pure and bright
The smiles that went rippling, one by one,
Over his lips, in the summer sun.
“Oh! the earth,” he said, “is green and gay—
Thank God!” he said, “for the summer day.”
A nightingale warbled the woods among;
“Thank God!” he said, “for the sweet bird's song.”
And at night, when he knelt by his bed to pray,
“Thank God!” said he, “for a happy day;
God bless my night!” and he slept so well,
That he never heard the terrible yell
Of Giant Despair, in his darksome den,
'Twixt the dismal mountain and doleful fen,
As he wail'd and lamented, down below,
“It's a world of woe! a world of woe!”
Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

Little Prince Goodchild woke with the light;
Oh! the merry bird's piping!
“Thank God!” he said, “for a quiet night.”
Oh! the merry bird's piping!
“God bless my day!” Then forth he went
To his sport and his little tasks, content;
He was good to all and gentle and mild,
And a blessing hover'd about the child.
So at noon he wander'd down the hill,
And through the meadow, and past the rill,
Till he came to the mouth of the darksome den,
'Twixt the dismal mountain and doleful fen,
Where Giant Despair lay moaning sore,
And calling and beckoning o'er and o'er;
But the child pass'd on, nor so much as saw
That dark and angry vision of awe.
And Giant Despair, though he had but to raise
His arm to catch him in dire amaze,
Felt all his strength ooze out, and fell
Deep down in his den with a bitter yell;

While the child, in his sport, pass'd to and fro,
Nor so much as heard the wail below—
“Its a world of woe! a world of woe!”
Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

So the Prince grew up to be a man;
Oh! the bonny bud's blowing!
And ever the same fair course he ran;
Oh! the bonny bud's blowing!
Stedfast and brave, and kind and good,
Honest to man, and true to God;
Strong as the oak, and blithe as the bird,
Pure in thought and simple in word;
With a heart unclouded and light as air;
What chance, pray tell me, had Giant Despair?
And little folks all, who hear my lay,
If you will but grow up the self-same way,
You may pass, when you please, the darksome den
'Twixt the dismal mountain and doleful fen,

And never the shape of Giant Despair
Shall trouble your heart, or your senses scare,
Nor your ear be struck by his wail below—
“It's a world of woe! a world of woe!”
Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

THE BABY'S THOUGHTS.

What's the Baby thinking of?
Can you guess? Can you guess?
From between the budding leaves,
Underneath the cottage eaves,
Came an answer, “Yes, yes, yes!”

“In the meadow,” chirp'd the Swallow,
“I was flying, all the day;
I saw Baby in the clover,
Toddling, tumbling, rolling over,
In his merry play.

Hiding in each grassy hollow,
Out of nurse's way.

“'Midst the buttercups I saw him;
He was humming like the bee,
And the daisies seem'd to draw him,
For he crow'd to see
All their white and pinky faces,
Starring over the green places,
'Neath the poplar tree.
And the butterfly that pleased him,
And the maybloom, out of reach,
And the little breeze that teased him,
He is thinking now of each.
Search his eyes, and you shall see
King-cups, mesh'd in golden mazes,
And a thousand starry daisies,
And a sunbeam, flashing free,
And a little shifting shadow,
Such as flutter'd o'er the meadow,
From the fluttering tree.

Kiss his lip, and taste the rare
Honey-sweetness lingering on it;
Kiss his pretty forehead fair,
Maybloom odours dropp'd upon it;
And the naughty breeze also—
Kiss his cheek, and you shall find it
In the rich and rosy glow,
And the freshness left behind it.
On all these doth Baby ponder,
And they wile him forth to wander
Still, through fields of scented clover,
Toddling, tumbling, rolling over;
Hiding in each grassy hollow.”
Thus, between the budding leaves,
Underneath the cottage eaves,
Answer made our friend the Swallow.

FAIRY PHYSIC.

“Ho, ho!” cried the Fairies, “here's a cup
Of dew, that the Sun has clean forgot,
In his midsummer madness, to drink up;
Let us quaff to his worshipful health! why not?
To the Sun's bright health! and ... ahem! may he
Show ever the same short memory!”

So they sipp'd, and they quaff'd, till the cup was dry;
That the nectar was strong, you may well rely;
For the wood soon rang with their elfin glee,
And quaint were the mirth and the melody
Of the songs they pour'd on the midnight breeze,
As they waltz'd round hillocks and old oak trees.
But lo! in the midst of their maddest dance,—
Poor merrymen all!—a sudden trance

O'ertook them; a torpor whose drowsy might
Weigh'd their eyelids down in their own despite.
Hush'd grew their voices, and heavy and slow
Moved the little feet, so brisk e'en now,
And heedless of nightcaps and toilet graces,
In all sorts of postures and all sorts of places,
They yielded, at last, each failing sense
To that torpor's tyrannical influence.
One fell asleep with his head in the cup
He had just been draining; one curl'd up
His leaden limbs in a cranny, where
A spider, a sort of Giant Despair,
Tied him fast with a web through his golden hair;
And one—worst luck of all—slipp'd over
A high bank into a furzy cover,
Terribly ragged and rough and lonely,
Where he tore, I fear .... not his jerkin only.
But neither thorns, nor spiders, nor aught
That is most abhorrent to fairy thought,
Had power, at that moment, to loose the yoke
Of the spell that bound those luckless folk.

So they slept and slept, and the morning crept
Up the eastern hills,—and still they slept.

“Aha!” said the Sun, when, call'd to rise,
He got out of bed with winking eyes,
And, while his curtain of mist he furl'd,
Look'd down from his window on the world—
“Aha! they are caught in my trap, I see,
These moon-loving sprites. Henceforth they'll be
Somewhat less ready to touch, I'm thinking,
The dew that is meant for my private drinking
'Twas a wise thought, that of mine, to pray
My gossip, the wind, that yesterday
Set out on a journey round that way,
To drop from his pinion, as he flew,
In that acorn-cup, brimfull of dew,
Two great white poppy-seeds, ripe and rare,
And of wond'rous virtue to ensnare
Poachers and pilferers such as they;
Aha! there'll be dew enough to-day!”

“And there was dew,” light laugh'd the Sun,
As he drain'd the flower-cups, one by one—
Meadow-sweet, fox-glove, and mountain-bell,
Primrose, and cowslip, and pimpernel,
All of them beaded and brimming o'er;—
Dew there was, truly, an ample store,
And the next day, too, and for many more.
But whether, from that time forth, made wise
By the cramps, and stitches, and maladies
That seized them in waking, the cunning elves
Forswore dew-drinking, and bound themselves
With a “temperance pledge,” in the usual way—
I can't inform you—perhaps they may.

THE LAND OF LONG AGO.

