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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
THE MERRY HEART
Jog on, jog on the footpath way,
And merrily hent the stile-a:
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
ENGLAND
This royal throne of Kings, this sceptered isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built of Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
THE THAMES SUMMONED BY NEPTUNE
Old Father Ocean calls my tide:
Gome away, come away ;
The barks upon the billows ride,
The master will not stay:
The merry boatswain from his side
His whistle takes to check and chide
The ling'ring lad's delay,
And all the crew aloud has cry'd,
Gome away, come away.
JOHN DRYDEN.
THE LOST DOLL
I once had a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world;
Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears,
And her hair was so charmingly curled.
But I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played on the heath one day;
And I cried for her more than a week, dears,
But I never could find where she lay.
I found my poor little doll, dears,
As I played on the heath one day;
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away,
And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears,
And her hair not the least bit curled :
Yet for old sakes' sake she is still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
MUSTARD AND CRESS
Elizabeth, my cousin, is the sweetest little girl,
From her eyes like dark blue pansies, to her tiniest golden curl;
I do not use her great long name, but simply call her Bess,
And yesterday I planted her in mustard and in cress.
My garden is so narrow that there's very little room,
But I'd rather have her name than get a hollyhock to bloom,
And before she comes to visit us with Charley and with Jess,
She'll pop up green and bonny out of mustard and of cress.
NORMAN GALE.
BUNCHES OF GRAPES
"Bunches of grapes," says Timothy;
"Pomegranates pink," says Elaine;
"A junket of cream and a cranberry tart
For me," says Jane.
" Love-in-a-mist," says Timothy ;
"Primroses pale," says Elaine;
"A nosegay of pinks and mignonette
For me," says Jane.
"Chariots of gold," says Timothy;
"Silvery wings," says Elaine;
"A bumpety ride in a wagon of hay
For me," says Jane.
WALTER DE LA MARE.
BABY
Where did you come from, baby dear ?
Out of the everywhere into here.
Where did you get those eyes so blue?
Out of the sky as I came through.
What makes the light in them sparkle and spin ?
Some of the starry twinkles left in.
Where did you get that little tear?
I found it waiting when I got here.
What makes your forehead so smooth and high ?
A soft hand stroked it as I went by.
What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?
I saw something better than any one knows.
Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?
Three angels gave me at once a kiss.
Where did you get this pearly ear ?
God spoke, and it came out to hear.
Where did you get those arms and hands ?
Love made itself into bonds and bands.
Feet, whence did you come, you darling things ?
From the same box as the cherubs' wings.
How did they all just come to be you?
God thought about me, and so I grew.
But how did you come to us, you dear?
God thought about you, and so I am here.
GEORGE MACDONALD.
A MAN OF WORDS
A man of words and not of deeds
Is like a garden full of weeds :
And when the weeds begin to grow,
It's like a garden full of snow ;
And when the snow begins to fall,
It's like a bird upon the wall ;
And when the bird away does fly,
It's like an eagle in the sky ;
And when the sky begins to roar,
It's like a lion at the door ;
And when the door begins to crack,
It's like a stick across your back ;
And when your back begins to smart,
It's like a penknife in your heart;
And when your heart begins to bleed,
You're dead, and dead, and dead indeed.
Old Rhyme.
THE PEDLAR'S CARAVAN
I wish I lived in a caravan,
With a horse to drive, like a pedlar-man !
Where he comes from nobody knows,
Or where he goes to, but on he goes !
His caravan has windows two,
And a chimney of tin, that the smoke comes through ;
He has a wife with a baby brown,
And they go a-riding from town to town.
Chairs to mend, and delf to sell!
He clashes the basins like a bell;
Tea-trays, baskets ranged in order,
Plates, with alphabets round the border!
The roads are brown, and the sea is green,
But his house is like a bathing-machine ;
The world is round, and he can ride,
Rumble and splash, to the other side!
With the pedlar-man I should like to roam,
And write a book when I came home ;
All the people would read my book,
Just like the travels of Captain Cook!
WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS.
THE SAND CASTLE
The tide is out, and all the strand
Is glistening in the summer sun ;
Let's build a castle of the sand—
Oh ! will not that be glorious fun ?
