 | Original poems for my children |  |
GOD AND HIS ANGELS EVERYWHERE.
We know that God is everywhere.
We see Him in the changing year,
Above, below, remote, or near.
We see Him in the changing year,
Above, below, remote, or near.
And there His Angels are also;
They ride on all the winds that blow,
And at His bidding come and go.
They ride on all the winds that blow,
And at His bidding come and go.
Unseen by us, that holy band
Speed night and day o'er sea and land,
Or in His presence waiting stand.
Speed night and day o'er sea and land,
Or in His presence waiting stand.
Some wake the morning from repose,
And scent the early Summer-rose,
Or tell the evening when to close.
And scent the early Summer-rose,
Or tell the evening when to close.
They throw grey twilight o'er the hills,
In Spring unloose the frozen rills,
And shake the golden daffodils.
In Spring unloose the frozen rills,
And shake the golden daffodils.
Some sow the dews upon the earth,
Or anthem in the morning's birth,
Teaching the birds their woodland mirth.
Or anthem in the morning's birth,
Teaching the birds their woodland mirth.
They light the stars across the skies,
And tell the lark 't is time to rise,
When they unlock the daisies' eyes.
And tell the lark 't is time to rise,
When they unlock the daisies' eyes.
They scatter cowslips on the dale,
Perfume the lilies of the vale,
And hang the thorn with blossoms pale.
Perfume the lilies of the vale,
And hang the thorn with blossoms pale.
Some twine the branches into bowers,
Others at evening shut the flowers,
And sprinkle them with silver showers.
Others at evening shut the flowers,
And sprinkle them with silver showers.
Some guide the birds across the sea,
Or point out to the belted bee
Where honey-bells wave on the lea.
Or point out to the belted bee
Where honey-bells wave on the lea.
Alighting with half-folded wings,
They bend the buds o'er brooks and springs,
By which the linnet builds, and sings.
They bend the buds o'er brooks and springs,
By which the linnet builds, and sings.
They scatter seeds upon the breeze,
And hang with mellow fruit the trees,
Obeying Him who all things sees,—
And hang with mellow fruit the trees,
Obeying Him who all things sees,—
Keep record of our idle talk,
Are with us when we sleep, or walk:
And ever ready at His call,
To keep a watch o'er great and small.—
God's messengers, who love us all.
Are with us when we sleep, or walk:
And ever ready at His call,
To keep a watch o'er great and small.—
God's messengers, who love us all.
SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY.
The spotted horse is put away,
The hoop, and kite, and top, and ball;
For 'tis the holy Sabbath day,
When Christians go to church, and pray
To God, who loveth all.
The hoop, and kite, and top, and ball;
For 'tis the holy Sabbath day,
When Christians go to church, and pray
To God, who loveth all.
To-day the doll is put aside,
The story-books placed out of sight;
For we must seek a holier guide,
And read how Christ the Saviour died
For us on Calvary's height.
The story-books placed out of sight;
For we must seek a holier guide,
And read how Christ the Saviour died
For us on Calvary's height.
The creaking waggon 's in the shed,
The busy flail is heard no more;
The horse is littered down and fed,
The harness hangs above his head,
The whip behind the door.
The busy flail is heard no more;
The horse is littered down and fed,
The harness hangs above his head,
The whip behind the door.
His leathern gloves and hookëd bill
To-day the woodman throws aside;
The blacksmith's fiery forge is still;
The wooden wheel of the old mill
Sleeps in the mill-dam wide.
To-day the woodman throws aside;
The blacksmith's fiery forge is still;
The wooden wheel of the old mill
Sleeps in the mill-dam wide.
The miller's boat is anchored, where
Far out, the water lilies sleep,
You see their shadows mirrored there,
The broad white flowers reflected clear
Within the mill-pool deep.
Far out, the water lilies sleep,
You see their shadows mirrored there,
The broad white flowers reflected clear
Within the mill-pool deep.
The barrow 's in the garden shed,
Hoe, rake, and spade, are put away;
Unweeded stands the onion bed,
The gardener from his work hath fled,
This holy Sabbath day.
Hoe, rake, and spade, are put away;
Unweeded stands the onion bed,
The gardener from his work hath fled,
This holy Sabbath day.
