A long time ago in Childhood’s Land,A troop of sweet ladies I knew,If the truth must be told, I myselfWas their lady’s maid, patient and true!I served them, I dressed them, I took them to walk,I made the fine clothes that they wore;Very dainty,—and delicate, too, were they all,For they never arose until four!Wide were their flounces of crimson or white,A little old fashioned for now;Prim were their figures—ah, yes, I must own,Their heads they never could bow!Their heads were so round and so small and so green—Not clever nor learnèd were they;But then, they were only Four o’Clock Ladies,And their life, ’twas a short one and gay!
A long time ago in Childhood’s Land,A troop of sweet ladies I knew,If the truth must be told, I myselfWas their lady’s maid, patient and true!
A long time ago in Childhood’s Land,
A troop of sweet ladies I knew,
If the truth must be told, I myself
Was their lady’s maid, patient and true!
I served them, I dressed them, I took them to walk,I made the fine clothes that they wore;Very dainty,—and delicate, too, were they all,For they never arose until four!
I served them, I dressed them, I took them to walk,
I made the fine clothes that they wore;
Very dainty,—and delicate, too, were they all,
For they never arose until four!
Wide were their flounces of crimson or white,A little old fashioned for now;Prim were their figures—ah, yes, I must own,Their heads they never could bow!
Wide were their flounces of crimson or white,
A little old fashioned for now;
Prim were their figures—ah, yes, I must own,
Their heads they never could bow!
Their heads were so round and so small and so green—Not clever nor learnèd were they;But then, they were only Four o’Clock Ladies,And their life, ’twas a short one and gay!
Their heads were so round and so small and so green—
Not clever nor learnèd were they;
But then, they were only Four o’Clock Ladies,
And their life, ’twas a short one and gay!
Did I behold the Lady of the LakePart the cool water with a slender hand?And brought she for her loved knight errant’s sakeOut of some liquid crypt the magic brand?I dreamed it was the Lady of the Lake—I did but dream! Again I looked, and knewThe water lily, white as winter’s flake,But with a heart all gold and fragrant dew.
Did I behold the Lady of the LakePart the cool water with a slender hand?And brought she for her loved knight errant’s sakeOut of some liquid crypt the magic brand?
Did I behold the Lady of the Lake
Part the cool water with a slender hand?
And brought she for her loved knight errant’s sake
Out of some liquid crypt the magic brand?
I dreamed it was the Lady of the Lake—I did but dream! Again I looked, and knewThe water lily, white as winter’s flake,But with a heart all gold and fragrant dew.
I dreamed it was the Lady of the Lake—
I did but dream! Again I looked, and knew
The water lily, white as winter’s flake,
But with a heart all gold and fragrant dew.
It was a day in warm July,It was a far countree;The bees were humming in the flowersThat filled the linden tree.The linden made a cooling shadeFor many a yard around,And flecks of sunlight here and thereDid dot the shady ground.A long, low, easy seat there wasBeneath the linden green;AndKinderbankacross the backIn letters large was seen.I did not need that word to read,To know the Children’s Seat;For there the grass was trodden downBy many little feet.Upon this day theKinderbankWas full as it could be,With children sitting in a row,A pleasant sight to see.Each little woman bent her head,Too busy far to speak;Each had a lock of yellow hairSlipped down across her cheek.Each little woman pursed her lipsInto a rosebud small,And never knew how fast time flew—So busy were they all.One made the knitting-needles click,With shining head bent low,And earnest eyes intent to seeThe winter stocking grow.Another, toiling at a seam,The thread drew in and out;And once she sighed—so hard she triedTo make the stitches stout!But ever, as they worked away,And would not look around,They watched the little ones that playedBefore them on the ground.The little ones they laughed and cooed,And talked their baby-talk;Their feet so bare were rosy-fair—For only one could walk!His flaxen hair in ringlets stoodUpon his serious head;His eyes so blue were serious, too;And, drawing near, I said:“Whose precious baby boy is this,So thoughtful and so sweet?”Then up and spoke a little maid,Of those upon the seat:“This baby—he belongs to me.He goes just where I go;And I’m his Little Mother—yes,Mymother told me so!“She said that he was mine ‘all day.’And so it must be true;I brushed his hair—I take good care,As she herself would do.“And I’m quite sure that I can cure,And drive the pain away,With kisses, if my baby hurtsHis little hand at play!”“And whose are all these babies here?“Why—we—oh, don’t you know?”We all are Little Mothers—yes,Ourmothers told us so!”The Little Mothers all looked up,And each did nod her head:“Our mothers told us so!” “Ah, then’Tis true, indeed,” I said.I left them as I found them, thereBeneath the linden tree;And often since that day I’ve thoughtI’d like to go and seeIf still the Little Mothers sitUpon the Children’s Seat,And watch their babies as they playAnd tumble at their feet.
It was a day in warm July,It was a far countree;The bees were humming in the flowersThat filled the linden tree.
It was a day in warm July,
It was a far countree;
The bees were humming in the flowers
That filled the linden tree.
The linden made a cooling shadeFor many a yard around,And flecks of sunlight here and thereDid dot the shady ground.
The linden made a cooling shade
For many a yard around,
And flecks of sunlight here and there
Did dot the shady ground.
A long, low, easy seat there wasBeneath the linden green;AndKinderbankacross the backIn letters large was seen.
A long, low, easy seat there was
Beneath the linden green;
AndKinderbankacross the back
In letters large was seen.
I did not need that word to read,To know the Children’s Seat;For there the grass was trodden downBy many little feet.
I did not need that word to read,
To know the Children’s Seat;
For there the grass was trodden down
By many little feet.
Upon this day theKinderbankWas full as it could be,With children sitting in a row,A pleasant sight to see.
Upon this day theKinderbank
Was full as it could be,
With children sitting in a row,
A pleasant sight to see.
Each little woman bent her head,Too busy far to speak;Each had a lock of yellow hairSlipped down across her cheek.
Each little woman bent her head,
Too busy far to speak;
Each had a lock of yellow hair
Slipped down across her cheek.
Each little woman pursed her lipsInto a rosebud small,And never knew how fast time flew—So busy were they all.
Each little woman pursed her lips
Into a rosebud small,
And never knew how fast time flew—
So busy were they all.
One made the knitting-needles click,With shining head bent low,And earnest eyes intent to seeThe winter stocking grow.
One made the knitting-needles click,
With shining head bent low,
And earnest eyes intent to see
The winter stocking grow.
Another, toiling at a seam,The thread drew in and out;And once she sighed—so hard she triedTo make the stitches stout!
Another, toiling at a seam,
The thread drew in and out;
And once she sighed—so hard she tried
To make the stitches stout!
But ever, as they worked away,And would not look around,They watched the little ones that playedBefore them on the ground.
But ever, as they worked away,
And would not look around,
They watched the little ones that played
Before them on the ground.
The little ones they laughed and cooed,And talked their baby-talk;Their feet so bare were rosy-fair—For only one could walk!
The little ones they laughed and cooed,
And talked their baby-talk;
Their feet so bare were rosy-fair—
For only one could walk!
His flaxen hair in ringlets stoodUpon his serious head;His eyes so blue were serious, too;And, drawing near, I said:
His flaxen hair in ringlets stood
Upon his serious head;
His eyes so blue were serious, too;
And, drawing near, I said:
“Whose precious baby boy is this,So thoughtful and so sweet?”Then up and spoke a little maid,Of those upon the seat:
“Whose precious baby boy is this,
So thoughtful and so sweet?”
Then up and spoke a little maid,
Of those upon the seat:
“This baby—he belongs to me.He goes just where I go;And I’m his Little Mother—yes,Mymother told me so!