With walls and outworks wide and steep,
All round about we'll dig a moat,
And in the midst shall be the keep,
Where England's flag may proudly float.
And where a drawbridge ought to be,
We'll make a causeway to the shore,
Well paved with stones, for you and me
To get to land when tempests roar.
We'll sit within our citadel,
And watch the tide come o'er the rocks ;
But we have built it strong and well;
It will not fall for common shocks.
The moat may fill, the waves may beat,
We watch the siege all undismayed,
Because, you know, we can retreat
Along the causeway we have made.
"Haul down your flag!" "Oh, no!" we shout,
Our drums and trumpets heard afar—
The castle sinks ; but we march out
With all the honours of the war.
ANON.
THE RIVER-GOD'S SONG
Do not fear to put thy feet
Naked in the river sweet;
Think not leech, or newt, or toad
Will bite thy foot when thou hast trod;
Nor let the water, rising high,
As thou wadest, make thee cry,
And sob; but ever live with me,
And not a wave shall trouble thee.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
THE DESSERT
With the apples and the plums
Little Carolina comes,
At the time of the dessert she
Gomes and drops her new last curtsey ;
Graceful curtsey, practised o'er
In the nursery before.
What shall we compare her to?
The dessert itself will do.
Like preserves she's kept with care,
Like blanch'd almonds she is fair,
Soft as down on peach her hair,
And so soft, so smooth is each
Pretty cheek as that same peach,
Yet more like in hue to cherries ;
Then her lips, the sweet strawberries,
Caroline herself shall try them
If they are not like when nigh them ;
Her bright eyes as black as sloes,
But I think we've none of those
Common fruit here—and her chin
From a round point does begin,
Like the small end of a pear ;
Whiter drapery she does wear
Than the frost on cake ; and sweeter
Than the cake itself, and neater,
Though bedecked with emblems tine,
Is our little Caroline.
CHARLES AND MARY LAMB.
OUR TREASURE
She was a treasure; she was sweet;
She was the darling of the Army and the Fleet!
When—she—smiled
The crews of the line-of-battle ships went wild !
When—she—cried—
Whole regiments reversed their arms and sighed !
When she was sick, for her sake
The Queen took off her crown and sobbed as if her heart would break.
WILLIAM CANTON.
POLLY
Brown eyes,
Straight nose ;
Dirt pies,
Rumpled clothes ;
Torn books,
Spoilt toys ;
Arch looks,
Unlike a boy's ;
Little rages,
Obvious arts,
(Three her age is)
Cakes, tarts ;
Falling down
Off chairs ;
Breaking crown
Down stairs ;
Catching flies
On the pane ;
Deep sighs,-
Cause not plain ;
Bribing you
With kisses
For a few
Farthing blisses ;
Wide awake,
As you hear,
11 Mercy's sake,
Quiet, dear ! "
New shoes,
New frock ;
Vague views
Of what's o'clock
When it's time
To go to bed,
And scorn sublime
For what is said ;
Folded hands
Saying prayers,
Understands
Not, nor cares ;
Thinks it odd,
Smiles away ;
Yet may God
Hear her pray !
Bedgown white,
Kiss Dolly ;
Good-night!—
That's Polly,
Fast asleep,
As you see ;
Heaven keep
My girl for me !
WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS.
BUBBLE-BLOWING
Our plot is small, but sunny limes
Shut out all cares and troubles ;
And there my little girl at times
And I sit blowing bubbles.
The screaming swifts race to and fro;
Bees cross the ivied paling,
Draughts lift and set the globes we blow
In freakish currents sailing.
They glide, they dart, they soar, they break.
O joyous little daughter,
What lovely coloured worlds we make,
What crystal flowers of water!
One, green and rosy, slowly drops ;
One soars and shines a minute,
And carries to the lime-tree tops
Our home, reflected in it.
The gable, with cream rose in bloom,
She sees from roof to basement;
"O father, there's your little room,"
She cries in glad amazement.
To her enchanted with the gleam,
The glamour and the glory,
The bubble home's a home of dream,
And I must tell its story.
