Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander Edited, with a preface, by William Alexander |
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 | VII. | VII
SONGS FOR CHILDREN |
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 | Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander |  |
VII
SONGS FOR CHILDREN
TWO WAYS.
A wasp and Bee together
Went out on silver wings,
With black and yellow bodies,
And both of them had stings.
Bee suck'd the golden honey
Out of a tulip cup,
And when her thighs were laden,
Went home to store it up.
Went out on silver wings,
With black and yellow bodies,
And both of them had stings.
Bee suck'd the golden honey
Out of a tulip cup,
And when her thighs were laden,
Went home to store it up.
Wasp got into a cherry,
And stung a little boy,
Who snatch'd the rosy berry,
And then flew off with joy.
O boys and little maidens,
Be you still good and kind;
Better to store up honey,
Than leave a sting behind.
And stung a little boy,
Who snatch'd the rosy berry,
And then flew off with joy.
O boys and little maidens,
Be you still good and kind;
Better to store up honey,
Than leave a sting behind.
452
DREAMS.
Beyond, beyond the mountain line,
The grey-stone and the boulder,
Beyond the growth of dark green pine,
That crowns its western shoulder,
There lies that fairy land of mine,
Unseen of a beholder.
The grey-stone and the boulder,
Beyond the growth of dark green pine,
That crowns its western shoulder,
There lies that fairy land of mine,
Unseen of a beholder.
Its fruits are all like rubies rare,
Its streams are clear as glasses;
There golden castles hang in air,
And purple grapes in masses,
And noble knights and ladies fair
Come riding down the passes.
Its streams are clear as glasses;
There golden castles hang in air,
And purple grapes in masses,
And noble knights and ladies fair
Come riding down the passes.
Ah me! they say if I could stand
Upon those mountain ledges,
I should but see on either hand
Plain fields and dusty hedges:
And yet I know my fairy land
Lies somewhere o'er their hedges.
Upon those mountain ledges,
I should but see on either hand
Plain fields and dusty hedges:
And yet I know my fairy land
Lies somewhere o'er their hedges.
IN THE DISTANCE.
In the distance, O my lady,
Little lady turn'd of three!
Will the woodland seem as shady?
Will the sunshine seem as free?
Will the primrose buds come peeping
Quite as bright beneath the tree?
And the brook sing in its leaping
As they do for you and me?
Little lady turn'd of three!
Will the woodland seem as shady?
Will the sunshine seem as free?
453
Quite as bright beneath the tree?
And the brook sing in its leaping
As they do for you and me?
O my darling, O my daisy,
In the days that are to be,
In the distance dim and hazy
With its lights far out at sea;
When you're tall and fair and stately,
Will you ever care for me?
Will you prize my coming greatly
As you did when you were three?
In the days that are to be,
In the distance dim and hazy
With its lights far out at sea;
When you're tall and fair and stately,
Will you ever care for me?
Will you prize my coming greatly
As you did when you were three?
LONGINGS.
When the sun is high in heaven,
On the first day of the seven,
And the merry church-bells ringing,
Call the people in to prayer;
In my chamber sick and lonely
I lie weary, thinking only
Of the message and the music,
And the worship that are there.
On the first day of the seven,
And the merry church-bells ringing,
Call the people in to prayer;
In my chamber sick and lonely
I lie weary, thinking only
Of the message and the music,
And the worship that are there.
For the bells are ringing still,
Over sea, and shore, and hill,
And the cities where the women
And the men go to and fro.
O the movement, O the pleasure,
As they answer to that measure!
O the weariness of wishing
That I too could rise and go.
Over sea, and shore, and hill,
And the cities where the women
And the men go to and fro.
454
As they answer to that measure!
O the weariness of wishing
That I too could rise and go.
Yet the bells will die away,
And the lips will cease to pray,
And the sunshine will not linger
On the valley and the street.
But I know there is a city
Where no sick child seeks for pity,
And where thousand harps are ringing
With a music more complete.
And the lips will cease to pray,
And the sunshine will not linger
On the valley and the street.