“This baby—he belongs to me.
He goes just where I go;
And I’m his Little Mother—yes,
Mymother told me so!
“She said that he was mine ‘all day.’And so it must be true;I brushed his hair—I take good care,As she herself would do.
“She said that he was mine ‘all day.’
And so it must be true;
I brushed his hair—I take good care,
As she herself would do.
“And I’m quite sure that I can cure,And drive the pain away,With kisses, if my baby hurtsHis little hand at play!”
“And I’m quite sure that I can cure,
And drive the pain away,
With kisses, if my baby hurts
His little hand at play!”
“And whose are all these babies here?“Why—we—oh, don’t you know?”We all are Little Mothers—yes,Ourmothers told us so!”
“And whose are all these babies here?
“Why—we—oh, don’t you know?”
We all are Little Mothers—yes,
Ourmothers told us so!”
The Little Mothers all looked up,And each did nod her head:“Our mothers told us so!” “Ah, then’Tis true, indeed,” I said.
The Little Mothers all looked up,
And each did nod her head:
“Our mothers told us so!” “Ah, then
’Tis true, indeed,” I said.
I left them as I found them, thereBeneath the linden tree;And often since that day I’ve thoughtI’d like to go and see
I left them as I found them, there
Beneath the linden tree;
And often since that day I’ve thought
I’d like to go and see
If still the Little Mothers sitUpon the Children’s Seat,And watch their babies as they playAnd tumble at their feet.
If still the Little Mothers sit
Upon the Children’s Seat,
And watch their babies as they play
And tumble at their feet.
[4]In German, the Children’s Seat.
[4]In German, the Children’s Seat.
IWhen Monte Morello is capped with snow,And the wind from the north comes whistling down,It is chill to rise with the morning star,In the “City of Flowers”—in Florence town.
IWhen Monte Morello is capped with snow,And the wind from the north comes whistling down,It is chill to rise with the morning star,In the “City of Flowers”—in Florence town.
I
When Monte Morello is capped with snow,
And the wind from the north comes whistling down,
It is chill to rise with the morning star,
In the “City of Flowers”—in Florence town.
IILight is the sleep of the old, for they knowHow brief are their few remaining days;But when hearts are young, sleep lingers long,And too sweet to leave are the dreamful ways.
IILight is the sleep of the old, for they knowHow brief are their few remaining days;But when hearts are young, sleep lingers long,And too sweet to leave are the dreamful ways.
II
Light is the sleep of the old, for they know
How brief are their few remaining days;
But when hearts are young, sleep lingers long,
And too sweet to leave are the dreamful ways.
IIISo, Tafi, the master, awoke with the light,But the prentice lad, Buonamico, was young,And his dreaming ears were loath to hearThe daybreak bell’s awakening tongue.
IIISo, Tafi, the master, awoke with the light,But the prentice lad, Buonamico, was young,And his dreaming ears were loath to hearThe daybreak bell’s awakening tongue.
III
So, Tafi, the master, awoke with the light,
But the prentice lad, Buonamico, was young,
And his dreaming ears were loath to hear
The daybreak bell’s awakening tongue.
IVFor it seemed to speak with old Tafi’s voice,“Colors to grind, and the shop to be swept!”Then, out of his bed, on the bare stone floor,Poor Buonamico, shivering, crept.
IVFor it seemed to speak with old Tafi’s voice,“Colors to grind, and the shop to be swept!”Then, out of his bed, on the bare stone floor,Poor Buonamico, shivering, crept.
IV
For it seemed to speak with old Tafi’s voice,
“Colors to grind, and the shop to be swept!”
Then, out of his bed, on the bare stone floor,
Poor Buonamico, shivering, crept.
VBusy all day with his quick, young hands,—Busy his thoughts with a project bold.“The master will find,” he said to himself,“’Tis not well to work in the dark and the cold!”
VBusy all day with his quick, young hands,—Busy his thoughts with a project bold.“The master will find,” he said to himself,“’Tis not well to work in the dark and the cold!”
V
Busy all day with his quick, young hands,—
Busy his thoughts with a project bold.
“The master will find,” he said to himself,
“’Tis not well to work in the dark and the cold!”
VIBut the master, unheeding the prentice lad,Matched the mosaics fine and quaint;Till his tablets of stone revealed the formsOf Mother and Child, of cherub and saint.
VIBut the master, unheeding the prentice lad,Matched the mosaics fine and quaint;Till his tablets of stone revealed the formsOf Mother and Child, of cherub and saint.
VI
But the master, unheeding the prentice lad,
Matched the mosaics fine and quaint;
Till his tablets of stone revealed the forms
Of Mother and Child, of cherub and saint.
VIIBuonamico, meanwhile, forsook his tasks,And, prying in crevice of wall or ground,With a patience and skill boys only know,Thirty great beetles the truant found.
VIIBuonamico, meanwhile, forsook his tasks,And, prying in crevice of wall or ground,With a patience and skill boys only know,Thirty great beetles the truant found.
VII
Buonamico, meanwhile, forsook his tasks,
And, prying in crevice of wall or ground,
With a patience and skill boys only know,
Thirty great beetles the truant found.
VIIIAs many wax tapers, then, he took—Thirty small tapers (nor less, nor more),And presto! each beetle, clumsy and slow,On its broad black back a candle bore.
VIIIAs many wax tapers, then, he took—Thirty small tapers (nor less, nor more),And presto! each beetle, clumsy and slow,On its broad black back a candle bore.
VIII
As many wax tapers, then, he took—
Thirty small tapers (nor less, nor more),
And presto! each beetle, clumsy and slow,
On its broad black back a candle bore.
IXNext morning, ere dawn, when Tafi awoke,Ere his lips could frame their usual call,A sight he beheld that froze his veins—An impish procession of tapers small!
IXNext morning, ere dawn, when Tafi awoke,Ere his lips could frame their usual call,A sight he beheld that froze his veins—An impish procession of tapers small!
IX
Next morning, ere dawn, when Tafi awoke,
Ere his lips could frame their usual call,
A sight he beheld that froze his veins—
An impish procession of tapers small!
XSlowly they came, and slowly went(And they seemed to pass through a crack ’neath the door):So slowly they moved, he counted them all,Thirty they numbered, nor less, nor more!
XSlowly they came, and slowly went(And they seemed to pass through a crack ’neath the door):So slowly they moved, he counted them all,Thirty they numbered, nor less, nor more!
X
Slowly they came, and slowly went
(And they seemed to pass through a crack ’neath the door):
So slowly they moved, he counted them all,
Thirty they numbered, nor less, nor more!
XI“Surely, some evil these hands have wrought,That the powers of darkness invade my cell!”And many anAvethe master said,To reverse and undo the unholy spell.
XI“Surely, some evil these hands have wrought,That the powers of darkness invade my cell!”And many anAvethe master said,To reverse and undo the unholy spell.
XI
“Surely, some evil these hands have wrought,
That the powers of darkness invade my cell!”
And many anAvethe master said,
To reverse and undo the unholy spell.
XIIWhen daylight was come, Buonamico he told:“A good lad ever thou wert, and indeed,Wise for thy years; and, therefore, speak out,And, as best thou canst, this mystery read.”
XIIWhen daylight was come, Buonamico he told:“A good lad ever thou wert, and indeed,Wise for thy years; and, therefore, speak out,And, as best thou canst, this mystery read.”
XII
When daylight was come, Buonamico he told:
“A good lad ever thou wert, and indeed,
Wise for thy years; and, therefore, speak out,
And, as best thou canst, this mystery read.”