Tell what we did, and how we played,
Withdrawn from care and trouble—
A father and his merry maid,
Whose house w r as in a bubble.
WILLIAM CANTON.
TO BE RID OF CARE
What shall we do to be rid of care?
Pack up her best clothes and pay her fare ;
Pay her fare and let her go
By an early train to Jer-I-Cho.
There in Judaea she will be
Slumbering under a green palm-tree ;
And the Arabs of the Desert will come round
When they see her lying on the ground,
And some will say " Did you ever see
Such a remark-a-bil babee ? '
And others in the language the Arabs use,
" Nous n'avons jamais vu une telle papoose !"
And she will grow and grow ; and then
She will marry a chief of the Desert Men ;
And he will keep her from heat and cold,
And deck her in silk and satin and gold-
With bangles for her feet and jewels for her hair,
And other articles that ladies wear!
So pack up her best clothes and let her go
By an early train to Jer-I-Cho!
Pack up her best clothes and pay her fare ;
So we shall be rid of trouble and care !
WILLIAM CANTON.
A BOY'S SONG
Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the grey trout lies asleep,
Up the river and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest,
There to track the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow lies the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from the play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play,
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the water and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
JAMES HOGG.
THE CHILD MUSICIAN
He had played for his lordship's lev£e,
He had played for her ladyship's whim,
Till the poor little head was heavy,
And the poor little brain would swim.
And the face grew parched and eerie,
And the large eyes strange and bright,
And they said — too late—"He is weary!
He shall rest for, at least, to-night!'
But at dawn, when the birds were waking,
As they watched in the silent room,
With a sound of a strained cord breaking,
A something snapped in the room.
'Twas a string of his violoncello,
And they heard him stir in his bed :—
" Make room for a tired little fellow,
Kind God!' was the last he said.
AUSTIN DOBSON.
THE LAMP-LIGHTER
My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky;
It's time to take the window to see Leerie going by;
For every night at tea-time, and before you take your seat,
With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street.
Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea,
And my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be ;
But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I'm to do,
O Leerie, I'll go round at night and light the lamps with you!
For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door,
And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more;
And O! before you hurry up with ladder and with light,
O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night!
ROBERT Louis STEVENSON.
THE BEGINNING OF A BATTLE
Arm, arm, arm, arm ! the scouts are all come in :
Keep your ranks close, and now your honours win.
Behold from yonder hill the foe appears ;
Bows, bills, gloves, arrows, shield and spears !
Like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pouring ;
O, view the wings of horse the meadow scouring.
The van-guard marches bravely. Hark, the drum !
Dub, dub.
They meet, they meet, and now the battle comes
See how the arrows fly, That darken all the sky !
Hark how the trumpets sound! Hark how the hills rebound!
Tara, tara, tara, tara, tara.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
THE SANDS O' DEE
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,—
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home
Across the sands o' Dee!'
The western wind was wild and dark wi' foam,
And all alone went she.
The creeping tide came up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see.
The blinding mist came down and hid the land :
And never home came she.
"Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—
A tress o' golden hair,
O' drowned maiden's hair,
Above the nets at sea ?'
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee.
They row'd her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,
The cruel hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea:
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,
Across the sands o' Dee.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
THE SONG OF THE CORN
Blow, wind, blow! The happy wind is blowing ;
Shine, sun, shine, across the summer lea ;
And if you'll only listen, as through the fields you're going,
You'll hear the gold corn singing as happy as can be.
Thud! thud ! thud ! the heavy flails are swinging,
Thud ! thud ! thud ! upon the threshing-floor ;
But still a merry song the cheerful corn is singing,
Although his little body is beaten very sore.
Grind ! grind ! grind ! the stones are slowly wheeling ;
Blow, wind, blow! the sails go round so fast;
And the mill has almost crushed it out of shape and out of
feeling, But its noble little heart keeps singing to the last.
And I see the sturdy miller, his heavy sacks upbinding,
But still I hear that brave sweet song ; and thus it seems to
me, When the blows of life are falling and the mills of labour
grinding ! If we were only like the corn, how happy it would be.