Upon the wall the white cat sleeps,
By which the churns and milk pans lie;
A drowsy watch the house-dog keeps,
And scarcely from his dull eye peeps
Upon the passer-by.
By which the churns and milk pans lie;
A drowsy watch the house-dog keeps,
And scarcely from his dull eye peeps
Upon the passer-by.
And sweetly over hill and dale
The silvery-sounding church bells ring;
Across the moor and down the dale
They come and go, and on the gale
Their Sabbath tidings fling.
The silvery-sounding church bells ring;
Across the moor and down the dale
They come and go, and on the gale
Their Sabbath tidings fling.
From where the whitewashed Sunday-school
Peeps out between the poplars dim,
Which ever throw their shadows cool
Far out upon the rushy pool,
You hear the Sabbath hymn.
Peeps out between the poplars dim,
Which ever throw their shadows cool
Far out upon the rushy pool,
You hear the Sabbath hymn.
From farm and field, and grange grown grey;
From woodland walks and winding ways,
The old and young, the grave and gay,
Unto the old church come to pray,
And sing God's holy praise.
From woodland walks and winding ways,
The old and young, the grave and gay,
Unto the old church come to pray,
And sing God's holy praise.
For the great God himself did say,
Thou shalt rest one day out of seven;
And set apart that holy day
To worship Me, and sing, and pray,
If thou wouldst enter Heaven.
Thou shalt rest one day out of seven;
And set apart that holy day
To worship Me, and sing, and pray,
If thou wouldst enter Heaven.
THE WATER-CRESS SELLER.
Now all aloud the wind and rain
Beat sharp upon the window-pane,
And though 'tis hardly light,
I hear that little girl go by,
Who does “fine water-cresses” cry,
Morning, and noon, and night.
Beat sharp upon the window-pane,
And though 'tis hardly light,
I hear that little girl go by,
Who does “fine water-cresses” cry,
Morning, and noon, and night.
I saw her pass by yesterday,
The snow upon the pavement lay,
Her hair was white with sleet;
She shook with cold, as she did cry,
“Fine water-cresses, come and buy,”
And naked were her feet.
The snow upon the pavement lay,
Her hair was white with sleet;
She shook with cold, as she did cry,
“Fine water-cresses, come and buy,”
And naked were her feet.
And with one hand, so red and cold,
She did her tattered bonnet hold,
The other held her shawl,
Which was too thin to keep her warm,
But naked left each little arm,
It was so very small.
She did her tattered bonnet hold,
The other held her shawl,
Which was too thin to keep her warm,
But naked left each little arm,
It was so very small.
Her water-cresses froze together,
Yet she, through the cold, bitter weather,
Went on from street to street:
And thus she goes out every day,
For she can earn no other way
The bread which she doth eat.
Yet she, through the cold, bitter weather,
Went on from street to street:
And thus she goes out every day,
For she can earn no other way
The bread which she doth eat.
SISTER MARTHA IN HEAVEN.
I know my sister Martha 's dead,
That weeping for her 's all in vain;
For mother dried my eyes, and said,
We all should meet again.
That weeping for her 's all in vain;
For mother dried my eyes, and said,
We all should meet again.
She told me how the grave but led
To a much happier land than ours;
A land where summer never shed
Its ever-blooming flowers.
To a much happier land than ours;
A land where summer never shed
Its ever-blooming flowers.
That sorrow never entered where
The star-paved floor of heaven lay;
But angels ever waited there,
To wipe our tears away.
The star-paved floor of heaven lay;
But angels ever waited there,
To wipe our tears away.
That Martha is an angel now,
And numbered with that seraph band,
Who in His presence ever bow,
Or sit on His right hand.
And numbered with that seraph band,
Who in His presence ever bow,
Or sit on His right hand.
That high above she hymns His praise,
Tuning a harp with golden strings,
Or kneels amid a sun-like blaze,
Which gilds her face and wings.
Tuning a harp with golden strings,
Or kneels amid a sun-like blaze,
Which gilds her face and wings.
That she hath now an angel's voice,
That on her brow a star doth shine;
While she doth with the saints rejoice,
Before the Throne Divine.
That on her brow a star doth shine;
While she doth with the saints rejoice,
Before the Throne Divine.
I will no longer weep and sigh,
But night and morning bend my knee,
And pray to God that when I die
I may an angel be.