But I know there is a city
Where no sick child seeks for pity,
And where thousand harps are ringing
With a music more complete.
SONGS WRITTEN FOR HULLAH.
[When winter's closing shadows fall]
When winter's closing shadows fall
Full early on the whitened wall,
When trimly glows the cottage fire
For home returning son and sire,
We'll gather round the brightening blaze
And sing for them our blithest lays.
Full early on the whitened wall,
When trimly glows the cottage fire
For home returning son and sire,
We'll gather round the brightening blaze
And sing for them our blithest lays.
When summer evenings cool and still
Cast golden gleams on tower and hill,
When dewy mists are curling thin,
The lowly trellised porch within.
While quiet twilight creeps along
We'll sit and sing some tender song.
Cast golden gleams on tower and hill,
When dewy mists are curling thin,
The lowly trellised porch within.
While quiet twilight creeps along
We'll sit and sing some tender song.
455
The thrush beside the cottage door
His wildest warblings loves to pour,
The blackbird trills his notes of glee
From out the poor man's garden tree,
And the sweet night bird gives her strain
Where peasants wander down the lane.
His wildest warblings loves to pour,
The blackbird trills his notes of glee
From out the poor man's garden tree,
And the sweet night bird gives her strain
Where peasants wander down the lane.
Learn we of them, o'er lowly things
To shed the charm, sweet music brings
By every cottage hearth be heard,
The singing of some sweet home bird,
To pour on labour's charmèd ear,
The soothing strain he loves to hear.
To shed the charm, sweet music brings
By every cottage hearth be heard,
The singing of some sweet home bird,
To pour on labour's charmèd ear,
The soothing strain he loves to hear.
[Come and sing a merry measure]
Come and sing a merry measure
With our voices all in time,
And our notes together blending
Like the bells in a sweet chime.
With our voices all in time,
And our notes together blending
Like the bells in a sweet chime.
Lo, around us all is thrilling
With a deep melodious tone,
And each chord in earth and heaven
Hath a music of its own.
With a deep melodious tone,
And each chord in earth and heaven
Hath a music of its own.
All the green leaves in the woodland
With a life of sound are stirred,
And far up in the blue ether
Sings the heaven-loving bird.
With a life of sound are stirred,
And far up in the blue ether
Sings the heaven-loving bird.
456
E'en the wild winds through the mountains
Make strange music as they go,
And the waters moving swiftly
Bear a cadence in their flow.
Make strange music as they go,
And the waters moving swiftly
Bear a cadence in their flow.
Thus our Mother Nature teacheth,
With her many voices strong,
For she moveth to a measure
And her every pulse is song.
With her many voices strong,
For she moveth to a measure
And her every pulse is song.
Come and join in the full chorus
With a glad and grateful sound,
Let not man alone be silent
When all else is singing round.
With a glad and grateful sound,
Let not man alone be silent
When all else is singing round.
NON ANGLI SED ANGELI.
O children, playing down the lanes,
In England's favoured clime,
Where cross-crown'd churches stud the plains,
And bells on Sundays chime.
In England's favoured clime,
Where cross-crown'd churches stud the plains,
And bells on Sundays chime.
Where small feet wander as they list,
And man to man is dear,
And high and low keep holy tryst,
Through all the Christian Year.
And man to man is dear,
And high and low keep holy tryst,
Through all the Christian Year.
Doth even in your memories live,
The time whereof we read,
When Saxon did to Britain give,
Their valour and their creed?
The time whereof we read,
When Saxon did to Britain give,
Their valour and their creed?
457
Or came it ever to your thought,
When England's need was sore,
How her own blue-eyed children brought,
Salvation to her shore?
When England's need was sore,
How her own blue-eyed children brought,
Salvation to her shore?
When unto childish grace was given,
To wake a soft surprise,
And not in vain the blue of Heaven
Shone liquid from their eyes,—
To wake a soft surprise,
And not in vain the blue of Heaven
Shone liquid from their eyes,—
How haply where calm rivers glide,
Thro' greenly wooded lands,
Or east or westward where the tide,
Runs up the thirsty sands.