FRED. E. WEATHERLY.
THE BELLS
Hear the sledges with the bells—
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they twinkle, twinkle, twinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells
What a gust of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! Now it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
Hear the loud alarum bells —
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells !
In the starless ear of night
How they scream out their affright !
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavour,
Now—now to sit, or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh the bells, bells, bells,
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang, and crash, and roar
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells—
In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!
Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their melody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone I
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are Ghouls :
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells ;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells—
Of the bells,
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells—
Of the bells,
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the belk—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells,
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells-
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,—
Bells, bells, bells-
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
EDGAR ALLAN POE.
THE WATER-MILL
"Any grist for the mill?'
How merrily it goes !
Flap, flap, flap, flap,
While the water flows.
Round-about, and round-about,
The heavy mill-stones grind,
And the dust flies all about the mill
And makes the miller blind.
" Any grist for the mill ? '
The jolly farmer packs
His wagon with a heavy load
Of very heavy sacks.
Noisily, oh noisily,
The mill-stones turn about :
You cannot make the miller hear
Unless you scream and shout.
"Any grist for the mill?"
The bakers come and go ;
They bring their empty sacks to fill,
And leave them down below.
The dusty miller and his men
Fill all the sacks they bring,
And while they go about their work
Right merrily they sing.
' Any grist for the mill ? '
How quickly it goes round !
Splash, splash, splash, splash,
With a whirring sound.
Farmers, bring your corn to-day ;
And bakers, buy your flour ;
Dusty millers, work away,
While it is in your power.
"Any grist for the mill?"
Alas ! it will not go ;
The river, too, is standing still,
The ground is white with snow.
And when the frosty weather conies,
And freezes up the streams,
The miller only hears the mill
And grinds the corn in dreams.
Living close beside the mill,
The miller's girls and boys
Always play at make-believe,
Because they have no toys.
" Any grist for the mill ? '
The elder brothers shout,
While all the little petticoats
Go whirling round about.
The miller's little boys and girls
Rejoice to see the snow.
"Good father, play with us to-day;
You cannot work, you know.
We will be the mill-stones,
And you shall be the wheel;
We'll pelt each other with the snow,
And it shall be the meal."
Oh, heartily the miller's wife
Is laughing at the door :
She never saw the mill worked
So merrily before.
" Bravely done, my little lads,
Rouse up the lazy wheel,
For money comes but slowly in
When snow-flakes are the meal."
ANNE HAWKSHAW.
LITTLE RAINDROPS
Oh! where do you come from,
You little drops of rain,
Fitter patter, pitter patter,
Down the window-pane?
They won't let me walk
And they won't let me play,
And they won't let me go
Out of doors at all to-day.
They put away my playthings
Because I broke them all,
And they locked up all my bricks,
And took away my ball.
Tell me, little raindrops,
Is that the way you play,
Fitter patter, pitter patter,
All the rainy day?
They say I'm very naughty,
But I've nothing else to do
But sit here at the window;
I should like to play with you.
The little raindrops cannot speak,
But "pitter, patter pat"
Means, "we can play on this side:
Why can't you play on that?"
ANNE HAWKSHAW.
KIND MARY
Before the bright sun rises over the hill,
In the cornfield kind Mary is seen,
Impatient her little blue apron to fill
With the few scattered ears she can glean.
She never leaves off, or runs out of her place,
To play, or to idle, or chat ;
Except now and then to cool her hot face,
And fan herself with her broad hat.
" Poor girl! hard at work in the heat of the sun,
How tired and warm you must be!
Why don't you leave off, as the others have done,
And sit with them under the tree ?"
" O no, for my mother lies ill in her bed,
Too feeble to spin or to knit;
And my poor little brothers are crying for bread,
O how can I then idling sit!'
ANON.
THE SEA
The sea! the sea! the open sea !
The blue, the fresh, the ever free !
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions round ;
It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ;
Or like a cradled creature lies.
I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea !
I am where I would ever be ;
With the blue above and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go.
If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter ? 1 shall ride and sleep.
I love (O! how I love) to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide !
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the south-west blasts do blow.
I never was on the dull tame shore
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backward flew to her billowy breast
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;
And a mother she was and is to me ;
For I was born on the open sea !
The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born,
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold,
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the ocean-child !
I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a sailor's life
With wealth to spend and a power to range,
But never have sought, nor sighed for change;
And Death, whenever he comes to me,
Shall come on the wide, unbounded sea !
BARRY CORNWALL.
SONG OF THE WOODEN-LEGGED FIDDLER
I lived in a cottage adown in the West
When I was a boy, a boy;
But I knew no peace and I took no rest
Though the roses nigh smothered my snug little nest;
For the smell of the sea Was much rarer to me,
And the life of a sailor was all my joy.
CHORUS — The life of a sailor was all my joy!
My mother she wept, and she begged me to stay
Anchored for life to her apron-string,
And soon she would want me to help wi' the hay;
So I bided her time, then I flitted away
On a night of delight in the following spring,
With a pair of stout shoon And a seafaring tune
And a bundle and stick in the light of the moon,
Down the long road To Portsmouth I strode,
To fight like a sailor for 'Country and king.
CHORUS — To fight like a sailor for country and king,
And now that my feet are turned homeward again
My heart is still crying Ahoy! Ahoy!
And my thoughts are still out on the
Spanish main A-chasing the frigates of France and Spain,
For at heart an old sailor is always a boy;
And his nose will still itch For the powder and pitch
Till the days when he can't tell t'other from which,
Nor a grin o' the guns from a glint o' the sea,
Nor a skipper like Nelson from lubbers like me.
CHORUS — Nor a skipper like Nelson from lubbers like me.
Ay! Now that I'm old I'm as bold as the best,
And the life of a sailor is all my joy;
Though I've swapped my leg For a wooden peg
And my head is as bald as a new-laid egg,
The smell of the sea Is like victuals to me,
And I think in the grave I'll be crying Ahoy!
For, though my old carcass is ready to rest,
At heart an old sailor is always a boy.
CHORUS — At heart an old sailor is always a boy.
ALFRED NOYES.
CHOOSING A NAME
I have got a new-born sister ;
I was nigh the first that kissed her.
When the nursing woman brought her
To papa, his infant daughter,
How papa's dear eyes did glisten !—
She will shortly be to christen :
And papa has made the offer,
I shall have the naming of her.
Now I wonder what would please her,
Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa.
Ann and Mary, they're too common ;
Joan's too formal for a woman ;
Jane's a prettier name beside ;
But we had a Jane that died.
They would say, if 'twas Rebecca,
That she was a little Quaker.
Edith's pretty, but that looks
Better in old English books ;
Ellen's left off long ago ;
Blanche is out of fashion now.
None that I have named as yet
Are as good as Margaret.
Emily is neat and fine.
What do you think of Caroline ?
How I am puzzled and perplexed
What to choose or think of next!
I am in a little fever.
Lest the name that I shall give her
Should disgrace her or defame her
I will leave papa to name her.
CHARLES LAMB.
GOING INTO BREECHES
Joy to Philip, he this day
Has his long coats cast away,
And (the childish season gone)
Puts the manly breeches on.
Officer on gay parade,
Red-coat in his first cockade,
Bridegroom in his wedding trim,
Birthday beau surpassing him,
Never did with conscious gait
Strut about in half the state,
Or the pride (yet free from sin)
Of my little Manikin :
Never was there pride, or bliss,
Half so rational as his.
Sashes, frocks, to those that need 'em—
Philip's limbs have got their freedom—
He can run, or he can ride,
And do twenty things beside,
Which his petticoats forbad :
Is he not a happy lad ?
Now he's under other banners
He must leave his former manners ;
Bid adieu to female games,
And forget their very names,
Puss in Corners, Hide and Seek,
Sports for girls and punies weak !
Baste the Bear he now may play at,
Leap-frog, Foot-ball, sport away at,
Show his skill and strength at
Cricket, Mark his distance, pitch his wicket,
Run about in winter's snow
Till his cheeks and fingers glow,
Climb a tree, or scale a wall,
Without any fear to fall.