But night and morning bend my knee,
And pray to God that when I die
I may an angel be.
THE MOTHER TO HER INFANT.
Slumber, my darling, no danger is near,
Thy mother sits by thee to guard thy repose;
Though the wind roars aloud, not a breath reaches here,
To shake the white curtains which round thee do close:
Then slumber, my darling, and sleep without fear,
Thou art safe from all danger, my dearest, while here.
Thy mother sits by thee to guard thy repose;
Though the wind roars aloud, not a breath reaches here,
To shake the white curtains which round thee do close:
Then slumber, my darling, and sleep without fear,
Thou art safe from all danger, my dearest, while here.
What is it the angels do unto thee say,
When thou dost lie smiling so sweet in thy sleep?
Are they trying, my sweetest, to lure thee away,
And leave me alone in my sorrow to weep?
Oh! sometimes I fancy they whisper thy name,
And would fain bear thee back to the land whence they came.
When thou dost lie smiling so sweet in thy sleep?
Are they trying, my sweetest, to lure thee away,
And leave me alone in my sorrow to weep?
And would fain bear thee back to the land whence they came.
Then never, my darling, when thou growest old,
Forget her who on thy sweet infancy smiled,
To whom thou wert dearer than jewels or gold,
Who studied thy looks and thy wishes, my child,—
Who, when thou didst need her, was never away
In health or in sickness, by night or by day.
Forget her who on thy sweet infancy smiled,
To whom thou wert dearer than jewels or gold,
Who studied thy looks and thy wishes, my child,—
Who, when thou didst need her, was never away
In health or in sickness, by night or by day.
THE SEA-DEEPS.
Deeper than the narwhal sinketh,Deeper than the sea-horse drinketh,
There are miles, and miles of sea,
Where darkness reigns eternally.
Have ever reached the deep sea-bed;
Nor aught again beheld the light,
Which touched that land of endless night.
Above, a ship might strike and ground,
Below, no bottom could be found;
Though o'er the rocks the white waves hiss,
Unfathomed lay the dark abyss:
Depths measureless—rocks that were hurled
From the foundations of the world.
Deeper than plummet e'er can go
Lie those grim endless depths below,
Which neither wind nor wave come near,
For all is dark and silent there.
Perchance, huge monsters, feed and sleep
Below that black and soundless deep,
Monsters of such weight and size,
That they have no power to rise.
The mighty Kraken, which they say,
Will heave up on that awful day,
When the last trumpet's startling sound
Shall pierce the inmost depths profound;
He 'll from the burning granite start,
And many a league of ocean part,
While his huge bulk he doth uprear,
And like an island vast appear.
Such monstrous things, they say, now sleep
Within the caverns of the deep.
MUSTARD SEED.
Behold this ground! There 's nothing here
Save earth;—nor has there been this year,
Grass, moss, nor flower, nor weed;
Yet in a week, here shall be seen
Your name, dear George, in leaves of green;
Springing from this round seed.
Save earth;—nor has there been this year,
Grass, moss, nor flower, nor weed;
Yet in a week, here shall be seen
Your name, dear George, in leaves of green;
Springing from this round seed.
Now clear and plain before your sight,
In this dark mould your name I 'll write.
There 's every letter clear—
Now fill the lines with mustard seed—
Well done, a dunce your name might read,
So plain it doth appear.
In this dark mould your name I 'll write.
There 's every letter clear—
Now fill the lines with mustard seed—
Well done, a dunce your name might read,
So plain it doth appear.
Cover the seeds beneath this mould,
That looks so dark, and damp, and cold,
Until not one is seen.
And in a week, I dare be bound,
The name of George will here be found
In double leaves of green.
That looks so dark, and damp, and cold,
Until not one is seen.
And in a week, I dare be bound,
The name of George will here be found
In double leaves of green.
Though I can write your name in gold,
And many a curl and flourish bold
Around the letters throw:
Were I a thousand years to try,
To make a plant but one inch high,
I could not make it grow.
And many a curl and flourish bold
Around the letters throw:
Were I a thousand years to try,
To make a plant but one inch high,
I could not make it grow.
When one short week had gone and past,
The seed which in the earth George cast
Rose up and bore his name.