XIII“May it not be,” Buonamico said,“The powers of darkness, that good men hate,Are vexed with my master, who falters notIn faithful service, early and late?”
XIII“May it not be,” Buonamico said,“The powers of darkness, that good men hate,Are vexed with my master, who falters notIn faithful service, early and late?”
XIII
“May it not be,” Buonamico said,
“The powers of darkness, that good men hate,
Are vexed with my master, who falters not
In faithful service, early and late?”
xIV“Ay, that they are,” said the master, “no doubt!”Said the prentice-boy, “Theirtime is night,And itmaybe they like not this wondrous workWhich thou risest to do ere peep of light!”
xIV“Ay, that they are,” said the master, “no doubt!”Said the prentice-boy, “Theirtime is night,And itmaybe they like not this wondrous workWhich thou risest to do ere peep of light!”
xIV
“Ay, that they are,” said the master, “no doubt!”
Said the prentice-boy, “Theirtime is night,
And itmaybe they like not this wondrous work
Which thou risest to do ere peep of light!”
XV“Well hast thou counseled,” the master replied,“So young of years—so sage in thy thought;I will rise no more ere the day hath dawned—A work of light should in light be wrought!”
XV“Well hast thou counseled,” the master replied,“So young of years—so sage in thy thought;I will rise no more ere the day hath dawned—A work of light should in light be wrought!”
XV
“Well hast thou counseled,” the master replied,
“So young of years—so sage in thy thought;
I will rise no more ere the day hath dawned—
A work of light should in light be wrought!”
XVIThus runs the legend, which also saithSpite of his pranks Buonamico became,When the years were fled, and Tafi was gone,A painter who rivaled his master’s fame.
XVIThus runs the legend, which also saithSpite of his pranks Buonamico became,When the years were fled, and Tafi was gone,A painter who rivaled his master’s fame.
XVI
Thus runs the legend, which also saith
Spite of his pranks Buonamico became,
When the years were fled, and Tafi was gone,
A painter who rivaled his master’s fame.
Upon a day of olden days,A royal lad at school,In mischief apt, with many a prank,Defied the good dame’s rule.But England’s prince no rod might strike,Though rich was his desert;Another must the penance bear,Another feel the hurt!The “whipping-boy” stood forth to takeThe blows he had not earned;Full meek he stood; no sense of wrongWithin his bosom burned.Young Edward saw the rod upraised,His “whipping-boy” to smite;And suddenly his princely soulRevolted at the sight.The shame, the shame, the tingling shameNo blood of kings could brook!Forward he sprung, the falling rodIn his own hand he took:“Mine is the blame—be mine the shameFor what I only wrought;Let none but me endure the painMy deed alone has brought!”Thus on a day of days, it chanced,A royal schoolboy learnedThat noble hearts in every ageA coward’s shield have spurned.
Upon a day of olden days,A royal lad at school,In mischief apt, with many a prank,Defied the good dame’s rule.
Upon a day of olden days,
A royal lad at school,
In mischief apt, with many a prank,
Defied the good dame’s rule.
But England’s prince no rod might strike,Though rich was his desert;Another must the penance bear,Another feel the hurt!
But England’s prince no rod might strike,
Though rich was his desert;
Another must the penance bear,
Another feel the hurt!
The “whipping-boy” stood forth to takeThe blows he had not earned;Full meek he stood; no sense of wrongWithin his bosom burned.
The “whipping-boy” stood forth to take
The blows he had not earned;
Full meek he stood; no sense of wrong
Within his bosom burned.
Young Edward saw the rod upraised,His “whipping-boy” to smite;And suddenly his princely soulRevolted at the sight.
Young Edward saw the rod upraised,
His “whipping-boy” to smite;
And suddenly his princely soul
Revolted at the sight.
The shame, the shame, the tingling shameNo blood of kings could brook!Forward he sprung, the falling rodIn his own hand he took:
The shame, the shame, the tingling shame
No blood of kings could brook!
Forward he sprung, the falling rod
In his own hand he took:
“Mine is the blame—be mine the shameFor what I only wrought;Let none but me endure the painMy deed alone has brought!”
“Mine is the blame—be mine the shame
For what I only wrought;
Let none but me endure the pain
My deed alone has brought!”
Thus on a day of days, it chanced,A royal schoolboy learnedThat noble hearts in every ageA coward’s shield have spurned.
Thus on a day of days, it chanced,
A royal schoolboy learned
That noble hearts in every age
A coward’s shield have spurned.
In Rome, beside the Forum,A cobbler had his shop,Where, on his way to school,The schoolboy loved to stop.The sheets of well-tanned leatherHung all about the wall;The cobbler stitched and scolded,Bent over last and awl.’Twas not the cobbler’s scoldingAt which the schoolboys laughed,Nor did they care to watchHis cunning handicraft.It was a dapper personWith coat as black as night,That offered to the schoolboyAn all-year-round delight—A droll yet silent person,“Good morrow”—all his speech;He stood upon a rostrum,As though to teach or preach.It was the cobbler’s raven,“Good morrow!” clear and loudHe called, with mimic laughterThat charmed the truant crowd,Until, at last, remindedOf school and pedagogue,Of lecture, and of ferruleTo point his apologue.And now, would Master Corvus,To while the time away,Look ’round, to see what mischiefHe might devise to-day.Alas, the raven’s cunningNo bound nor measure knew;Alas, the cobbler’s temper—It never better grew!And when his choicest leatherEmbossed with claw and beak,He saw—upon the ravenSwift vengeance he did wreak!Which done, morose and sullen,He sat him down once more;Nor scolded when the schoolboysCalled through the open door:“Good morrow, Master Corvus!”...No shrill and joyous croakResponded from within;And then their anger broke.“How daredst thou kill the raven,—The better man of two?”They seized and beat the cobbler,Till he for life did sue.Then took they Master CorvusFrom where he lifeless lay—Their dear and droll companion,And carried him away.Said one, “There is a dutyWhich to our friend we owe:In life we gave him honor,And honor still we’ll show!”“That will we!” cried they warmly(Young Romans long ago)—“In life we gave him honor,And honor still we’ll show!”Next day, along the Forum,With slow and measured tread,Defiled the long cortègeOf Master Corvus dead.His bier was heaped with garlands,A piper went before;And (as they had been kinsmen)Two blacks the casket bore.Then, down the Via SacraThe sad procession moved,While at their doors and windowsThe people all approved.And thus to Master CorvusFull rites his friends did pay,And buried him, ’tis said,Beside the Appian Way,With lightly sprinkled earthAbove his glossy breast—With stone, and due inscription,Hic jacet—and the rest.
In Rome, beside the Forum,A cobbler had his shop,Where, on his way to school,The schoolboy loved to stop.
In Rome, beside the Forum,
A cobbler had his shop,
Where, on his way to school,
The schoolboy loved to stop.
The sheets of well-tanned leatherHung all about the wall;The cobbler stitched and scolded,Bent over last and awl.
The sheets of well-tanned leather
Hung all about the wall;
The cobbler stitched and scolded,
Bent over last and awl.
’Twas not the cobbler’s scoldingAt which the schoolboys laughed,Nor did they care to watchHis cunning handicraft.
’Twas not the cobbler’s scolding
At which the schoolboys laughed,
Nor did they care to watch
His cunning handicraft.
It was a dapper personWith coat as black as night,That offered to the schoolboyAn all-year-round delight—
It was a dapper person
With coat as black as night,
That offered to the schoolboy
An all-year-round delight—
A droll yet silent person,“Good morrow”—all his speech;He stood upon a rostrum,As though to teach or preach.