Do you ask me, little people,
Where I find my songs and ditties?
Oh, it's far from tower and steeple,
Far from fields and far from cities;

Ay, so very far, that never,
Though your feet were like the wind,
Could you reach the place, for ever
Out of sight and out of mind.

Out of sight,—a darkness, streaming,
Walls it in on either hand;
Out of mind—your childish dreaming
Ne'er could picture such a land.

Wait, my children, Time will show it,
Through the gloom of years 'twill grow
Clear to all your eyes—you'll know it
As the Land of Long Ago.

Bright the sunshine round you streaming,
On green turf and golden sand;
But a lovelier light is gleaming
In that dear forsaken land.

You believe no flowers are rarer
Than in glen and garden grow;
I could find a thousand fairer
In the fields of Long Ago.

Oh! their scents, no breeze hath won them!—
Oh! the honey in each cup!
Oh! the diamond dew upon them!—
No hot sunbeams drink it up.

And you praise your birds' free singing,
Lark and wren and linnet gay;
Ah! with richer strains are ringing
Those green gardens far away.

If you could but hear the glorious
Warbling of their nightingale,
As he pours his chant victorious
In the moonlight, pure and pale,

You'd confess your woodland singers
No such cunning skill can show,
As that lonely voice that lingers
In the groves of Long Ago.

I'm an old man, little people,—
Wither'd cheek and wrinkled brow,
Hair as grey as yon church steeple,
These are my best graces now.

But the time was that I number'd
No more years than you this day,
And no heavy care encumber'd,
And no sorrow check'd my play.

I had eyes as blue as Harry's;
Curly locks, too, I declare;
Cheeks as plump as little Mary's,
And the same half-saucy air.

You may laugh, my little people,
But be sure my story's true,
For I vow, by yon church steeple,
I was once a child like you;

Just as frisky in the wild wood,
Just as nimble in the race;
But I lost my happy childhood;—
Do you ask in what strange place,

In what darksome lanes and alleys,
It slipp'd from me? You shall know:
It was in the dewy valleys
Of the Land of Long Ago.

So I go back often, often,
For I find my treasure there,
And its sweet face seems to soften
All my grief and all my care.

And we wander through the mazes
Of the woods and dells, at morn,
And we pluck the flowers, white daisies
And red poppies, in the corn.

And my feeble step grows firmer,
And my cheek's glow re-appears,
And “Thank God! thank God!” I murmur,
'Till my eyes break out in tears,

And the portal closes, closes,
And the darkness walls it round,
Leaving childhood with the roses,
Age, upon the flinty ground.

Nay, my children, not in sadness,
Nor reproach, these words I say;
God is good, and gives new gladness,
When the old he takes away.

But where all my songs and ditties
I go seeking—now you know—
Far from fields and far from cities,
In the Land of Long Ago.

KITTEN GOSSIP.

INSCRIBED TO MISS H. G. B.

Kitten, Kitten, two months old,
Woolly snow-ball, lying snug,
Curl'd up in the warmest fold
Of the warm hearth-rug,
Turn your drowsy head this way.
What is life? Oh, Kitten, say!

“Life!” said the Kitten, winking her eyes,
And twitching her tail, in a droll surprise—
“Life?—Oh, it's racing over the floor,
Out at the window and in at the door;
Now on the chair-back, now on the table,
'Mid balls of cotton and skeins of silk,
And crumbs of sugar and jugs of milk,
All so cosy and comfortable.

It's patting the little dog's ears, and leaping
Round him and over him while he's sleeping,—
Waking him up in a sore affright,
Then off and away, like a flash of light,
Scouring and scampering out of sight.
Life? Oh! it's rolling over and over
On the summer-green turf and budding clover,
Chasing the shadows, as fast they run,
Down the garden paths, in the mid-day sun,
Prancing and gambolling, brave and bold,
Climbing the tree-stems, scratching the mould—
That's Life!” said the Kitten two months old.

Kitten, Kitten, come sit on my knee,
And lithe and listen, Kitten to me!
One by one, oh! one by one,
The sly, swift shadows sweep over the sun—
Daylight dieth, and—kittenhood's done.
And, Kitten, oh! the rain and the wind!
For cathood cometh, with careful mind,
And grave cat-duties follow behind.

Hark! there's a sound you cannot hear;
I'll whisper its meaning in your ear:
Mice!
(The Kitten stared with her great green eyes,
And twitch'd her tail in a queer surprise,—)
Mice!
No more tit-bits, dainty and nice;
No more mischief and no more play;
But watching by night, and sleeping by day,
Prowling wherever the foe doth lurk—
Very short commons and very sharp work.
And, Kitten, oh! the hail and the thunder!
That's a blackish cloud, but a blacker's under.
Hark! but you'll fall from my knee, I fear,
When I whisper that awful word in your ear—
R-r-r-rats!
(The Kitten's heart beat with great pit-pats,
But her whiskers quiver'd, and from their sheath
Flashed out the sharp, white, pearly teeth.)
R-r-r-rats!

The scorn of dogs, but the terror of cats;
The cruellest foes and the fiercest fighters;
The sauciest thieves and the sharpest biters.
But, Kitten, I see you've a stoutish heart,
So, courage! and play an honest part;
Use well your paws,
And strengthen your claws,
And sharpen your teeth and stretch your jaws—
Then woe to the tribe of pickers and stealers,
Nibblers and gnawers and evil dealers!
But now that you know life's not precisely
The thing your fancy pictured so nicely,
Off and away! race over the floor,
Out at the window and in at the door;
Roll on the turf and bask in the sun,
Ere night-time cometh, and kittenhood's done.

THE TOMB AND THE ROSE.

[_]

FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO.

Said the Tomb, “O Rose, Love's flower,
What dost thou with thy dower
Of tears, the skies shed on thy bloom, each day?”
“O Tomb,” the red Rose said,
“What dost thou, with the dead,
That in thy greedy gulf drop fast away?”

Said the Rose, “O Tomb, I turn
Those tears, within my urn,
To honey sweet and amber-scented sighs.”
The Tomb said, “Of each soul,
Vain flower, that seeks my goal,
I make a shining angel for the skies.”

THE OWL'S SOLILOQUY.

'Twas the twilight hour. “Tuwhit, tuwhoo!”
Croak'd the Owl, as he peer'd the branches through,
Of the grim old churchyard tree.
“Tuwhit, tuwhoo!” and he plumed his wing;
“They are silent now, they shall hear me sing;
That will gladden their hearts,” quoth he.

“I'm the king of birds, and 'twould ill agree
With my royal state and my dignity,
To mix with the vulgar throng;
So I wait till the shades begin to fall,
And the earth is hush'd, then I charm them all
With my soft, melodious song.