Thro' greenly wooded lands,
Or east or westward where the tide,
Runs up the thirsty sands.
A Saxon Mother's shrieks have rung,
Blue-veined and wild and fair,
A she-wolf raving for her young,
Around her empty lair.
Blue-veined and wild and fair,
A she-wolf raving for her young,
Around her empty lair.
Telling her strong woe-stricken Chief,
“They came across the sea,
“In their beaked ships, and O my grief!
“They tore my boys from me!”
“They came across the sea,
“In their beaked ships, and O my grief!
“They tore my boys from me!”
How they the while by Tiber's flood,
With blue wide-open eye,
In Rome's slave-market wondering stood,
And saw the knights go by.
With blue wide-open eye,
In Rome's slave-market wondering stood,
And saw the knights go by.
458
And saw the fair Patricians pass,
Gold fillets in their hair,
But never one that cried, “Alas!
“To sell two things so rare.”
Gold fillets in their hair,
But never one that cried, “Alas!
“To sell two things so rare.”
How marvelling much and fearing much,
Half terror, half amaze,
They felt the Christian Prelate's touch,
And met his pitying gaze.
Half terror, half amaze,
They felt the Christian Prelate's touch,
And met his pitying gaze.
Gently his hand was o'er them bent,
Sweetly his shrift was given,
“Not Anglians then, but Angels sent,
“To win their isle to heaven.”
Sweetly his shrift was given,
“Not Anglians then, but Angels sent,
“To win their isle to heaven.”
And when the great Augustine came,
To evangelize our race,
With lifted cross and words of flame,
And deeds of love and grace,
To evangelize our race,
With lifted cross and words of flame,
And deeds of love and grace,
The Mother saw her sons again,
White-robed and book in palm,
Come chanting down their native glen,
So rich, so sweet a Psalm.
White-robed and book in palm,
Come chanting down their native glen,
So rich, so sweet a Psalm.
That she, still following that sweet sound,
Of hope and peace, went up,
And, with her sons, a Saviour found
And drank salvation's cup.
Of hope and peace, went up,
And, with her sons, a Saviour found
And drank salvation's cup.
459
Thus all the isle to light awoke,
From Odin's thraldom freed,
And took the gentle Christian yoke,
And learn'd the Christian Creed.
From Odin's thraldom freed,
And took the gentle Christian yoke,
And learn'd the Christian Creed.
As some wild flower by hill or wave,
God's presence bids us feel,
So the child's beauty in the slave,
Could rouse the Patriarch's zeal.
God's presence bids us feel,
So the child's beauty in the slave,
Could rouse the Patriarch's zeal.
And thus it was our sires were taught,
God's truth and Christ's dear lore,
And England's blue-eyed children brought,
His message to our shore.
God's truth and Christ's dear lore,
And England's blue-eyed children brought,
His message to our shore.
JOANNA.
Lords of merry England's manors,
Born for tilt with Spanish knight,
Lay your lances, furl your banners,
Here hath been a sterner fight,
Death has slain Joanna.
Born for tilt with Spanish knight,
Lay your lances, furl your banners,
Here hath been a sterner fight,
Death has slain Joanna.
By the haughty Edward's sorrow,
By the tears of fair Philippe,
Twine no bridal wreaths to-morrow,
Spanish maids draw nigh to weep,
For your queen, Joanna.
By the tears of fair Philippe,
Twine no bridal wreaths to-morrow,
Spanish maids draw nigh to weep,
For your queen, Joanna.
460
Nought of jousting or carousal,
Woe hath been for joy and pride,
Burial for high espousal,
Lowly lay the virgin bride,
Death has wed Joanna.
Woe hath been for joy and pride,
Burial for high espousal,
Lowly lay the virgin bride,
Death has wed Joanna.
Gently tomb her, for who knoweth
What of pain and grief to come,
He who all in love bestoweth
Saw, and to His heavenly home
Took the fair Joanna.