A droll yet silent person,
“Good morrow”—all his speech;
He stood upon a rostrum,
As though to teach or preach.
It was the cobbler’s raven,“Good morrow!” clear and loudHe called, with mimic laughterThat charmed the truant crowd,
It was the cobbler’s raven,
“Good morrow!” clear and loud
He called, with mimic laughter
That charmed the truant crowd,
Until, at last, remindedOf school and pedagogue,Of lecture, and of ferruleTo point his apologue.
Until, at last, reminded
Of school and pedagogue,
Of lecture, and of ferrule
To point his apologue.
And now, would Master Corvus,To while the time away,Look ’round, to see what mischiefHe might devise to-day.
And now, would Master Corvus,
To while the time away,
Look ’round, to see what mischief
He might devise to-day.
Alas, the raven’s cunningNo bound nor measure knew;Alas, the cobbler’s temper—It never better grew!
Alas, the raven’s cunning
No bound nor measure knew;
Alas, the cobbler’s temper—
It never better grew!
And when his choicest leatherEmbossed with claw and beak,He saw—upon the ravenSwift vengeance he did wreak!
And when his choicest leather
Embossed with claw and beak,
He saw—upon the raven
Swift vengeance he did wreak!
Which done, morose and sullen,He sat him down once more;Nor scolded when the schoolboysCalled through the open door:
Which done, morose and sullen,
He sat him down once more;
Nor scolded when the schoolboys
Called through the open door:
“Good morrow, Master Corvus!”...No shrill and joyous croakResponded from within;And then their anger broke.
“Good morrow, Master Corvus!”...
No shrill and joyous croak
Responded from within;
And then their anger broke.
“How daredst thou kill the raven,—The better man of two?”They seized and beat the cobbler,Till he for life did sue.
“How daredst thou kill the raven,—
The better man of two?”
They seized and beat the cobbler,
Till he for life did sue.
Then took they Master CorvusFrom where he lifeless lay—Their dear and droll companion,And carried him away.
Then took they Master Corvus
From where he lifeless lay—
Their dear and droll companion,
And carried him away.
Said one, “There is a dutyWhich to our friend we owe:In life we gave him honor,And honor still we’ll show!”
Said one, “There is a duty
Which to our friend we owe:
In life we gave him honor,
And honor still we’ll show!”
“That will we!” cried they warmly(Young Romans long ago)—“In life we gave him honor,And honor still we’ll show!”
“That will we!” cried they warmly
(Young Romans long ago)—
“In life we gave him honor,
And honor still we’ll show!”
Next day, along the Forum,With slow and measured tread,Defiled the long cortègeOf Master Corvus dead.
Next day, along the Forum,
With slow and measured tread,
Defiled the long cortège
Of Master Corvus dead.
His bier was heaped with garlands,A piper went before;And (as they had been kinsmen)Two blacks the casket bore.
His bier was heaped with garlands,
A piper went before;
And (as they had been kinsmen)
Two blacks the casket bore.
Then, down the Via SacraThe sad procession moved,While at their doors and windowsThe people all approved.
Then, down the Via Sacra
The sad procession moved,
While at their doors and windows
The people all approved.
And thus to Master CorvusFull rites his friends did pay,And buried him, ’tis said,Beside the Appian Way,
And thus to Master Corvus
Full rites his friends did pay,
And buried him, ’tis said,
Beside the Appian Way,
With lightly sprinkled earthAbove his glossy breast—With stone, and due inscription,Hic jacet—and the rest.
With lightly sprinkled earth
Above his glossy breast—
With stone, and due inscription,
Hic jacet—and the rest.
’Tis a saying that stolen sweets are sweeter,And so with my hero it was, I think,“P. Abbott,”—if Philip or Paul or Peter,’Twill never be known; there’s a missing link.The legend declares (without praise or censure)A youth had been challenged to sleep all nightIn the gray old Abbey; a madcap adventure,But madcap adventures were his delight.In the Chapel of Kings, in Westminster Abbey,You may see the stone that was brought from Scone,And above it, the armchair, old and shabby,Where every king hasoncehad his throne.Monarchs in marble, greater or lesser,And at least three queens of the English land—In a circle they lie, round the good Confessor,Crown on the head and scepter in hand.Gone from his tomb are the wondrous richesIt once did hold, both of gems and gold;But you still may see the Gothic nichesWhere the sick awaited the cure of old.Beggar or lord, poor drudge or duchess,Alike might they hope for the good saint’s aid;And they left their jewels, or dropped their crutchesAs token that not in vain had they prayed.’Twas St. Edward’s Day, and the throng, gladheartedWith the blessing of peace had gone its way;The last red beam of the sun had departed,And twilight spread through the chapel gray.And the marble kings on their marble couchesOnce more they are lying in state, aloneSave for a nimble shadow that crouchesBehind the stone that was brought from Scone;And the aged verger was never the wiser,As he passed that stone and the oaken chair;Though watchful was he as watchful miser,He never discovered my hero was there.When the keys at his leather girdle jingled,How loud did they sound in young Abbott’s ear!And when they were still, how the silence tingled!How dim was the light!—yet why should he fear?The night was before him, the shadows were drearyAs forth from his hiding-place he crept.There was nothing to do; his eyelids grew weary,And into the chair he crept and slept.Never before, and nevermore since then,Hath any but royalty sat in that chair;But my hero himself, I hold, was a prince then—Of the Realm of Youth and of dreams most fair!But with the dawn his slumbers were broken,And, rubbing his eyes, he sat bolt upright.“’Twere folly,” he cried, “if I left no tokenTo prove that I stayed in the Abbey all night.”So he carved his name, and carved it quaintly,As pleased him best, on that ancient seat.And the sculptured kings in the dawn smiled faintly—But never a one forbade the feat!Then, somehow and somewhere, discreetly he flitted;And when the old verger returned for the day,“I warrant,” he muttered, with bent brows knitted,“Something uncanny hath passed this way!”With the record of kings and of statesmen and sages,This of a mischievous youth is shown:“P. Abbott,”—a name that has lasted for ages,Nicked on the seat of that oaken throne!
’Tis a saying that stolen sweets are sweeter,And so with my hero it was, I think,“P. Abbott,”—if Philip or Paul or Peter,’Twill never be known; there’s a missing link.
’Tis a saying that stolen sweets are sweeter,
And so with my hero it was, I think,
“P. Abbott,”—if Philip or Paul or Peter,
’Twill never be known; there’s a missing link.
The legend declares (without praise or censure)A youth had been challenged to sleep all nightIn the gray old Abbey; a madcap adventure,But madcap adventures were his delight.
The legend declares (without praise or censure)
A youth had been challenged to sleep all night
In the gray old Abbey; a madcap adventure,
But madcap adventures were his delight.
In the Chapel of Kings, in Westminster Abbey,You may see the stone that was brought from Scone,And above it, the armchair, old and shabby,Where every king hasoncehad his throne.
In the Chapel of Kings, in Westminster Abbey,
You may see the stone that was brought from Scone,
And above it, the armchair, old and shabby,
Where every king hasoncehad his throne.
Monarchs in marble, greater or lesser,And at least three queens of the English land—In a circle they lie, round the good Confessor,Crown on the head and scepter in hand.
Monarchs in marble, greater or lesser,
And at least three queens of the English land—
In a circle they lie, round the good Confessor,
Crown on the head and scepter in hand.
Gone from his tomb are the wondrous richesIt once did hold, both of gems and gold;But you still may see the Gothic nichesWhere the sick awaited the cure of old.
Gone from his tomb are the wondrous riches
It once did hold, both of gems and gold;
But you still may see the Gothic niches
Where the sick awaited the cure of old.