If I were to sing in the garish day,
I have not the least doubt they would all display
A pleasure as great as now.
But I've often been told, and I think they're right,
That my voice has a grander sound at night,
And my notes a richer flow.

Aha! there's that silly young bird again,
That Nightingale, with his tedious strain;
Now really it's very wrong.
He listen'd to me one summer's eve,
And ever since then, without my leave,
He has tried to learn my song.

Tuwhit, tuwhoo, tuwhoo, tuwhoo!
He'll be sensible soon what a vain to-do
He has made with his rivalry.
Indeed, I've a mind myself to teach
The bird how completely beyond his reach
Is the tone of my minstrelsy.

So now for a stave! Tuwhit, tuwhoo!”
Said the Owl, as he flutter'd the branches through,
Of the grim, dark, churchyard tree;
And a proud old fellow was he, that hour,
As, perch'd on the top of the belfry tower,
He hooted right dismally.

TURNCOATS.

Said a little black Tadpole to another,
That happen'd to be his elder brother,
“Pray, what strange creature is that I hear
Croaking so loud?” “A Frog, my dear,”
Said the brother, “and there he sits.” “I ne'er
Saw an uglier monster, I declare,”
Cried little Taddy, wriggling his tail,
In an offhand fashion, that could not fail

To show his contempt. “It's really a pleasure
And satisfaction, no words can measure,
To think that we are so smooth and slim,
So handsome, so . . very unlike him.”
“To be sure,” said the brother, bobbing and blinking,
“To be sure, I'm just of your way of thinking.”
The air was mild, and the sun was strong,
The Tadpoles were turn'd to Frogs, ere long;
The little one croak'd, the big one croak'd.
At last, said the younger, “Of course, we . . . . joked
That day, in the ditch; for there's no denying,
And in fact it's a truth past all replying,
That whether in mere, or marsh, or bog,
The handsomest creature, by far, is a frog.”
“To be sure,” said the brother, bobbing and blinking,
“To be sure, I'm just of your way of thinking.”

UNDER MY WINDOW.

Under my window, under my window,
All in the Midsummer weather,
Three little girls, with fluttering curls,
Flit to and fro, together;
There's Bell, with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud, with her mantle of silver green,
And Jeanne, with the scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window,
Leaning stealthily over;
Merry and clear, the voice I hear
Of each glad-hearted rover.
Ah! sly little Jeanne, she steals my roses,
And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies,
As busy as bees in clover.

Under my window, under my window,
In the blue Midsummer weather,
Stealing slow, on a hush'd tiptoe,
I catch them all together.
Bell, with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud, with her mantle of silver-green,
And Jeanne, with the scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window,
And off, through the orchard closes,
While Maud, she flouts, and Bell, she pouts,
They scamper, and drop their posies;
But dear little Jeanne takes naught amiss,
And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss,
And I give her all my roses.

THE TRAGIC HISTORY OF PUFFSKIN, THE FROG, AND PETER PIPER, THE GRASSHOPPER.

ADDRESSED TO MY LITTLE NEPHEW, W. T. S.

Puffskin, the Frog, was a mischievous fellow,
His coat was green and his eyes were yellow;
He gave a great croak (he'd a shocking cold
In his head, that morning, as I've been told,
And it made him spiteful), and slyly dodging
Aside, from the marsh where he had his lodging,
He sprang down the bank, with a sudden whir,
And found Peter Piper, the Grasshopper,
Chirping and twittering, as brisk and bold,
As if there were no such thing as a cold,
Or a cramp, or a toothache, to throw a shadow
On any visage, in marsh or meadow.
“Soho!” said the Frog, “they say you're known
For a wonderful jumper, but I own

I can't believe it; you're so lanky,
And lean. Why, I would not give a thank'ye
For a body like yours, that shrinks and dwindles,
With a pair of legs, like a pair of spindles.
But show me your feats, and jump with spirit,
And you'll find me proud to proclaim your merit.
You see that bank, with its reedy cover;—
Come, I'll wager my head you can't leap over,
Without so much as a limb that brushes
The spiky tops of the tallest rushes.”
“Done!” cried the Grasshopper; but alas!
He had chirp'd all his life in the meadow grass,
And had not the least idea of the pool,
That lay so muddy, and black, and cool,
On the other side of his perilous leap.
And Puffskin, the Frog, sat all of a heap,
Watching his victim with twinkling eyes,
And pursed-up mouth, so solemn and wise,
While his fat sides shook like a jelly, as if
He were trying to look demure and stiff,

And could not, for laughing. Away, away,
Springs the Grasshopper, chirping, well a day!
Over the bank and over the rushes,
Without so much as a limb that brushes;
And away leaps Puffskin, wickedly croaking,
To see poor Peter sputtering and choking.
And there to be sure he was, half sinking.
In the dirty puddle, and certainly drinking,
In that one minute, a vast deal more
Than he ever had drunk in his life before.
Oh! Puffskin, the Frog, you wicked viper!
What harm had he done, poor Peter Piper?
Chirping, chirping, from morning till night,
Deep in the grasses, out of sight.
What harm had he done?
Why surely none,
Thought the long lithe reeds, all bowing and bending,
Leaning and leaning, and still descending.
What harm had he done?
Why surely none,

Thought the wild West-wind, that sturdy blower,
As he bent the blades down, lower and lower.
Hurrah! there's a chance, for see, he brushes
The outermost edge of the drooping rushes.
Hurrah! he struggles, and nears the shore;
He's a hand's-breadth closer than before!
Hurrah! the danger's past; already
He climbs the spear-points, stout and steady.
He's safe! With one swift spring he clears
The bank and the rushes and disappears
In the meadow grass, where he chirps with a quiver,
That is half a sob and half a shiver.
Hurrah! Where's Puffskin?—where indeed?
So intent was he on that evil deed,
That he never saw the farmer's sow,
Grubbing for beech-nuts under the bough.
Squash! went her hoof on the blue and yellow
Of Puffskin's back. So the wicked old fellow,
Crush'd under foot, just like a viper,
Play'd no more tricks on poor Peter Piper.

FOUR TWIGS FOR A BIRCH.

Well, I wonder where the Spring is hiding;
Just look out and call him;
He's dropp'd off to sleep, no doubt, a chiding
Will, I trust, befall him.

Little Bell's gone peeping, prying, prowling,
But rough Winter lingers;
He'll pounce on her, like a Bear, and growling,
Pinch her toes and fingers.

Ah! if I were Summer, I'd not pardon
Lazy Spring's long dozes;
I'd just take his place, and fill his garden
With red July roses.

And when at the door, he cried—sweet lisper,
“I'm the Spring; d'ye hear, Sir?”
I'd just tell the hollyhock to whisper,
“There's no Spring this year, Sir.”

MAUD.

Little Maud, my queen!
Oh! the winsome lady!
All the bright midsummer day,
Thrush and black-cap on the spray,
Sing for her so blithe and gay,
In the wood-depths shady.
Ah! but Maud, my queen,
By your troth remember,
You've a poet, all your own,
Keeps for you his sweetest tone,
Singing, not in June alone,
But in bleak December.
Maud, my lady, if you please,
Say whose singing's best of these?

Little Maud, my queen!
Oh! the winsome lady!

Leaps her lap-dog, to and fro,
Fawning-fond her hound doth grow,
When she pats and pets them so,
In the wood-depths shady.
Ah! but Maud, my queen,
By your troth remember,
You've a poet loves you still,
Be your humour what it will,
Cross or kind, or warm or chill,
June or bleak December.
Maud, my lady, if you please,
Say whose loving's best of these?

HERE'S THE SWALLOW!

As I sat beneath the wayside oak,
I heard five-and-twenty little folk
Singing, “Here's the Swallow, here's the Swallow!
April's coming, and Spring's sure to follow!”
I was weary, for the way was long,
But my heart leap'd up to hear that song;
Vanish'd suddenly each shade of sadness,
All my youth came back, and all its gladness;
And in fancy, from beneath the oak,
I flew down to join those little folk,
Singing, “Here's the Swallow! here's the Swallow!
April's coming, and Spring's sure to follow!”

UNDER THE APPLE TREE.

John rode off to the broomy lea,
And Maud and May went roaming,
But Harry climb'd up the apple tree,
And Ellie, she sat below to see
What good luck might be coming.

Harry found apples that pleased him well,
And he pick'd them merrily humming;
But some through his fingers slipp'd and fell,
And Ellie laugh'd out like a silver bell,
To see the good luck coming.

When John came home from his ride that day,
And Maud and May, at gloaming,
And they saw little Ellie munching away,
“To morrow,” they cried, “with you we'll stay,
And watch for the good luck coming.”

THE FAIRIES.

Do you wonder where the Fairies are,
That folks declare have vanish'd?
They're very near, yet very far,
But neither dead nor banish'd.

They live in the same green world to-day
As in bygone ages olden,
And you enter in by the ancient way,
Through an ivory gate and golden.

It's the land of Dreams,—oh! fair and bright,
That land, to many a rover,
But the heart must be pure and the conscience light
That would cross its threshold over.

The worldly man for its joys may yearn,
When pride and pomp embolden,
But never for him do the hinges turn
Of the ivory gate and golden.

While the innocent child, with eyes undim,
As the sky in it blueness o'er him,
Has only to touch the portal's rim,
And it opens wide before him,

And shows him the Dreamland valleys cool,
And the hill-tops, blue and airy,
And each beautiful dell and dingle, full
Of Brownie and Gnome and Fairy.

And frolicksome Puck comes, nothing loth,
And plagues him without pity;
And Cobweb and Mustardseed and Moth,
And little Peasblossom pretty.

And Mab, the queen, rides up as well,
Trick'd out with elfin graces,
In a chariot made of a filbert shell,
With a spider's thread for traces.

And a team of ladybirds, red and black,—
On each a gnat for postilion,
And two tall footmen-flies at the back,
In suits of green and vermilion.

And she says, “Good child you shall come and see
The moonbeams build my palace,
And we'll sip together the Maydew free,
From fairy cup and chalice.

Then away they scamper, o'er mead and plain,
With the happy child fast holden,—
Oh! it's long ere he passes out again,
Through the ivory gate and golden.

Now, Willie, if you'll be good and kind,
And each wrong impulse smother,
And learn your lessons with steady mind,
And love your father and mother,

Some night, when the sun in darkness dips,
We'll seek the Dreamland olden,
And you shall touch, with your finger tips,
The ivory gate and golden.

A LITTLE CHAT WITH THE RAINING POWERS.

WRITTEN DURING A WET WINTER.

Rain, rain, go away,
Come again, another day!
“Nay,” said the Rain, “but I'm come to stay.
Do you hear? to stay! You may frown or smile,
Or drop, if you please, into deep vexations,
Or circle me round with incantations,
But you'll not see the last of me, yet awhile.”
“Stay, stay
Many a day!”
Sang the Roofs, in a guttural roundelay.

“It chanced, on the mountains, months ago,
I met King Frost, in his mantle of snow,
And his crown of ice. He was coming this way,
But without his umbrella. I soak'd him through,

Roaring and pouring, splashing and dashing,
Now in torrents, and now in spray,
Till his cloak dripp'd off, and his icy crown
Over his eyebrows came oozing down;
And he limp'd and hobbled, with much ado,
Back o'er the hills to his bleak domains,
Where he's lying, they say,
Rack'd, night and day,
With lumbago, and gout, and rheumatic pains;
So there's nothing, you see, to shorten my stay.”
“Stay, stay
Many a day!”
Sang the cisterns, piping their roundelay.

“Why the fact is (if you choose to share
My little confession), for ages gone,
Indeed, ever since I could go alone,
I've been sowing my wild oats here and there,
Wasting my substance in mists and showers,
Sporting with rainbows and flirting with flowers,

Dreaming, in short, of mere pleasures and beauties,
And losing sight of my natural duties,
But all that's over now, I declare.
And here I am, resolved and ready
To turn a new leaf, to be strong and steady,—
Roaring and pouring, splashing and dashing,
Now in torrents and now in spray,—
In a word, to act as befits my station,
To fulfil, to the utmost, my high vocation,
And neither be coax'd nor driven away!”

“Stay, stay,
Many a day!”
Gurgled the kennels and drains on their way,
Whirling along,
Muddy and strong,
In a turbid under-current of song,—
“Stay, stay,
Many a day!
And neither be coax'd nor driven away!”

MILL-SONG.

Merrily the mill-sail
Turneth round and round,
With a breezy motion
And a busy sound.
Merrily the miller
Standeth at the door,
Crooning pleasant ditties
From his ancient store.
Merrily, oh! merrily, all the summer's day,
Sings that burly miller, while the mill-sails play.

At the open lattice,
In the homestead near,
Sits the miller's good-wife
Full of blithesome cheer;

And about the gateway,
See, a sturdy throng
Of young knaves are laughing,
Laughing loud and long.
Merrily, right merrily, all the summer's day,
Laugh the miller's bonny bairns, while the mill-sails play.