The plainest print could not be better,
Up every stroke and every letter
In double green leaves came.
The seed which in the earth George cast
Rose up and bore his name.
The plainest print could not be better,
Up every stroke and every letter
In double green leaves came.
Said George, “You wrote my name, I know;
I sowed the seed—who made it grow?”
Said I, “That power unseen,
Who caused the sun to shed his light,
The rounded moon to shine by night,
And hung the stars between.
I sowed the seed—who made it grow?”
Said I, “That power unseen,
Who caused the sun to shed his light,
The rounded moon to shine by night,
And hung the stars between.
“That God who made the oak-tree tall,
The velvet moss upon the wall,
The little daisy white;
The elephant, and spouting whale,
Small harvest-mouse and hornëd snail,
And the brown dust-like mite.
The velvet moss upon the wall,
The little daisy white;
The elephant, and spouting whale,
Small harvest-mouse and hornëd snail,
And the brown dust-like mite.
“The simplest flower by which we pass,
Deep buried in the summer grass,
Man hath not skill to make.
Although he 's power to build a town,
He cannot form the thistle's down,
Which every wind doth shake.
Deep buried in the summer grass,
Man hath not skill to make.
Although he 's power to build a town,
He cannot form the thistle's down,
Which every wind doth shake.
“Then ever bear in mind my child,
That there grows not by wayside wild,
Upon the lowliest sod,
A blade of grass, a common weed,
A tuft of moss, or naked reed.
But 'tis the Work of God.”
That there grows not by wayside wild,
Upon the lowliest sod,
A blade of grass, a common weed,
A tuft of moss, or naked reed.
But 'tis the Work of God.”
THE POOR GIRL TO HER MOTHER.
Oh, mother dear! were you to die,
I do not know what I should do;
For no one else, were they to try,
Could be so kind to me as you.
I do not know what I should do;
For no one else, were they to try,
Could be so kind to me as you.
When at your feet I lowly kneel,
And pray to God, to give me grace,
I cannot tell you all I feel,
When I look up into your face.
And pray to God, to give me grace,
I cannot tell you all I feel,
When I look up into your face.
For tears will come, do what I will,
When your pale care-worn face I see;
And I oft think, if you were ill,
Oh! what would then become of me.
When your pale care-worn face I see;
And I oft think, if you were ill,
Oh! what would then become of me.
I know how hard you work for me,
I know that we are very poor;
And that I must, (if I lost thee),
Go beg my bread from door to door.
I know that we are very poor;
And that I must, (if I lost thee),
Go beg my bread from door to door.
I know you sit up half the night,
And sew, and sew, for little pay;
I hear you rise before 't is light,
And see you sit and sew all day;
And sew, and sew, for little pay;
I hear you rise before 't is light,
And see you sit and sew all day;
Oh! it is this which makes me weep,
And oft I sit up in my bed,
When you believe I 'm fast asleep,
And see your hand support your head:—
And oft I sit up in my bed,
When you believe I 'm fast asleep,
And see your hand support your head:—
And when you say, “poor child,” and sigh,
My head beneath the clothes I hide;
I cannot bear to hear you cry
As you have done, since father died.
My head beneath the clothes I hide;
I cannot bear to hear you cry
As you have done, since father died.
I 'm but a little girl, I know,
And 't is but little I can do;
Taller and stronger I shall grow,
And then I 'll work as hard for you.
And 't is but little I can do;
Taller and stronger I shall grow,
And then I 'll work as hard for you.
THE SPRING WALK.
We had a pleasant walk to day
Over the meadows and far away,
Across the bridge by the water-mill,
By the woodside, and up the hill;
And if you listen to what I say,
I 'll tell you what we saw to day.
Over the meadows and far away,
Across the bridge by the water-mill,
By the woodside, and up the hill;
And if you listen to what I say,
I 'll tell you what we saw to day.
Amid a hedge, where the first leaves
Were peeping from their sheaths so sly,
We saw four eggs within a nest,
And they were blue as a summer sky.
Were peeping from their sheaths so sly,
We saw four eggs within a nest,
And they were blue as a summer sky.
An elder-branch dipped in the brook,
We wondered why it moved, and found
A silken-haired smooth water-rat
Nibbling, and swimming round and round.
We wondered why it moved, and found
A silken-haired smooth water-rat
Nibbling, and swimming round and round.