Beggar or lord, poor drudge or duchess,Alike might they hope for the good saint’s aid;And they left their jewels, or dropped their crutchesAs token that not in vain had they prayed.
Beggar or lord, poor drudge or duchess,
Alike might they hope for the good saint’s aid;
And they left their jewels, or dropped their crutches
As token that not in vain had they prayed.
’Twas St. Edward’s Day, and the throng, gladheartedWith the blessing of peace had gone its way;The last red beam of the sun had departed,And twilight spread through the chapel gray.
’Twas St. Edward’s Day, and the throng, gladhearted
With the blessing of peace had gone its way;
The last red beam of the sun had departed,
And twilight spread through the chapel gray.
And the marble kings on their marble couchesOnce more they are lying in state, aloneSave for a nimble shadow that crouchesBehind the stone that was brought from Scone;
And the marble kings on their marble couches
Once more they are lying in state, alone
Save for a nimble shadow that crouches
Behind the stone that was brought from Scone;
And the aged verger was never the wiser,As he passed that stone and the oaken chair;Though watchful was he as watchful miser,He never discovered my hero was there.
And the aged verger was never the wiser,
As he passed that stone and the oaken chair;
Though watchful was he as watchful miser,
He never discovered my hero was there.
When the keys at his leather girdle jingled,How loud did they sound in young Abbott’s ear!And when they were still, how the silence tingled!How dim was the light!—yet why should he fear?
When the keys at his leather girdle jingled,
How loud did they sound in young Abbott’s ear!
And when they were still, how the silence tingled!
How dim was the light!—yet why should he fear?
The night was before him, the shadows were drearyAs forth from his hiding-place he crept.There was nothing to do; his eyelids grew weary,And into the chair he crept and slept.
The night was before him, the shadows were dreary
As forth from his hiding-place he crept.
There was nothing to do; his eyelids grew weary,
And into the chair he crept and slept.
Never before, and nevermore since then,Hath any but royalty sat in that chair;But my hero himself, I hold, was a prince then—Of the Realm of Youth and of dreams most fair!
Never before, and nevermore since then,
Hath any but royalty sat in that chair;
But my hero himself, I hold, was a prince then—
Of the Realm of Youth and of dreams most fair!
But with the dawn his slumbers were broken,And, rubbing his eyes, he sat bolt upright.“’Twere folly,” he cried, “if I left no tokenTo prove that I stayed in the Abbey all night.”
But with the dawn his slumbers were broken,
And, rubbing his eyes, he sat bolt upright.
“’Twere folly,” he cried, “if I left no token
To prove that I stayed in the Abbey all night.”
So he carved his name, and carved it quaintly,As pleased him best, on that ancient seat.And the sculptured kings in the dawn smiled faintly—But never a one forbade the feat!
So he carved his name, and carved it quaintly,
As pleased him best, on that ancient seat.
And the sculptured kings in the dawn smiled faintly—
But never a one forbade the feat!
Then, somehow and somewhere, discreetly he flitted;And when the old verger returned for the day,“I warrant,” he muttered, with bent brows knitted,“Something uncanny hath passed this way!”
Then, somehow and somewhere, discreetly he flitted;
And when the old verger returned for the day,
“I warrant,” he muttered, with bent brows knitted,
“Something uncanny hath passed this way!”
With the record of kings and of statesmen and sages,This of a mischievous youth is shown:“P. Abbott,”—a name that has lasted for ages,Nicked on the seat of that oaken throne!
With the record of kings and of statesmen and sages,
This of a mischievous youth is shown:
“P. Abbott,”—a name that has lasted for ages,
Nicked on the seat of that oaken throne!
My story’s of the olden dayBeside the hurrying, blue Rhine water,—My story’s of a runaway,—The Giant Niedeck’s little daughter!She wanders at her own sweet will,Her flaxen ringlets wide she tosses:A dozen steps—she climbs the hill,A dozen more—a vineyard crosses!The pine trees young aside are brushed,As though they were but nodding grasses;She laughs aloud—the birds are hushed,And hide away until she passes!She heeds them not,—the giant mite,So bent upon her own wild pleasure;And now she sees a wondrous sight,A curious thing for her to treasure!“Oh, what a lovely toy I’ve found!”She clapped her hands in childish wonder.(The great trees trembled, miles around,The rocks gave back a sound like thunder.)A plowman with his horse,—the toy,—A plowman at his daily drudging:She snatched them up with eager joy;And home the giant child went trudging.She reached the castle out of breath,And from her pocket (says my fable)She drew the ploughman, scared to death,And laid him swooning on the table.And then away in haste she sped,To bring her nurse and lady mother;“Now, burn my wooden dolls,” she said.“Live toys are best—I’ll have no other!”The giant lady, fair and mild,Thus spake unto her little daughter:“Go, take the plowman back, my child,To fields beside the blue Rhine water.“Though weak and small, his heart is great;And Liebchen, if we kept him here,All day, beside his cottage gate,Would weep for him his children dear.”Then back the giant child did go,And left the plowman where she found him;And when the sun was sinking low,He started up and looked around him.“I must have dreamed,” he laughed outright,As when some sudden fancy pleases;“And I will tell my dream to-nightWhen Gretchen for a story teases!”
My story’s of the olden dayBeside the hurrying, blue Rhine water,—My story’s of a runaway,—The Giant Niedeck’s little daughter!
My story’s of the olden day
Beside the hurrying, blue Rhine water,—
My story’s of a runaway,—
The Giant Niedeck’s little daughter!
She wanders at her own sweet will,Her flaxen ringlets wide she tosses:A dozen steps—she climbs the hill,A dozen more—a vineyard crosses!
She wanders at her own sweet will,
Her flaxen ringlets wide she tosses:
A dozen steps—she climbs the hill,
A dozen more—a vineyard crosses!
The pine trees young aside are brushed,As though they were but nodding grasses;She laughs aloud—the birds are hushed,And hide away until she passes!
The pine trees young aside are brushed,
As though they were but nodding grasses;
She laughs aloud—the birds are hushed,
And hide away until she passes!
She heeds them not,—the giant mite,So bent upon her own wild pleasure;And now she sees a wondrous sight,A curious thing for her to treasure!
She heeds them not,—the giant mite,
So bent upon her own wild pleasure;
And now she sees a wondrous sight,
A curious thing for her to treasure!
“Oh, what a lovely toy I’ve found!”She clapped her hands in childish wonder.(The great trees trembled, miles around,The rocks gave back a sound like thunder.)
“Oh, what a lovely toy I’ve found!”
She clapped her hands in childish wonder.
(The great trees trembled, miles around,
The rocks gave back a sound like thunder.)
A plowman with his horse,—the toy,—A plowman at his daily drudging:She snatched them up with eager joy;And home the giant child went trudging.
A plowman with his horse,—the toy,—
A plowman at his daily drudging:
She snatched them up with eager joy;
And home the giant child went trudging.
She reached the castle out of breath,And from her pocket (says my fable)She drew the ploughman, scared to death,And laid him swooning on the table.
She reached the castle out of breath,
And from her pocket (says my fable)
She drew the ploughman, scared to death,
And laid him swooning on the table.
And then away in haste she sped,To bring her nurse and lady mother;“Now, burn my wooden dolls,” she said.“Live toys are best—I’ll have no other!”
And then away in haste she sped,
To bring her nurse and lady mother;
“Now, burn my wooden dolls,” she said.
“Live toys are best—I’ll have no other!”
The giant lady, fair and mild,Thus spake unto her little daughter:“Go, take the plowman back, my child,To fields beside the blue Rhine water.