Fair befall thee, miller,
With thy hearty smile!
Fair befall thy dear ones all,
Without grief or guile!
When dull cares beset us,
When dear hopes decline,
It is well to linger
By such hearths as thine:
Merrily, still merrily, all the live-long day,
Reaping sunshine for the soul, while the mill-sails play.

KING TOAD.

There was once a Toad, and he lived in a hole
Till he grew as dingy and black as a coal.
At last he hopp'd out, for 'twas cloudy weather,
And vapour and mist were huddled together.
And “It's really a very fine thing,” said he,
“That this great foggy world should be made for me!
For, of course, I have every reason to know
I'm the king of all creatures here below.
There's a man, now, riding along this way:
He is very busy and big; but pray,
What could he be made for, if it were not
To gladden my eyes and prove that I've got
A proper provision of rational pleasure,
As befits a monarch with so much leisure?
And then there's the robin that sings hard-by,
And the goldfinch above—why, with half an eye

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One can see that they warble their tuneful numbers
Solely to sweeten my royal slumbers.
But the thing that plagues me is this:—these men
Drop off and die, and the goldfinch and wren
And robin die too, and the trees shake down
Their leaves, and the earth grows sere and brown;
Now what if the world were to fall in pieces,
While I'm in my prime!—it's that that teases
My brain.” . . But the word was scarcely said,
When a broad-wheel'd waggon went over his head.

101

MINE HOST OF “THE GOLDEN APPLE.”

[_]

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.

A goodly Host one day was mine,
A Golden Apple his only sign,
That hung from a long branch, ripe and fine.

My Host was the bountiful Apple-tree;
He gave me shelter and nourish'd me
With the best of fare, all fresh and free.

And light-wing'd guests came, not a few,
To his leafy inn, and sipp'd the dew,
And sang their best songs ere they flew.

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I slept, at night, on a downy bed
Of moss, and my Host benignly spread
His own cool shadow over my head.

When I ask'd what reckoning there might be,
He shook his broad boughs cheerily:—
A blessing be thine, green Apple-tree!

103

A FIRESIDE STORY.

The snow fell all the winter night,
The snow fell still at morn:
Said the woodman to his busy wife,
“Be sure, till I return,

“You keep the children safe at home;
For yesterday a herd
Of hungry wolves were in the wood,
And more than once I heard

“Their howl come sweeping up the glade,
And o'er the windy plain:
So, goodwife, make the wicket fast
Till I come back again.”

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The woodman kiss'd his little ones
He kiss'd their mother too;
And o'er his shoulders presently
His trusty axe he threw;

Then forth he went, with sturdy step,
Across the frozen moor;
While his goodwife made the wicket fast,
And barr'd the cottage door.

The children sat before the fire,
A comely boy and girl:
The boy, with flashing eyes and bold,
And many an ebon curl;

The girl, a little laughing thing,
With chubby cheek and fair,
And cherry lip, and dimpled chin,
And clustering auburn hair.

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They sat before the cottage fire,
And basking in the flame,
Between them sat a little dog,
And Thistle was his name.

No curly locks, you'll well believe,
Nor comely looks, had he;
A shaggy sheep-dog was his sire,
As rough as rough could be.

But underneath that tangled coat,
Its homeliness disproving,
There beat a stout and stedfast heart,
And faithful, too, and loving.

Whene'er his master's step he heard,
He leap'd and bark'd for joy;
But most of all did Thistle love
That little girl and boy.

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Their pet beside the winter hearth,
Their playmate full of glee,
Their guardian in the summer woods,
And watchful friend was he.

Now when the sun that day had set
The western hills below,
And wilder grew the whistling wind,
And faster fell the snow,

The goodwife clear'd the window-pane,
And gazed with anxious eyes,
Where bleak the frozen moorland lay
Beneath the leaden skies.

But vain her search! then busily
She moved about the fire,
And poked the smouldering logs, and made
The crackling flame leap higher;

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And in the window-sill she set
A lantern, that afar
The woodman might be cheer'd to see
His home's sure beacon star.

But dark and darker grew the night;
Great stormy gusts swept by,
And tore the branches from the trees,
And toss'd the snow on high.

The goodwife's face wax'd sharp and pale,
She listen'd at the door;
No voice, no kind familiar shout,
Came sounding o'er the moor.

Then up and spake the little boy:—
“Oh! mother, let me run
Just twenty steps along the road;
'Twill be such famous fun!

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“I'll take the lantern in my hand,
And presently, you'll see,
I'll find my father on the moor,
And bring him back with me!”

The mother smiled, the mother frown'd,
She knew not what to do;
Then up and spake the little girl:—
“And oh! let me go too!”

“Now nay, now nay, my children dear,
Too wild the winter weather;
Ye could not face the bitter blast. . .”
“Then we'll go all together!”

Cried both at once. The little girl
Her mother's mantle fetch'd;
On tiptoe, from the window-sill,
The boy the lantern reach'd.

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Still paused the goodwife, but the lad
Unbarr'd the cottage-door;
And, hand-in-hand, those three went forth
Across the frozen moor.

And Thistle leap'd, and Thistle bark'd,
And bounded to and fro;
And laugh'd the children, loud and shrill,
Amidst the driving snow.

And when they reach'd the nearest ridge,
Two little shouts together,
Of “Father, father!” sounded clear,
Above the angry weather.

The dame held up the light, and tried
To shout in stronger tone;—
Alas! her voice so shook with fear,
It died into a moan.

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They listen'd—still the piping wind
And whistling sleet whirl'd by;
But no kind voice across the moor
Gave back an answering cry;

No father's voice, but in its stead,
So fierce and wild a yell,
That on the hearts of all the three
A sudden terror fell.

“The wolf! the wolf!” the mother scream'd,—
“Away! dear bairns, away!”
The boy alone stood bold and strong
As any stag at bay.

And where the lantern threw afar
Its wav'ring light and dim,
He saw the wolf come tearing on,
With gaping jaws and grim.

111

And “Thistle, Thistle!” loud he cried;—
Oh! then 'twas clear to see,
How true a friend in hour of need
A trusty dog may be!

One eager look he gave the boy,
And, ready for the fray,
Plung'd through the drifting snow, and stopp'd
The hungry wolf half way.

One sharper yell, one ringing bark,
Proclaim'd the foes had met;
Brave Thistle! in the wolf's gaunt throat,
His stubborn fangs were set!

A little dog was Thistle,—big
And brawny, I've been told,
That gristly wolf, yet, true as steel,
The dog made good his hold.

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Though rudely toss'd from side to side,
Though dash'd upon the ground,
Brave Thistle's fangs the faster clung
Within the wid'ning wound.

Up sprang the wolf, with foaming jaws,
And limbs all bloody red,
And rear'd and rush'd, and strove to fling
The dog above his head;

But vain his rage, and vain, no less,
His cruel craft, for still
Brave Thistle clutch'd the gory throat
With just the same good will.

Then on the hard and trodden ground
The wolf roll'd to and fro,
With many a fierce and frantic plunge,
In hope to crush his foe.

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But hark! a footstep on the moor,—
A voice, in shrillest tone!
Hark! true and stout, an axe rings out,
And rends through flesh and bone!

Down drops the wolf, down drops the axe—
The woodman's stalwart arm
Enfolds his wife and children dear,
Safe shelter'd, now, from harm.

He clasps them with a fervent clasp,
Their stammer'd tale he hears;
And now he roughly chafes and chides,
And now as roughly cheers.

But Thistle, Thistle?—at their feet
The faithful creature lies,
With just the last faint spark of life
Left shining in his eyes.

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The woodman lifts him tenderly,
With many a kind caress;
His little son breaks out in sobs,
The girl, in mute distress,

With trembling fingers strokes his head,
And pats him o'er and o'er;
But vainly—ne'er to love's appeal,
Will Thistle answer more.

Oh, faithful friend! oh, stedfast love!
One farewell look he cast,
One lingering look on boy and girl,
And then his spirit pass'd.

And sadly went they o'er the moor,
With faltering feet and slow;
The night, so dark and drear before,
Grew darker, drearier now.

115

The very wind did seem to bear
A sorrow not its own,
And through the swinging branches gush'd,
With sob and sigh and moan.

Oh! sadly, sadly, through the snow,
The little band return'd;
With streaming eyes, and mournful talk,
And tender hearts that yearn'd.

Oh! sadly, sadly, one and all
They track'd the frozen moor;
And sadly, sadly, reach'd at last
The gleaming cottage door.

The goodman laid poor Thistle down,
With reverent care, and then
He set the outer wicket fast,
And barr'd the door agen;

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And after, on the cottage floor—
His dear ones by his side—
With folded arms, he knelt and pray'd,—
And “Oh! thank God!” he cried.

“Thank God, for wife and bairns, this night,
From dread and danger freed!
Thank God!” with wavering voice, he pray'd,
“For that good friend in need!”

Without, a sudden quiet stole
Across the angry weather;
Within, upon the silence broke
Two little sobs together.

“Oh! Thistle, Thistle!” cried the boy,
As stooping down once more,
He kiss'd the friend so still and cold,
That was so fond of yore.

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“Oh! Thistle, Thistle!” cried they both,
As if their hearts would break.
In sleep, that night, the tear-drops lay
Undried on either cheek.

They buried Thistle in a grave,
Deep down beneath the snow,
Where in the golden summer waved
The green laburnum bough;

Where first the merry sunbeams came,
And through the noontide hours,
The bee flew buzzing, in and out,
Amongst the cowslip flowers.

And when, from its long winter sleep,
The drowsy earth arose,
Upon the little grassy mound
They set a fair white rose.

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The years have fled—that boy and girl
Are aged people now,
With failing sight and hair as white
As any winter's snow.

But in the same old house they dwell,
And wait life's peaceful close,
And still on Thistle's honour'd grave
There grows a fair white rose.

And when, on summer eves, they sit
Recalling childhood's hours,
Full oft their wistful glances turn
To Thistle's mound of flowers.

Oh! still the tears o'erflow their eyes,
And still their true hearts bleed,
Whene'er the simple tale they tell
Of that good friend in need.

119

CHILD BARBARA AND THE DRAGON.

Child Barbara was a modest maid;
She was white as a lily that's grown in the shade,
And her two pretty eyes were soft and blue
As wild-wood violets, moist with dew.
But her voice.—O children, Maud, Mabel, and Nancy,
Do, just to oblige me now, try and fancy
The rarest of song-birds all piping together,
'Neath the bluest sky, in the brightest weather;
And when you've a clear idea of the sweetness
Of that bird-chorus, in its completeness,
Of Barbara's singing . . . you'll know no more,
I am sorry to say, than you knew before.
It was past all fancy—sometimes, in dreaming,
We may hear such music swelling and streaming,

120

Warbling and piping, pour'd out like a river
Of sunshine and song, that makes us quiver
And smile and tremble, by turns, and pray
Such rapture may never pass away.
But in this work-a-day world . . . ah no!
That sort of singing ceased long ago!
But that Barbara's voice had charms, you'll own,
When I tell you that, by its aid alone,
She slew a Dragon—ah! yes, a Dragon,
As broad as the hugest, broadest wheel'd waggon,
And so long, I am sure you'd turn terribly pale,
If I mention'd the marvellous length of his tail.
Through the wretched country, near and far,
This monster waged a pitiless war
On all the poor people; and not a day
But he snapp'd up a good round dozen for play,
And fifty, at least, for an early dinner,
And as many for supper, as I'm a sinner,
So the population grew thinner and thinner.
This Dragon was green as grass, the colour
Of Venetian blinds, or a trifle duller,

121

With a head in the style of the crocodile's,
And a tail like a snake's, that for miles and miles
Lay coiled and knotted, in rings upon rings,
Round rocks and hill-tops, and all such things.
He had but one eye, and that was yellow,
Like a great flaming onyx—a fright of a fellow:
He look'd, I assure you, when, turning round,
He stared you full in the face and frown'd.
Now over this eye grew three long, tough
Lashes, like brambles, and just as rough.
And much was talk'd of a prophecy,
Made by a wizard in days gone by,
Which declared this monster would come to his end
Whenever an innocent child should wend
To his den on the mountain top, and creep
To his side and fairly sing him to sleep;
And then, with a jerk, courageous and stout,
Pull one of those long rough eyelashes out.

But alas! the children, at such a thought,
Shiver'd and shook, and went clean distraught;

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All the singing ceased, and nothing was heard
But squalling and screaming, which, on my word,
Little folks, is the most ridiculous fashion
Of lulling a Dragon that's in a passion.
But so it was, and the world went round,
And the Dragon went round as well, and found
Pretty fair pickings; for one good feature
'Tis well to point out in this odious creature—
He was never dainty. Old man or dame,
Or boy or baby, 'twas all the same
To his ravenous maw, and he'd mumble and munch
E'en cats and pet puppy-dogs, for a lunch,
If he found nought better. Well, one dark day,
He rush'd to the mouth of his den and lay
Roaring, like thunder—just fancy his roar,
As it peal'd the mountain battlements o'er!—
No, don't take the trouble; you'd never conceive it,
'Twas past all fancy; you'd scarce believe it,
If told of its horror.—In dreams, such thunder
May startle and strike us with awe and wonder,
Rattling and rumbling the black skies under,

123

But in this work-a-day world . . ah! no,
That sort of roaring ceased long ago!
Well, he roar'd and he roar'd, so the people knew
He was out of temper, and off they flew,
Helter-skelter, pell-mell, like the wind;
And owing, no doubt, to the state of their mind,
They left all the little children behind!
There was a terrible piece of business!
Judge the fright and confusion and dizziness—
Up the stairs and down the stairs,
Little feet patter'd and rush'd, by pairs,
Out in the garden, and down in the street,
They flock and hurry, and part and meet.
What's to be done; oh, what's to be done?
This way they stop, that way they run—
Screaming and crying, now one by one,
Now all together—oh, what's to be done?
At last, a little damsel, called Bridget,
A sharp little child, though a bit of a fidget,
Said, “Let us all go together and see
If Barbara will help us, for it may be

124

She'll be good and kind, and have courage to creep
Up the mountain and sing the dragon to sleep!”
So away they went, by hundreds and dozens,
Little twin sisters, small wee cousins,
Mites of brothers, and all alone,
Here and there, a motherless orphan'd one.
When Barbara saw this fairy throng
Come sweeping the meadow-path along,
She trembled and turn'd quite pale, and seem'd
To know what the strange sight meant—had she dream'd,
The fair meek child, of the trial of woe,
And the terrible deed she was born to do?
She dropp'd her lute—she sprang to the door—
Up came the children, some fifty score,
Panting and screaming. “Help! help!” cried they;
“All our fathers and mothers have run away,
And the Dragon has got neither bite nor sup,
And he'll gobble us up! he'll gobble us up!
O dear Child Barbara, be kind, now, do;
There's nobody sings so nicely as you.

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Oh! take your wonderful lute, and creep
Up the mountain and sing the Dragon to sleep—
Just sing him those sweet little lullaby things,
That make the birds tuck their heads under their wings,
And the butterflies leave off their frolicsome play,
And the wee pretty dormice drop dozing away;
And, when he's asleep, steal up to his snout,
And before he has time to know what you're about,
Oh! pull his ugly great eyelash out!”

Child Barbara smiled; Child Barbara took
Her lute from the floor, but her young voice shook
A little, the while she softly said,
“I will go, dear children, but ere I tread,
Alone, those dreary and perilous ways,
Let me say my prayer, as on other days!”
Then she knelt, and the children silently
Knelt too—'twas the sweetest sight to see!
Such a swarm of little innocent creatures,
With the tears undried on their pretty features,

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Drooping their bright heads, meek and low,
As flowers droop their bells, when the storm-winds blow.
When Child Barbara rose, no more, no more,
Her voice shook, cheerily, as of yore;
She spoke and smiled—o'er her head she threw
A little hood, with a mantle of blue,—
One comforting word, one grave good-bye,
Then she turn'd to the mountain pathway nigh,
The track, untrodden by feet of men,
That led to the grisly Dragon's den.

Roar upon roar, roar upon roar,
Shook the mountains, haggard and hoar—
Bellow'd the thunder, sobb'd the breeze,
Shiver'd and shudder'd the mountain trees—
And halfway up, ah! what should she see
But a green slimy coil, curl'd round a tree,
Twitching and twisting continually!
'Twas the Dragon's tail, and as thin as a whip—
How she wish'd his eyelashes hung on the tip!

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But as she went up, oh! it grew and grew,
And now it look'd black, and now it look'd blue,
And now a livid and ghastly yellow,
As if the wrath of the fierce old fellow
And all his malice were rankling within,
Up and down, 'neath his venomous skin!
And soon, from the brow of the hill, there came
A black smoky cloud, with flashes of flame—
A fashion the Dragon had, you must know,
Of sending his victims to sleep below;
For this murky and poisonous cloud would creep,
From his nostrils, down the hill-side steep,
And whoever breathed it was sure to be found
Stone-cold, when the Dragon went his round.
Child Barbara crouch'd deep down in the grass,
That the menacing cloud might have time to pass,
And hid her sweet little face so fair,
'Neath a dock-leaf that chanced to be growing there.
Spitting and sputtering above her head
The cloud and its lightnings slowly sped,

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And one flash darted so near, so near,
That it scorch'd the tip of Child Barbara's ear.
But she held her breath, and ere long the blue,
Clear sky, through the branches, gleam'd anew;
So she struggled up, over stocks and stones,
And millions on millions of bare bleach'd bones,
'Till she reach'd the mouth of the Dragon's den,
By the edge of a reeking and stagnant fen.
How his one eye stared, when he saw her coming!
While his fore-paws set up a sort of strumming,
And his tail, on a sudden, gave such a haul,
That it tore up, bodily, roots and all,
Fifty great fir-trees! Barbara grew
Like a poor little frost-bitten snow-drop, in hue;
But she master'd her fear, and sitting down,
(With her face turn'd somewhat away, I must own,)
She avail'd herself of a sudden quiet,
That follow'd the Dragon's ruinous riot,
And sweeping her hand across the strings,
Sang one of her sweet little lullaby things.

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“Dozing, dozing,
Now the day is over,
Down droop the lily bells,
Down droops the clover.

“Dozing, dozing,
Lo! the stars that love them,
Dreamily, dreamily,
Wink their eyes above them.

“Hushaby, hushaby!
Sings the wind in flying;
Hushaby, hushaby!
Sleepily sighing—
Hush-a-by!”

They were simple words, but a sort of spell
Was in Barbara's voice, and I know full well
That had lily or hyacinth chanced to be there,
In that horrible desert, so barren and bare,
'Twould have taken to closing its bells, and reposing
Its delicate leaves, and dreamily dozing.

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As for the Dragon, he wink'd and wink'd,
And yawn'd, and stretch'd, and lazily blink'd;
And once, while the song went on, the child
Saw a wrinkled smile beam, vast and wild,
On his visage, and run, as if brimming o'er,
Round his jaws, a good half mile or more.
And when Barbara left off singing, a smother
In his throat, said plainly, “Come, sing me another.”
Then the child drew nearer, and softly, lowly,
Swayed to and fro, and warbled slowly
A cradle song, that, times without number,
Had woo'd her own pretty eyes into slumber.

“Oh willow, willow,
Weeping willow,
Drooping so drowsily over my pillow:
Willow, willow,
Green as the billow,
Washing so wearily round my pillow:
Willow, willow,
Whispering willow,
Soften my slumber and shade my pillow.”

131

This time the Dragon closed his eye
Outright, and his head droop'd sleepily.
Child Barbara thought he was dropping off;
But no! on a sudden he gave a cough
And an angry start, and stretching his jaws,
He propp'd them up on his two fore-paws,
As if determined not to give way,
And be coax'd into sleeping at that time of day!
So the child took heart of grace, and crept
Nearer and nearer, and now she swept
The chords more lightly, and murmur'd a strain
That seem'd to strew poppy-leaves over his brain.

“Lullaby, lullaby!
Cool falls the gloaming;
Lullaby, lullaby!
Now sleep is coming.
Down from the quiet sky,
Through the deep gloaming;
Lullaby, lullaby!
Now sleep is coming!
Lul-la-by!”

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A deep hush follow'd, then, down dropp'd the paws,—
Down dropp'd the leathery, clanking jaws—
Down dropp'd the lid o'er the blazing eye,
Fast seal'd, as if for a century;
And, ere five minutes were fairly o'er,
The spell-bound Dragon began to snore!
Up sprang Child Barbara, gasping, panting,
And I fear within an ace of fainting,
For now came the ticklish part of the business,
And enough to excuse a moment's dizziness.
The beast was a huge unwieldy wight,
While poor little Barbara was but a mite;
And though his head lay flat on the ground,
The child, on tip-toe, paced round and round,
Striving in vain to reach over his snout,
And pull his ugly long eyelash out!
She could not get near it. What was to be done?
No chance was left but a desperate one—
From the jaws of the monster a single fang
Stuck out—Child Barbara shudder'd, but sprang

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On this venomous step, and then, with a strain,
She reach'd the eyelash and tugg'd amain.
She began with a little, light, slight pull—
Then tried an obstinate, tight pull—
And then a strong pull,
And then a long pull—
And then a feeble, fluttering, fast pull—
And at last a vehement, vigorous, vast pull—
When out it came!
And away went the child, over stocks and stones,
And rocks and rubbish and bare bleach'd bones:
Away and away, for a burst of flame
Wither'd the daylight. With hideous roar
The Dragon leap'd up, and a flood of gore
Rush'd from his jaws like an inky fountain,
And stream'd in a torrent down the mountain!
He howl'd, he bellow'd, he lash'd with his tail;
He struck down the forests as with a flail:
But his fury and spite were of no avail,—
Ere the child reach'd safely the lower land,
The long lash clutch'd in her little hand,

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He had dropp'd down stark in a sea of gore,
Where he slept on, soundly, for evermore!

Now what you may fancy is Barbara's meeting
With her little friends, and their clamorous greeting—
The hugging and kissing, the crowding and pressing,
The happy crowing, the fond caressing;
And the shame of those cowardly fathers and mothers,
When they came—first some, and then the others—
And found that a child, so valiantly,
Had fought their battle and set them free.
That the people did Child Barbara honour
May be judged by the tribute her courage won her;
For, if ever you visit those foreign lands,
You will see an ancient statue, that stands
In a great chief city, full and fair,
In the stately market-place, and there
You will recognise this wonderful child—
Sweet little Barbara—modest and mild,
With her lute in her hand, and to tell her tale,
A Dragon crushed 'neath the pedestal.

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And still, in ballad and ancient story,
The people rehearse Child Barbara's glory,
Which brings me at last to the end of my lay;
So now, dear children, I've only to say,
That, like Child Barbara, I hope you'll ever
Be self-denying, true-hearted, and never
Shrink from your trials and duties, howe'er
They may look the reverse of pleasant and fair.
For ah! little folks, Maud, Mabel, and Nancy,
If we keep our eyes very wide open, I fancy
We may, without over much searching, each day
Find some sort of ugly great Dragon to slay.

136

THE PROUDEST LADY.

The Queen is proud on her throne,
And proud are her Maids so fine,
But the proudest lady that ever was known,
Is a little lady of mine.
And oh! she flouts me, she flouts me!
And spurns, and scorns, and scouts me!
Though I drop on my knee, and sue for grace,
And beg and beseech, with the saddest face,
Still ever the same she doubts me.

She is seven, by the kalendar,
A lily's almost as tall;
But oh! this little lady's by far
The proudest lady of all.

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It's her sport and pleasure to flout me!
To spurn, and scorn, and scout me!
But ah! I've a notion it's nought but play,
And that, say what she will and feign what she may,
She can't well do without me.

When she rides on her nag, away,
By park and road and river,
In a little hat, so jaunty and gay,
Oh! then she's prouder than ever!
And oh! what faces, what faces!
What petulant, pert grimaces!
Why, the very pony prances and winks,
And tosses his head and plainly thinks
He may ape her airs and graces.

But at times, like a pleasant tune,
A sweeter mood o'ertakes her;
Oh! then she's sunny as skies of June,
And all her pride forsakes her.

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Oh! she dances round me so fairly!
Oh! her laugh rings out so rarely!
Oh! she coaxes, and nestles, and purrs, and pries,
In my puzzled face, with her two great eyes,
And owns she loves me dearly.

Ay, the Queen is proud on her throne,
And proud are her Maids so fine;
But the proudest lady that ever was known,
Is this little lady of mine.
Good lack! she flouts me, she flouts me!
She spurns, and scorns, and scouts me!
But ah! I've a notion it's nought but play,
And that, say what she will and think what she may,
She can't well do without me.

139

ON THE THRESHOLD.

Good-bye, dear children, we must part, at last;
I hear the clamorous, noisy world outside,
Calling, reclaiming, half disposed to chide,
For my play-hour is past.

Yet turning now to go, I turn again.
Ye children of my dreams! your life has grown
Part of my life. To say farewell, I own,
Touches my heart with pain.

Bell, shall we roam no more thro' wood and glade,
Chatting with blackbirds, fed on sylvan fare,
By frisky squirrels, taking each his share,
Under the filbert shade?

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And Lily, Lily! will you never dare
Fresh battles with the breeze on hill or plain?
Laugh, little Lily, laugh out once again,
On the soft summer air!

“Under my window,” must I cease to see
My three fine fairies twining wreaths and posies?
Ah! will the only pilferer of my roses
Be now the honey bee?

“The bee and I,” a laughing voice replies;
“The bee and I.” Ay, true; all go but thou,
Sweet Jeanne, my critic, with the sunny brow,
And brown, mirth-beaming eye!

All go? nay, nay; I keep all, still, with thee;
For thou wert all—one child with many names,
One playmate flitting through my changing games,
And more than such to me.

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For thou hast been my little friend, as well;
My seven-year's-old sage counsellor, my guide;
My praiser, and my pretty Muse beside;
Which here 'tis meet to tell.

Dear little Jeanne! If the world gives me posies,
And these my songs are not quite sung in vain,
I'll play my old, blithe orchard part again,
And give thee all the roses.

And should such meed of praise our hearts embolden,
Who knows, dear child, but we may sip the dew,
In Dreamland dells once more, and pass anew
The “ivory gate and golden!”