If he get a hurt or bruise,
To complain he must refuse,
Though the anguish and the smart
Go unto his little heart,
He must have his courage ready,
Keep his voice and visage steady,
Brace his eye-balls stiff as drum,
That a tear may never come,
And his grief must only speak
From the colour in his cheek.
This and more he must endure,
Hero he in miniature !
This and more must now be done
Now the breeches are put on.
CHARLES AND MARY LAMB.
THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS FAVOURITE STEED
My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,
With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye,
Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed,
I may not mount on thee again—thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!
Fret not with that impatient hoof —snuff not the breezy wind-
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind ;
The stranger hath thy bridle-rein—thy master hath his gold —
Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell ; thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold.
Farewell! those free, untired limbs full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home ;
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare,
Thy silky mane, I braided once, must be another's care !
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be;
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.
Yes, thou must go ! the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
Thy master's house — from all of these my exiled one must fly;
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright ; —
Only in sleep shall I hear again that step so firm and light ;
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I, starting, wake to feel, — thou'rt sold, my Arab steed !
Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side:
And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each starting vein.
Will they ill-use thee? If I thought—but no, it cannot be—
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed ; so gentle, yet so free:
And yet, if haply, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn-
Can the hand which cast thee from it now command thee to return ?
Return! alas! my Arab steed ! what shall thy master do,
When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,
Thy bright form, for a moment, like a false mirage appears ;
Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary step alone,
Where with fleet step, and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on;
And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think,
" It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!'
When last I saw thee drink! —Away! the fevered dream is o'er—
I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more!
They tempted me, my beautiful!—for hunger's power is strong—
They tempted me, my beautiful!—but I have loved too long.
Who said that I had given thee up ? who said that thou wast sold?
'Tis false—'tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains;
Away ! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!
MRS. NORTON.
SEVEN TIMES TWO
You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes,
How many soever they be,
And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges
Come over, come over to me.
Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling
No magical sense conveys,
And bells have forgotten their old art of telling
The fortune of future days.
"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily,
While a boy listened alone ;
Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily
All by himself on a stone.
Poor bells! I forgive you ; your good days are over
And mine, they are yet to be;
No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover :
You leave the story to me.
The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather,
Preparing her hoods of snow;
She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather;
O, children take long to grow.
I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster,
Nor long summer bide so late;
And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster,
For some things are ill to wait.
I wait for the days when dear hearts shall discover,
While dear hands are laid on my head ;
"The child is a woman, the book may close over,
For all the lessons are said."
I wait for my story—the birds cannot sing it,
Not one, as he sits on the tree ;
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it!
Such as I wish it to be.
INGELOW.
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The violets and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,—
The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!
THOMAS HOOD.
THE CATARACT OF LODORE
"How does the water
Come down at Lodore?'
My little boy asked me
Thus, once on a time;
And moreover he tasked me
To tell him in rhyme.
Anon at the word,
There first came one daughter
And then came another,
To second and third
The request of their brother,
And to hear how the water
Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar,
As many a time
They had seen it before.
So I told them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I had store:
And 'twas in my vocation
For their recreation
That so I should sing ;
Because I was Laureate
To them and the King.
From its sources which well
In the Tarn on the fell;
From its fountains,
In the mountains,
Its rills and its gills;
Through moss and through brake
It runs and it creeps
For awhile, till it sleeps
In its own little Lake.
And thence at departing
Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds
And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,
In sun and in shade,
And through the wood-shelter,
Among crags in its flurry,
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-scurry.
Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling ;
Now smoking and frothing
Its tumult and wrath in,
Till in this rapid race
On which it is bent,
It reaches the place
Of its steep descent.
The cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging
As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among:
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting
Around and around
With endless rebound !
Smiting and fighting
A sight to delight in ;
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound,
Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning ;
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And thundering and floundering;
Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And following and brawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering,
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling, and toiling and boiling,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing,
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
RING OUT, WILD BELLS
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year' is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow
The year is going, let him go ;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife ;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite ;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man 'and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand
Ring out the'darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ'that is to be.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