The giant lady, fair and mild,
Thus spake unto her little daughter:
“Go, take the plowman back, my child,
To fields beside the blue Rhine water.
“Though weak and small, his heart is great;And Liebchen, if we kept him here,All day, beside his cottage gate,Would weep for him his children dear.”
“Though weak and small, his heart is great;
And Liebchen, if we kept him here,
All day, beside his cottage gate,
Would weep for him his children dear.”
Then back the giant child did go,And left the plowman where she found him;And when the sun was sinking low,He started up and looked around him.
Then back the giant child did go,
And left the plowman where she found him;
And when the sun was sinking low,
He started up and looked around him.
“I must have dreamed,” he laughed outright,As when some sudden fancy pleases;“And I will tell my dream to-nightWhen Gretchen for a story teases!”
“I must have dreamed,” he laughed outright,
As when some sudden fancy pleases;
“And I will tell my dream to-night
When Gretchen for a story teases!”
I was too young, they said (I was not seven),But I would understand, as I grew older,Why the White Dove that died was not in heaven.But they were wrong, for when I came to heaven,—When first I came, and all was strange and lonely,My pretty pet flew straight upon my shoulder!And there she stays all day; at evening only,Between my hands, close to my breast, I fold her.
I was too young, they said (I was not seven),But I would understand, as I grew older,Why the White Dove that died was not in heaven.But they were wrong, for when I came to heaven,—When first I came, and all was strange and lonely,My pretty pet flew straight upon my shoulder!And there she stays all day; at evening only,Between my hands, close to my breast, I fold her.
I was too young, they said (I was not seven),
But I would understand, as I grew older,
Why the White Dove that died was not in heaven.
But they were wrong, for when I came to heaven,—
When first I came, and all was strange and lonely,
My pretty pet flew straight upon my shoulder!
And there she stays all day; at evening only,
Between my hands, close to my breast, I fold her.
The soldier woke at the quail’s first note,At dawn, on the grassy couch where he lay:“O bird, that calls from the fields of home,What do my darlings so far away?”“They are up and ready to roam;They scatter the dew with their small bare feet,And laugh as they wade through the meadow sweet.”The soldier paused on the dusty march,And stooped by the cooling stream to drink:“O river, that runs through the fields of home,What do my dear ones, who dwell on thy brink?”“Farther and farther they roam—They are sending their mimic fleets adrift;And they follow them borne on my current swift.”The soldier sank on the twilight sward,And the vigilant lights were thronging above;“O stars that shine on the fields of home,What do they now, whom most I love?”“They have ceased to roam, to roam,—And are lisping a prayer at their mother’s knee;And that prayer, and her tears, are for thee, for thee!”
The soldier woke at the quail’s first note,At dawn, on the grassy couch where he lay:“O bird, that calls from the fields of home,What do my darlings so far away?”“They are up and ready to roam;They scatter the dew with their small bare feet,And laugh as they wade through the meadow sweet.”
The soldier woke at the quail’s first note,
At dawn, on the grassy couch where he lay:
“O bird, that calls from the fields of home,
What do my darlings so far away?”
“They are up and ready to roam;
They scatter the dew with their small bare feet,
And laugh as they wade through the meadow sweet.”
The soldier paused on the dusty march,And stooped by the cooling stream to drink:“O river, that runs through the fields of home,What do my dear ones, who dwell on thy brink?”“Farther and farther they roam—They are sending their mimic fleets adrift;And they follow them borne on my current swift.”
The soldier paused on the dusty march,
And stooped by the cooling stream to drink:
“O river, that runs through the fields of home,
What do my dear ones, who dwell on thy brink?”
“Farther and farther they roam—
They are sending their mimic fleets adrift;
And they follow them borne on my current swift.”
The soldier sank on the twilight sward,And the vigilant lights were thronging above;“O stars that shine on the fields of home,What do they now, whom most I love?”“They have ceased to roam, to roam,—And are lisping a prayer at their mother’s knee;And that prayer, and her tears, are for thee, for thee!”
The soldier sank on the twilight sward,
And the vigilant lights were thronging above;
“O stars that shine on the fields of home,
What do they now, whom most I love?”
“They have ceased to roam, to roam,—
And are lisping a prayer at their mother’s knee;
And that prayer, and her tears, are for thee, for thee!”
My little one will die to-night(Then break, my heart, oh, break!);But ’twill not be a lonely flightHer tender soul shall take.For there, where smoky clouds are spread,That blot the sunset sky,Are many dying, many dead,And others yet to die.My child loved soldiers so! And they,Whene’er they passed this door,Would toss her in their arms, in play,And laugh when she cried, “More!”So, when she passes hence to-night,They, too,—the brave, the strong,As up they climb the heavenly height,Will bear her soul along!With spirit lances shining clear,They reach God’s citadel:—My little one will have no fear,With friends she loves so well.
My little one will die to-night(Then break, my heart, oh, break!);But ’twill not be a lonely flightHer tender soul shall take.
My little one will die to-night
(Then break, my heart, oh, break!);
But ’twill not be a lonely flight
Her tender soul shall take.
For there, where smoky clouds are spread,That blot the sunset sky,Are many dying, many dead,And others yet to die.
For there, where smoky clouds are spread,
That blot the sunset sky,
Are many dying, many dead,
And others yet to die.
My child loved soldiers so! And they,Whene’er they passed this door,Would toss her in their arms, in play,And laugh when she cried, “More!”
My child loved soldiers so! And they,
Whene’er they passed this door,
Would toss her in their arms, in play,
And laugh when she cried, “More!”
So, when she passes hence to-night,They, too,—the brave, the strong,As up they climb the heavenly height,Will bear her soul along!
So, when she passes hence to-night,
They, too,—the brave, the strong,
As up they climb the heavenly height,
Will bear her soul along!
With spirit lances shining clear,They reach God’s citadel:—My little one will have no fear,With friends she loves so well.
With spirit lances shining clear,
They reach God’s citadel:—
My little one will have no fear,
With friends she loves so well.
The flowers, the haunted flowers of May,They bring delight, they bring heartache;What wondrous things to me they say!So bright—so dim, so sad—so gay,No stem of theirs I dare to break—The flowers—the haunted flowers of May!When lip to lip they softly lay—As soft, as still, as flake on flake,What wondrous things to me they say!For lo! there comes with them to play,A child, whose feet no imprint make—The flowers—the haunted flowers of May!From Childhood’s Land they take their way,They bloom but for that flower-child’s sake—What wondrous things to me they say!With them it lives, their little day;With them, each new-born year, ’twill wake;The flowers—the haunted flowers of May,What wondrous things to me they say!
The flowers, the haunted flowers of May,They bring delight, they bring heartache;What wondrous things to me they say!
The flowers, the haunted flowers of May,
They bring delight, they bring heartache;
What wondrous things to me they say!
So bright—so dim, so sad—so gay,No stem of theirs I dare to break—The flowers—the haunted flowers of May!
So bright—so dim, so sad—so gay,
No stem of theirs I dare to break—
The flowers—the haunted flowers of May!
When lip to lip they softly lay—As soft, as still, as flake on flake,What wondrous things to me they say!
When lip to lip they softly lay—
As soft, as still, as flake on flake,
What wondrous things to me they say!
For lo! there comes with them to play,A child, whose feet no imprint make—The flowers—the haunted flowers of May!
For lo! there comes with them to play,
A child, whose feet no imprint make—
The flowers—the haunted flowers of May!
From Childhood’s Land they take their way,They bloom but for that flower-child’s sake—What wondrous things to me they say!
From Childhood’s Land they take their way,
They bloom but for that flower-child’s sake—
What wondrous things to me they say!
With them it lives, their little day;With them, each new-born year, ’twill wake;The flowers—the haunted flowers of May,What wondrous things to me they say!
With them it lives, their little day;
With them, each new-born year, ’twill wake;
The flowers—the haunted flowers of May,
What wondrous things to me they say!
’Tis the Curfew of the Year, when falls and fades the maple’s leafy fire.’Tis Midnight of the Year, when streams beneath a fretted roof retire.It is the Small Hours of the Year, when none of all that sleep will wake,Howe’er the legion storms of heaven their deep and hidden fastness shake.It is the Dark Hour ere the Dawn, when, through the growing rifts of sleep,The wistful-eyed and moaning dreams of other days begin to peep.But when, amid the softening rain, aloft, so mellow and so clear,The first flute of the robin sounds, it is the Daybreak of the Year!
’Tis the Curfew of the Year, when falls and fades the maple’s leafy fire.’Tis Midnight of the Year, when streams beneath a fretted roof retire.It is the Small Hours of the Year, when none of all that sleep will wake,Howe’er the legion storms of heaven their deep and hidden fastness shake.It is the Dark Hour ere the Dawn, when, through the growing rifts of sleep,The wistful-eyed and moaning dreams of other days begin to peep.But when, amid the softening rain, aloft, so mellow and so clear,The first flute of the robin sounds, it is the Daybreak of the Year!
’Tis the Curfew of the Year, when falls and fades the maple’s leafy fire.
’Tis Midnight of the Year, when streams beneath a fretted roof retire.
It is the Small Hours of the Year, when none of all that sleep will wake,
Howe’er the legion storms of heaven their deep and hidden fastness shake.
It is the Dark Hour ere the Dawn, when, through the growing rifts of sleep,
The wistful-eyed and moaning dreams of other days begin to peep.
But when, amid the softening rain, aloft, so mellow and so clear,
The first flute of the robin sounds, it is the Daybreak of the Year!
IIISOME OF THEIR FRIENDS
There are so many, many young!So many, in thy world, O Spring,And scarcely yet they find a tongue,Their wants to cry, their joys to sing.There are so many, many young young—Be tender to such tenderness;And let soft arms be round them flung,Keep them from blight, from weather stress!White lambs upon the green-lit sward,And dappled darlings of the kine—O Spring, have them in watch and wardAnd mother them—for all are thine.There are so many, many young!Thine, too, the wild mouse and her broodWithin a last year’s bird’s-nest swung—And all shy litters of the wood!There are so many, many young young—Guard all—guard closeliest this year’s nest;Oh, guard, for Joy, the songs unsungWithin the thrush’s speckled breast!
There are so many, many young!So many, in thy world, O Spring,And scarcely yet they find a tongue,Their wants to cry, their joys to sing.
There are so many, many young!
So many, in thy world, O Spring,
And scarcely yet they find a tongue,
Their wants to cry, their joys to sing.
There are so many, many young young—Be tender to such tenderness;And let soft arms be round them flung,Keep them from blight, from weather stress!
There are so many, many young young—
Be tender to such tenderness;
And let soft arms be round them flung,
Keep them from blight, from weather stress!
White lambs upon the green-lit sward,And dappled darlings of the kine—O Spring, have them in watch and wardAnd mother them—for all are thine.
White lambs upon the green-lit sward,
And dappled darlings of the kine—
O Spring, have them in watch and ward
And mother them—for all are thine.
There are so many, many young!Thine, too, the wild mouse and her broodWithin a last year’s bird’s-nest swung—And all shy litters of the wood!
There are so many, many young!
Thine, too, the wild mouse and her brood
Within a last year’s bird’s-nest swung—
And all shy litters of the wood!
There are so many, many young young—Guard all—guard closeliest this year’s nest;Oh, guard, for Joy, the songs unsungWithin the thrush’s speckled breast!
There are so many, many young young—
Guard all—guard closeliest this year’s nest;
Oh, guard, for Joy, the songs unsung
Within the thrush’s speckled breast!
A recent convention of Nature’s musicians(Their entire resolutions the Owlet quotes)Took “high southern ground,” and, from lofty positions,All muffled in feathers and down, to their throats,Resolved to expel, without any conditions,The cuckoo-like fellow who stole their best notes.With spirit the Song-sparrow opened the session;“I’m with you,” whistled the Oriole, “IWould like him subjected to public confession”—“And fined!” the Vireo said with a sigh.“Pshaw!” hissed the Wren, with ruffled aggression,“Pluck him, I say, and then bid him fly!”Answered the Brown Thrush, high in his palace,“’Tis true I have taken your notes—less or more—And mingled them well (for I bear you no malice),Just as the wines some wizard of yoreWould mingle together, then pour from his chaliceMagic new wine never tasted before!”
A recent convention of Nature’s musicians(Their entire resolutions the Owlet quotes)Took “high southern ground,” and, from lofty positions,All muffled in feathers and down, to their throats,Resolved to expel, without any conditions,The cuckoo-like fellow who stole their best notes.
A recent convention of Nature’s musicians
(Their entire resolutions the Owlet quotes)
Took “high southern ground,” and, from lofty positions,
All muffled in feathers and down, to their throats,
Resolved to expel, without any conditions,
The cuckoo-like fellow who stole their best notes.
With spirit the Song-sparrow opened the session;“I’m with you,” whistled the Oriole, “IWould like him subjected to public confession”—“And fined!” the Vireo said with a sigh.“Pshaw!” hissed the Wren, with ruffled aggression,“Pluck him, I say, and then bid him fly!”
With spirit the Song-sparrow opened the session;
“I’m with you,” whistled the Oriole, “I
Would like him subjected to public confession”—
“And fined!” the Vireo said with a sigh.
“Pshaw!” hissed the Wren, with ruffled aggression,
“Pluck him, I say, and then bid him fly!”
Answered the Brown Thrush, high in his palace,“’Tis true I have taken your notes—less or more—And mingled them well (for I bear you no malice),Just as the wines some wizard of yoreWould mingle together, then pour from his chaliceMagic new wine never tasted before!”
Answered the Brown Thrush, high in his palace,
“’Tis true I have taken your notes—less or more—
And mingled them well (for I bear you no malice),
Just as the wines some wizard of yore
Would mingle together, then pour from his chalice
Magic new wine never tasted before!”
Day to the washing seas, and to the patient land,And to the little nautilus upon the sand.Day to the toiler gone afield, and to the child,And to the peetweet’s brood amid the marshes wild.While these awake to toil and those awake to play,How glad are all that breathe, that night has winged away!For light and life are friends, and night their ancient foe.Awake, ye birds, to song, ye buds, begin to blow!
Day to the washing seas, and to the patient land,And to the little nautilus upon the sand.
Day to the washing seas, and to the patient land,
And to the little nautilus upon the sand.
Day to the toiler gone afield, and to the child,And to the peetweet’s brood amid the marshes wild.
Day to the toiler gone afield, and to the child,
And to the peetweet’s brood amid the marshes wild.
While these awake to toil and those awake to play,How glad are all that breathe, that night has winged away!
While these awake to toil and those awake to play,
How glad are all that breathe, that night has winged away!
For light and life are friends, and night their ancient foe.Awake, ye birds, to song, ye buds, begin to blow!
For light and life are friends, and night their ancient foe.
Awake, ye birds, to song, ye buds, begin to blow!
The sun was shining, after rain,The garden gleamed and glistened;I heard a humblebee complain—I bent me down and listened.Around a nodding stalk he flew,That bore white lilies seven;And five were opened wide, and twoSlept in their lily heaven.The foolish bee, the grumbling bee,That might have found a palace(As any one beside could see)Within the honeyed chalice—The grumbling bee, the foolish bee,Still hummed one note of sorrow:“Oh, that to-day would give to meThe blossoms of to-morrow.”From bud to bud, the livelong hour,I saw him pass and hover,And pry about each fast-shut flower,Some entrance to discover.A discontented mind, no doubt,A moral here should borrow;I only say: “Don’t fret aboutThe blossoms of to-morrow!”
The sun was shining, after rain,The garden gleamed and glistened;I heard a humblebee complain—I bent me down and listened.
The sun was shining, after rain,
The garden gleamed and glistened;
I heard a humblebee complain—
I bent me down and listened.
Around a nodding stalk he flew,That bore white lilies seven;And five were opened wide, and twoSlept in their lily heaven.
Around a nodding stalk he flew,
That bore white lilies seven;
And five were opened wide, and two
Slept in their lily heaven.
The foolish bee, the grumbling bee,That might have found a palace(As any one beside could see)Within the honeyed chalice—
The foolish bee, the grumbling bee,
That might have found a palace
(As any one beside could see)
Within the honeyed chalice—
The grumbling bee, the foolish bee,Still hummed one note of sorrow:“Oh, that to-day would give to meThe blossoms of to-morrow.”
The grumbling bee, the foolish bee,
Still hummed one note of sorrow:
“Oh, that to-day would give to me
The blossoms of to-morrow.”
From bud to bud, the livelong hour,I saw him pass and hover,And pry about each fast-shut flower,Some entrance to discover.
From bud to bud, the livelong hour,
I saw him pass and hover,
And pry about each fast-shut flower,
Some entrance to discover.
A discontented mind, no doubt,A moral here should borrow;I only say: “Don’t fret aboutThe blossoms of to-morrow!”
A discontented mind, no doubt,
A moral here should borrow;
I only say: “Don’t fret about
The blossoms of to-morrow!”
Oh, fine it is at EasterTo hunt the wild fowl’s nest!A rush o’ wings—a featherFrom aff a broodin’ breast—A twinkle o’ the heather—An’ weel ye ken the rest!Before we’ve ta’en a dewbit,A’ in the morning gray,It’s callin’ ane anitherIn haste to be away—It’s cryin’, “Wish me, mither,The best luck o’ the day!”An’ mither’s gi’en us kisses,Wi’ little sighs between;An’ if a teardrop’s blinkin’Within her tender een,It’s, maybe, that she’s thinkin’O’ Easters that hae been!Then lads and lassies scatter,To hunt the eggs sae white;They thither run, an’ hither,An’ shout in their delight!An’ if twa hunt thegither,They ken it isna right!No laddie to a lassieOf hidden nest may tell;Nor lass of laddie ask it,But she maun seek hersel’!Wha brings the fullest basket—Guid luck wi’ him shall dwell!Oh, fine it is at EasterTo hunt the wild fowl’s nest;An’ when the sun is beamin’,It’s hame we’ll gang in haste;For now the brose is steamin,’The chair for us is placed!But oh! for a’ the pleasure,Ae thing I canna thole—The puir wild birdie’s greetin’—It’s pierced my verra soul!I hear ilk ane repeatin’,“It was my eggs ye stole!”
Oh, fine it is at EasterTo hunt the wild fowl’s nest!A rush o’ wings—a featherFrom aff a broodin’ breast—A twinkle o’ the heather—An’ weel ye ken the rest!
Oh, fine it is at Easter
To hunt the wild fowl’s nest!
A rush o’ wings—a feather
From aff a broodin’ breast—
A twinkle o’ the heather—
An’ weel ye ken the rest!
Before we’ve ta’en a dewbit,A’ in the morning gray,It’s callin’ ane anitherIn haste to be away—It’s cryin’, “Wish me, mither,The best luck o’ the day!”
Before we’ve ta’en a dewbit,
A’ in the morning gray,
It’s callin’ ane anither
In haste to be away—
It’s cryin’, “Wish me, mither,
The best luck o’ the day!”
An’ mither’s gi’en us kisses,Wi’ little sighs between;An’ if a teardrop’s blinkin’Within her tender een,It’s, maybe, that she’s thinkin’O’ Easters that hae been!
An’ mither’s gi’en us kisses,
Wi’ little sighs between;
An’ if a teardrop’s blinkin’
Within her tender een,
It’s, maybe, that she’s thinkin’
O’ Easters that hae been!
Then lads and lassies scatter,To hunt the eggs sae white;They thither run, an’ hither,An’ shout in their delight!An’ if twa hunt thegither,They ken it isna right!
Then lads and lassies scatter,
To hunt the eggs sae white;
They thither run, an’ hither,
An’ shout in their delight!
An’ if twa hunt thegither,
They ken it isna right!
No laddie to a lassieOf hidden nest may tell;Nor lass of laddie ask it,But she maun seek hersel’!Wha brings the fullest basket—Guid luck wi’ him shall dwell!
No laddie to a lassie
Of hidden nest may tell;
Nor lass of laddie ask it,
But she maun seek hersel’!
Wha brings the fullest basket—
Guid luck wi’ him shall dwell!
Oh, fine it is at EasterTo hunt the wild fowl’s nest;An’ when the sun is beamin’,It’s hame we’ll gang in haste;For now the brose is steamin,’The chair for us is placed!
Oh, fine it is at Easter
To hunt the wild fowl’s nest;
An’ when the sun is beamin’,
It’s hame we’ll gang in haste;
For now the brose is steamin,’
The chair for us is placed!
But oh! for a’ the pleasure,Ae thing I canna thole—The puir wild birdie’s greetin’—It’s pierced my verra soul!I hear ilk ane repeatin’,“It was my eggs ye stole!”
But oh! for a’ the pleasure,
Ae thing I canna thole—
The puir wild birdie’s greetin’—
It’s pierced my verra soul!
I hear ilk ane repeatin’,
“It was my eggs ye stole!”
This side the deeper wood,Of somber oak and pine,A dryad sisterhoodUpon the hill’s incline,In poised expectance stand,As waiting but the sign,To dance a saraband!The oaks and pines, alway,A darkling mystery hide.In Lady-Grove, all day,The cheerful sunbeams glide;And many a singing broodIn peace and joy abideWith this lov’d sisterhood.Their raiment fair is woveOf tender green and white:Come, Breeze, to Lady-GroveAnd put their trance to flight;For if they once were freed—My Silver Birches light—Ah, what a dance they’d lead!
This side the deeper wood,Of somber oak and pine,A dryad sisterhoodUpon the hill’s incline,In poised expectance stand,As waiting but the sign,To dance a saraband!
This side the deeper wood,
Of somber oak and pine,
A dryad sisterhood
Upon the hill’s incline,
In poised expectance stand,
As waiting but the sign,
To dance a saraband!
The oaks and pines, alway,A darkling mystery hide.In Lady-Grove, all day,The cheerful sunbeams glide;And many a singing broodIn peace and joy abideWith this lov’d sisterhood.
The oaks and pines, alway,
A darkling mystery hide.
In Lady-Grove, all day,
The cheerful sunbeams glide;
And many a singing brood
In peace and joy abide
With this lov’d sisterhood.
Their raiment fair is woveOf tender green and white:Come, Breeze, to Lady-GroveAnd put their trance to flight;For if they once were freed—My Silver Birches light—Ah, what a dance they’d lead!
Their raiment fair is wove
Of tender green and white:
Come, Breeze, to Lady-Grove
And put their trance to flight;
For if they once were freed—
My Silver Birches light—
Ah, what a dance they’d lead!