Where daisies opened to the sun,
In a broad meadow, green and white,
The lambs were racing eagerly—
We never saw a prettier sight.
In a broad meadow, green and white,
The lambs were racing eagerly—
We never saw a prettier sight.
We saw upon the shady banks
Long rows of golden flowers shine,
And first mistook for buttercups
The star-shaped yellow celandine.
Long rows of golden flowers shine,
And first mistook for buttercups
The star-shaped yellow celandine.
Anemones and primroses,
And the blue violets of spring,
We found, while listening by a hedge
To hear a merry ploughman sing.
And the blue violets of spring,
We found, while listening by a hedge
To hear a merry ploughman sing.
And from the earth the plough turned up,
There came a sweet refreshing smell,
Such as the lily of the vale
Sends forth from many a woodland dell.
There came a sweet refreshing smell,
Such as the lily of the vale
Sends forth from many a woodland dell.
We saw the yellow wall-flower wave
Upon a mouldering castle wall,
And then we watched the busy rooks
Among the ancient elm-trees tall.
Upon a mouldering castle wall,
And then we watched the busy rooks
Among the ancient elm-trees tall.
And leaning from the old stone bridge,
Below we saw our shadows lie,
And through the gloomy arches watched
The swift and fearless swallows fly.
Below we saw our shadows lie,
And through the gloomy arches watched
The swift and fearless swallows fly.
We heard the speckle-breasted lark
As it sang somewhere out of sight,
And tried to find it, but the sky
Was filled with clouds of dazzling light.
As it sang somewhere out of sight,
And tried to find it, but the sky
Was filled with clouds of dazzling light.
We saw young rabbits near the wood,
And heard a pheasant's wings go “whirr,”
And then we saw a squirrel leap
From an old oak tree to a fir.
And heard a pheasant's wings go “whirr,”
And then we saw a squirrel leap
From an old oak tree to a fir.
And many pretty birds we saw,
Which had come o'er the stormy main,
To build their nests, and rear their young,
And sing in our old woods again.
Which had come o'er the stormy main,
To build their nests, and rear their young,
And sing in our old woods again.
We came back by the village fields,
A pleasant walk it was across 'em,
For all behind the houses lay
The orchards red and white with blossom.
A pleasant walk it was across 'em,
For all behind the houses lay
The orchards red and white with blossom.
Were I to tell you all we saw,
I 'm sure that it would take me hours;
For the whole landscape was alive
With bees, and birds, and buds, and flowers.
I 'm sure that it would take me hours;
For the whole landscape was alive
With bees, and birds, and buds, and flowers.
THE POOR LONDON GIRL.
Within a narrow London court,
This little girl was born and bred,
And no one shares her childish sport.
She sleeps upon a hard straw-bed,
And is both poorly clothed and fed.
This little girl was born and bred,
And no one shares her childish sport.
She sleeps upon a hard straw-bed,
And is both poorly clothed and fed.
One ruined house, dark, low, and small,
Does that dull narrow court contain,
Before it stands a high dead wall,
Without a single window-pane,
But damp with mould, and rot, and rain.
Does that dull narrow court contain,
Before it stands a high dead wall,
Without a single window-pane,
But damp with mould, and rot, and rain.
Over that ruined house so fearful,
The wall its gloomy shadow flings,
The sparrows never chirrup cheerful,
But shake the soot from off their wings,
They are such black and dirty things.
The wall its gloomy shadow flings,
The sparrows never chirrup cheerful,
But shake the soot from off their wings,
They are such black and dirty things.
That little girl has never seen
A garden in which sweet flowers blow;
Nothing but old moss, black and green,
Which on the murky eaves still grow,
Or in the unpaved court below.
A garden in which sweet flowers blow;
Nothing but old moss, black and green,
Which on the murky eaves still grow,
Or in the unpaved court below.
Poor little girl! she cannot read,
Neither has she been taught to pray,
And it would make your kind hearts bleed,
To see how she doth pass the day,
All, save herself, then far away.
Neither has she been taught to pray,
And it would make your kind hearts bleed,
To see how she doth pass the day,
All, save herself, then far away.
Ever arises with the light,
Her mother, who is very poor,
Nor from her work returns till night;
And often for twelve hours or more,
That child will sit and watch the door.
Her mother, who is very poor,
Nor from her work returns till night;
And often for twelve hours or more,
That child will sit and watch the door.
About this earth she nothing knows,
She very rarely sees the sun,
But when the shadow darker grows,
She up and down the court will run,
“Mother,” she says, “will soon be done.”
She very rarely sees the sun,
But when the shadow darker grows,
She up and down the court will run,
“Mother,” she says, “will soon be done.”
When flowers are cried from street to street,
She knows the season is called Spring,
But never saw them waving sweet,
Nor heard aught, save the sparrows, sing
Their weary—weary chirrupping.
She knows the season is called Spring,
But never saw them waving sweet,
Nor heard aught, save the sparrows, sing
Their weary—weary chirrupping.
Seed-time and harvest are to her,
Seasons unseen and names unknown;
In Autumn they cry lavender;
She never saw on hill or down
The ripe and eary corn wave brown.
Seasons unseen and names unknown;
In Autumn they cry lavender;
She never saw on hill or down
The ripe and eary corn wave brown.
Because the days are long and hot,
Summer from Winter she may know;
Though there the sunshine lingers not:—
And when the long nights darker grow,
She looks for hail, and frost, and snow.
Summer from Winter she may know;
Though there the sunshine lingers not:—
And when the long nights darker grow,
She looks for hail, and frost, and snow.
You pity this poor child so small,
Who in this narrow court was bred?
Yet many have no home at all,
Nowhere at night to lay their head,
No living soul to give them bread.
Who in this narrow court was bred?
Yet many have no home at all,
Nowhere at night to lay their head,
No living soul to give them bread.
THE GOLDEN-CRESTED WREN.
The smallest bird that can be found,
If you search all England round,
Everywhere through glade and glen,
Is the golden-crested wren.
If you search all England round,
Everywhere through glade and glen,
Is the golden-crested wren.
Though little, 'tis a brave bird too,
And stays with us the winter through;
Goes picking here, and hopping there,
And never leaves us all the year.
When it freezes, when it snows,
When it thaws, and when it blows,
You still see its little form
Tossed about upon the storm;
Rumpled, crumpled every feather,
And all backward blown together,
While it puffs, and pants, and draws
Together close its little claws
On some branch or mossy rail,
Turning to the wind its tail.
But if there be a hole at all,
It can get in—it is so small—
And shelter from the piercing cold
Its pretty head and crest of gold.
In spring it builds a little house,
Scarce larger than the harvest mouse;
And in it you'll find children five,
The size of bees, and all alive.
And for all these she must find bread,
From morning till 'tis time for bed.
And you will see this little wren,
Works harder far than many men,
Beginning when the dawn doth peep,
Nor ending till it 's time to sleep.
Without a minute's pause or rest,
She carries food into her nest
Near forty times in every hour.
Through the sunshine and the shower
Food doth she to her young convey,
For sixteen hours through every day,
Without a moment's time to play.
Ever coming, ever going,
Never idle, always doing
This a bit, and that a taste;
Then she 's off again in haste,
Across the field and by the mill,
Bringing something for each bill—
Bill wide-gaping every minute,
And she dropping something in it.
Such a hungry family
As a man doth seldom see;
Helpless, and without a feather,
Opening all their mouths together.
As soon as brought, the food is gone,
All the five a-gape like one.
She herself can 't get a bit,
There is such a “twit, twit, twit.”
Though such a family she maintains,
Her weight is scarcely ninety grains:
No smaller bird can there be found,
If you search all England round.
And stays with us the winter through;
Goes picking here, and hopping there,
And never leaves us all the year.
When it freezes, when it snows,
When it thaws, and when it blows,
You still see its little form
Tossed about upon the storm;
Rumpled, crumpled every feather,
And all backward blown together,
While it puffs, and pants, and draws
Together close its little claws
On some branch or mossy rail,
Turning to the wind its tail.
But if there be a hole at all,
It can get in—it is so small—
And shelter from the piercing cold
Its pretty head and crest of gold.
In spring it builds a little house,
Scarce larger than the harvest mouse;
And in it you'll find children five,
The size of bees, and all alive.
And for all these she must find bread,
From morning till 'tis time for bed.
And you will see this little wren,
Works harder far than many men,
Beginning when the dawn doth peep,
Nor ending till it 's time to sleep.
Without a minute's pause or rest,
She carries food into her nest
Near forty times in every hour.
Through the sunshine and the shower
Food doth she to her young convey,
For sixteen hours through every day,
Without a moment's time to play.
Never idle, always doing
This a bit, and that a taste;
Then she 's off again in haste,
Across the field and by the mill,
Bringing something for each bill—
Bill wide-gaping every minute,
And she dropping something in it.
Such a hungry family
As a man doth seldom see;
Helpless, and without a feather,
Opening all their mouths together.
As soon as brought, the food is gone,
All the five a-gape like one.
She herself can 't get a bit,
There is such a “twit, twit, twit.”
Though such a family she maintains,
Her weight is scarcely ninety grains:
No smaller bird can there be found,
If you search all England round.
I'm sure that every girl or boy
Will usefully their time employ,
And be ashamed to idle, when
They 've read about this little wren.
Will usefully their time employ,
And be ashamed to idle, when
They 've read about this little wren.
CHILD AND MOTHER.
CHILD.Oh! why does brother William sleep
So long upon his little bed?
And why, dear mother, do you weep?
MOTHER.
Your brother William's dead.
CHILD.
I thought when dead, my mother dear,
That angels bore us through the sky?
But brother William still is here?
MOTHER.
No: he now dwells on high.
I stroke his hair, his hand I hold,
Oh, William, do get up and play
Why is your hand so very cold?
MOTHER.
He hears not what you say.
CHILD.
And will he never wake again,
Nor spread his playthings on the floor?
Nor walk with us down the green lane?
MOTHER.
No, never—never more.
The little body that lies here,
Will rest beneath the church-yard sod.
His soul the angels back did bear,
Unto the hands of God.
Will rest beneath the church-yard sod.
His soul the angels back did bear,
Unto the hands of God.
THE FLY.
What a sharp little fellow is Mister Fly,He goes where he pleases, low or high,
And can walk just as well with his feet to the sky,
As I can on the floor.
At the window he comes
With a buzz and a roar,
And o'er the smooth glass
Can easily pass,
Or through the keyhole of the door.
He eats the sugar, and goes away,
Nor ever once asks what there is to pay;
And sometimes he crosses the tea-pot's steam,
And comes and plunges his head in the cream;
Then on the edge of the jug he stands,
And cleans his wings with his feet and hands.
This done, through the window he hurries away,
And gives a buzz, as if to say,
“At present I have'nt a minute to stay,
But I 'll peep in again in the course of the day.”
Then away he 'll fly,
Where the sunbeams lie,
And neither stop to shake hands,
Nor bid one good-bye:
Such a strange little fellow is Mister Fly,
Who goes where he pleases, low or high,
And can walk on the ceiling
Without ever feeling
A fear of tumbling down “sky-high.”
THE CRADLE SONG.
My dearest baby go to sleep,
For now the bright round moon doth peep
On thy little snow-white bed,
And upon thy pretty head.
For now the bright round moon doth peep
On thy little snow-white bed,
And upon thy pretty head.
The silver stars are shining bright,
And bid my baby dear good night;
And every bird has gone to rest
Long since, in its little nest.
And bid my baby dear good night;
And every bird has gone to rest
Long since, in its little nest.
The lambs no longer run and leap,
But by the daisies lie asleep;
The flowers have closed their pretty eyes
Until the sun again shall rise.
But by the daisies lie asleep;
The flowers have closed their pretty eyes
Until the sun again shall rise.
All things are wrapt in sweet repose,
The dew falls noiseless on the rose:
So thou must like an angel lie
Till golden morning streaks the sky.
The dew falls noiseless on the rose:
So thou must like an angel lie
Till golden morning streaks the sky.
Soon will I gently steal to bed,
And rest beside thy pretty head,
And all night keep thee snug and warm,
Nestling fondly on my arm.
And rest beside thy pretty head,
And all night keep thee snug and warm,
Nestling fondly on my arm.
Then dearest baby go to sleep.
While the moon doth on thee peep,
Shining on thy little bed,
And around thy pretty head.
While the moon doth on thee peep,
Shining on thy little bed,
And around thy pretty head.
| Original poems for my children | |