What of pain and grief to come,
He who all in love bestoweth
Saw, and to His heavenly home
Took the fair Joanna.
In high hope we came to weave thee
Bridal chaplets, Royal Rose!
In a higher hope we leave thee,
Faithfully to blest repose.
Rest in peace, Joanna.
Bridal chaplets, Royal Rose!
In a higher hope we leave thee,
Faithfully to blest repose.
Rest in peace, Joanna.
REJECTED.
I plucked a rose to deck her breast,
The brightest blood-red rose of June;
It could not tinge its place of rest,
But withered there and faded soon.
So Love and sweetness vainly strove
To win a tint—a throb to steal,
For Love is only touched by Love,
And that, she says, she cannot feel.
The brightest blood-red rose of June;
It could not tinge its place of rest,
But withered there and faded soon.
So Love and sweetness vainly strove
To win a tint—a throb to steal,
For Love is only touched by Love,
And that, she says, she cannot feel.
461
She took the winter's white snowflake,
Upon my glowing heart to lay;
The inward fire it could not slake,
But melted all in tears away.
So love lives on in spite of all,
And hope leaps up again, again,
Forgetful of their grievous fall,
Unconquer'd by her cold disdain.
Upon my glowing heart to lay;
The inward fire it could not slake,
But melted all in tears away.
So love lives on in spite of all,
And hope leaps up again, again,
Forgetful of their grievous fall,
Unconquer'd by her cold disdain.
DYING GIRL'S SONG.
When the breath of English meadows
Is fragrant on the breeze,
And the flowers in my own garden
Are musical with bees;
Is fragrant on the breeze,
And the flowers in my own garden
Are musical with bees;
In the calm and pleasant evenings,
Will ye think of her who died,
Where the summer hath no twilight,
Where the salt sea hath no tide?
Will ye think of her who died,
Where the summer hath no twilight,
Where the salt sea hath no tide?
Then when your lips shall name me,
Without or grief, or gloom,
My spirit, like a sunbeam,
Shall glide into the room.
Without or grief, or gloom,
My spirit, like a sunbeam,
Shall glide into the room.
Though ye see me not among you,
Though I breathe not with your breath,
The bond is still between us,
And love outliveth death.
Though I breathe not with your breath,
The bond is still between us,
And love outliveth death.
462
And all that blessed spirits
In the land of rest may do,
To minister to others,
That will I do for you.
In the land of rest may do,
To minister to others,
That will I do for you.
In the glimmer of the moonshine,
On your closely curtained beds,
It may be mine to hover
With white wings o'er your heads.
On your closely curtained beds,
It may be mine to hover
With white wings o'er your heads.
It may be mine to linger
In the fragrant morning air,
And carry up to Heaven
The incense of your prayer.
In the fragrant morning air,
And carry up to Heaven
The incense of your prayer.
I may listen to your laughter,
I may watch o'er you in pain;
Will ye think of me, my darlings,
When ye see me not again?
I may watch o'er you in pain;
Will ye think of me, my darlings,
When ye see me not again?
In the sweet home where I nursed you,
Will you think of her who died,
Where the summer hath no twilight,
Where the salt sea hath no tide?
Will you think of her who died,
Where the summer hath no twilight,
Where the salt sea hath no tide?
463
THE LITTLE WHITE GHOST.
The little white ghost of the dreams I had dream'dFor the boy who was wooing his bride,
In the cold still hour 'twixt day and night,
Came out and stood at my side.
The little white ghost of the first Babe's love,
For the limbs and the fair round head
That nestled and slept at my heart all night,
Came out and stood by my bed.
The little white ghost of my fears and hopes,
And the future a mother can make,
Came out from between his father and me,
As the day began to break.
And why should it not? since it is but a ghost—
And who can give life to the dead?
We cannot give back to the spectres of old
The substance and glow that are fled.
To-morrow will come with a triumph of love,
And the laughter of boys and their shout,
And what of the arm where the baby has lain?
So the little white ghost went out.
| Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander | |