These had been together from the first,Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, hers;So much the boy foreran: but when his dateDoubled her own, for want of playmates he* * * *Had tost his ball and flown his kite, and roll'dHis hoop to pleasure Edith, with her diptAgainst the rush of the air in the prone swing,Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, arrangedHer garden, sow'd her name and kept it greenIn living letters, told her fairy-tales,Show'd her the fairy footings on the grass,The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms,The petty marestail forest, fairy pines,Or from the tiny pitted target blewWhat looked a flight of fairy arrows aim'dAll at one mark, all hitting: make-believesFor Edith and himself.Alfred, Lord Tennyson.From "Aylmer's Field."
These had been together from the first,Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, hers;So much the boy foreran: but when his dateDoubled her own, for want of playmates he
* * * *
Had tost his ball and flown his kite, and roll'dHis hoop to pleasure Edith, with her diptAgainst the rush of the air in the prone swing,Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, arrangedHer garden, sow'd her name and kept it greenIn living letters, told her fairy-tales,Show'd her the fairy footings on the grass,The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms,The petty marestail forest, fairy pines,Or from the tiny pitted target blewWhat looked a flight of fairy arrows aim'dAll at one mark, all hitting: make-believesFor Edith and himself.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
From "Aylmer's Field."
No clouds are in the morning sky,The vapors hug the stream,—Who says that life and love can dieIn all this northern gleam?At every turn the maples burn,The quail is whistling free,The partridge whirs, and the frosted bursAre dropping for you and me.Ho! hilly ho! heigh O!Hilly ho!In the clear October morning.Along our path the woods are bold,And glow with ripe desire;The yellow chestnut showers its gold,The sumachs spread their fire;The breezes feel as crisp as steel,The buckwheat tops are red:Then down the lane, love, scurry again,And over the stubble tread!Ho! hilly ho! heigh O!Hilly ho!In the clear October morning.Edmund Clarence Stedman.
No clouds are in the morning sky,The vapors hug the stream,—Who says that life and love can dieIn all this northern gleam?At every turn the maples burn,The quail is whistling free,The partridge whirs, and the frosted bursAre dropping for you and me.Ho! hilly ho! heigh O!Hilly ho!In the clear October morning.
Along our path the woods are bold,And glow with ripe desire;The yellow chestnut showers its gold,The sumachs spread their fire;The breezes feel as crisp as steel,The buckwheat tops are red:Then down the lane, love, scurry again,And over the stubble tread!Ho! hilly ho! heigh O!Hilly ho!In the clear October morning.
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school,Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool,The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eyeTurns, while he hears his mother's lullaby;His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it,Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it;And in the education of the ladNo little part that implement hath had.His pocket-knife to the young whittler bringsA growing knowledge of material things.Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art,His chestnut whistle and his shingle cart,His elder pop-gun, with its hickory rod,Its sharp explosion and rebounding wad,His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper toneThat murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone,Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeedHis bow, his arrow of a feathered reed,His windmill, raised the passing breeze to win,His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin,Or, if his father lives upon the shore,You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor,"Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers staunch,And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife drivenEre long he'll solve you any problem given;Make any gimcrack, musical or mute,A plough, a couch, an organ, or a flute;Make you a locomotive or a clock,Cut a canal, or build a floating-dock,Or lead forth beauty from a marble block;—Make anything, in short, for sea or shore,From a child's rattle to a seventy-four;—Make it, said I?—Ay, when he undertakes it,He'll make the thing and the machine that makes it.And when the thing is made,—whether it beTo move on earth, in air, or on the sea;Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide,Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide;Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring,Whether it be a piston or a spring,Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass,The thing designed shall surely come to pass;For, when his hand's upon it, you may knowThat there's go in it, and he'll make it go.John Pierpont.
The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school,Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool,The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eyeTurns, while he hears his mother's lullaby;His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it,Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it;And in the education of the ladNo little part that implement hath had.His pocket-knife to the young whittler bringsA growing knowledge of material things.
Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art,His chestnut whistle and his shingle cart,His elder pop-gun, with its hickory rod,Its sharp explosion and rebounding wad,His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper toneThat murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone,Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeedHis bow, his arrow of a feathered reed,His windmill, raised the passing breeze to win,His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin,Or, if his father lives upon the shore,You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor,"Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers staunch,And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife drivenEre long he'll solve you any problem given;Make any gimcrack, musical or mute,A plough, a couch, an organ, or a flute;Make you a locomotive or a clock,Cut a canal, or build a floating-dock,Or lead forth beauty from a marble block;—Make anything, in short, for sea or shore,From a child's rattle to a seventy-four;—Make it, said I?—Ay, when he undertakes it,He'll make the thing and the machine that makes it.
And when the thing is made,—whether it beTo move on earth, in air, or on the sea;Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide,Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide;Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring,Whether it be a piston or a spring,Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass,The thing designed shall surely come to pass;For, when his hand's upon it, you may knowThat there's go in it, and he'll make it go.
John Pierpont.
Waken, lords and ladies gay,On the mountain dawns the day;All the jolly chase is hereWith hawk and horse and hunting-spear!Hounds are in their couples yelling,Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling.Merrily, merrily mingle they,"Waken, lords and ladies gay."Waken, lords and ladies gay,The mist has left the mountain gray,Springlets in the dawn are steaming,Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,And foresters have busy beenTo track the buck in thicket green;Now we come to chant our lay"Waken, lords and ladies gay."Waken, lords and ladies gay,To the greenwood haste away;We can show you where he lies,Fleet of foot and tall of size;We can show the marks he madeWhen 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;You shall see him brought to bay;"Waken, lords and ladies gay."Louder, louder chant the layWaken, lords and ladies gay!Tell them youth and mirth and gleeRun a course as well as we;Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk;Think of this, and rise with day,Gentle lords and ladies gay!Sir Walter Scott.
Waken, lords and ladies gay,On the mountain dawns the day;All the jolly chase is hereWith hawk and horse and hunting-spear!Hounds are in their couples yelling,Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling.Merrily, merrily mingle they,"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Waken, lords and ladies gay,The mist has left the mountain gray,Springlets in the dawn are steaming,Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,And foresters have busy beenTo track the buck in thicket green;Now we come to chant our lay"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Waken, lords and ladies gay,To the greenwood haste away;We can show you where he lies,Fleet of foot and tall of size;We can show the marks he madeWhen 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;You shall see him brought to bay;"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Louder, louder chant the layWaken, lords and ladies gay!Tell them youth and mirth and gleeRun a course as well as we;Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk;Think of this, and rise with day,Gentle lords and ladies gay!
Sir Walter Scott.
Rise! Sleep no more! 'Tis a noble morn!The dews hang thick on the fringéd thorn,And the frost shrinks back like a beaten hound,Under the steaming, steaming ground.Behold where the billowy clouds flow by,And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!Our horses are ready and steady,—So, ho!I'm gone like a dart from the Tartar's bow.Hark, hark!—who calleth the maiden MornFrom her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn?The horn—the horn!The merry sweet ring of the hunter's horn!Now through the copse where the fox is foundAnd over the stream at a mighty bound,And over the high lands and over the low,O'er furrows, o'er meadows the hunters go!Away! as the hawk flies full at his preySo flieth the hunter,—away, away!From the burst at the corn till set of sun,When the red fox dies, and the day is done!Hark, hark!—What sound on the wind is borne?'Tis the conquering voice of the hunter's horn.The horn,—the horn!The merry bold voice of the hunter's horn!Sound, sound the horn! To the hunter goodWhat's the gully deep, or the roaring flood?Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds,At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds.O what delight can a mortal lackWhen he once is firm on his horse's back,With his stirrups short and his snaffle strong,And the blast of the horn for his morning song!Hark, hark! Now home! and dream till mornOf the bold sweet sound of the hunter's horn!The horn, the horn!Oh, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's horn!Barry Cornwall.(Bryan Waller Procter.)
Rise! Sleep no more! 'Tis a noble morn!The dews hang thick on the fringéd thorn,And the frost shrinks back like a beaten hound,Under the steaming, steaming ground.Behold where the billowy clouds flow by,And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!Our horses are ready and steady,—So, ho!I'm gone like a dart from the Tartar's bow.Hark, hark!—who calleth the maiden MornFrom her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn?The horn—the horn!The merry sweet ring of the hunter's horn!
Now through the copse where the fox is foundAnd over the stream at a mighty bound,And over the high lands and over the low,O'er furrows, o'er meadows the hunters go!Away! as the hawk flies full at his preySo flieth the hunter,—away, away!From the burst at the corn till set of sun,When the red fox dies, and the day is done!Hark, hark!—What sound on the wind is borne?'Tis the conquering voice of the hunter's horn.The horn,—the horn!The merry bold voice of the hunter's horn!
Sound, sound the horn! To the hunter goodWhat's the gully deep, or the roaring flood?Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds,At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds.O what delight can a mortal lackWhen he once is firm on his horse's back,With his stirrups short and his snaffle strong,And the blast of the horn for his morning song!Hark, hark! Now home! and dream till mornOf the bold sweet sound of the hunter's horn!The horn, the horn!Oh, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's horn!
Barry Cornwall.
(Bryan Waller Procter.)
Gamarra is a dainty steed,Strong, black, and of a noble breed,Full of fire, and full of bone,With all his line of fathers known;Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,But blown abroad by the pride within!His mane is like a river flowing,And his eyes like embers glowingIn the darkness of the night,And his pace as swift as light.Look—how 'round his straining throatGrace and shifting beauty float;Sinewy strength is in his reins,And the red blood gallops through his veins;Richer, redder, never ranThrough the boasting heart of man.He can trace his lineage higherThan the Bourbon dare aspire,—Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph,Or O'Brien's blood itself!He, who hath no peer, was born,Here, upon a red March morn;But his famous fathers deadWere Arabs all, and Arab bred,And the last of that great lineTrod like one of a race divine!And yet,—he was but friend to one,Who fed him at the set of sun,By some lone fountain fringed with green:With him, a roving Bedouin,He lived (none else would he obeyThrough all the hot Arabian day),—And died untamed upon the sandsWhere Balkh amidst the desert stands!Barry Cornwall.(Bryan Waller Procter.)
Gamarra is a dainty steed,Strong, black, and of a noble breed,Full of fire, and full of bone,With all his line of fathers known;Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,But blown abroad by the pride within!His mane is like a river flowing,And his eyes like embers glowingIn the darkness of the night,And his pace as swift as light.
Look—how 'round his straining throatGrace and shifting beauty float;Sinewy strength is in his reins,And the red blood gallops through his veins;Richer, redder, never ranThrough the boasting heart of man.He can trace his lineage higherThan the Bourbon dare aspire,—Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph,Or O'Brien's blood itself!
He, who hath no peer, was born,Here, upon a red March morn;But his famous fathers deadWere Arabs all, and Arab bred,And the last of that great lineTrod like one of a race divine!And yet,—he was but friend to one,Who fed him at the set of sun,By some lone fountain fringed with green:With him, a roving Bedouin,He lived (none else would he obeyThrough all the hot Arabian day),—And died untamed upon the sandsWhere Balkh amidst the desert stands!
Barry Cornwall.
(Bryan Waller Procter.)
Up! up! let us a voyage take;Why sit we here at ease?Find us a vessel tight and snug,Bound for the Northern Seas.I long to see the Northern Lights,With their rushing splendors, fly,Like living things, with flaming wings,Wide o'er the wondrous sky.I long to see those icebergs vast,With heads all crowned with snow;Whose green roots sleep in the awful deep,Two hundred fathoms low.I long to hear the thundering crashOf their terrific fall;And the echoes from a thousand cliffs,Like lonely voices call.There shall we see the fierce white bear,The sleepy seals aground,And the spouting whales that to and froSail with a dreary sound.There may we tread on depths of ice,That the hairy mammoth hide;Perfect as when, in times of old,The mighty creature died.And while the unsetting sun shines onThrough the still heaven's deep blue,We'll traverse the azure waves, the herdsOf the dread sea-horse to view.We'll pass the shores of solemn pine,Where wolves and black bears prowl,And away to the rocky isles of mistTo rouse the northern fowl.Up there shall start ten thousand wings,With a rushing, whistling din;Up shall the auk and fulmar start,—All but the fat penguin.And there, in the wastes of the silent sky,With the silent earth below,We shall see far off to his lonely rockThe lonely eagle go.Then softly, softly will we treadBy island streams, to seeWhere the pelican of the silent NorthSits there all silently.William Howitt.
Up! up! let us a voyage take;Why sit we here at ease?Find us a vessel tight and snug,Bound for the Northern Seas.
I long to see the Northern Lights,With their rushing splendors, fly,Like living things, with flaming wings,Wide o'er the wondrous sky.
I long to see those icebergs vast,With heads all crowned with snow;Whose green roots sleep in the awful deep,Two hundred fathoms low.
I long to hear the thundering crashOf their terrific fall;And the echoes from a thousand cliffs,Like lonely voices call.
There shall we see the fierce white bear,The sleepy seals aground,And the spouting whales that to and froSail with a dreary sound.
There may we tread on depths of ice,That the hairy mammoth hide;Perfect as when, in times of old,The mighty creature died.
And while the unsetting sun shines onThrough the still heaven's deep blue,We'll traverse the azure waves, the herdsOf the dread sea-horse to view.
We'll pass the shores of solemn pine,Where wolves and black bears prowl,And away to the rocky isles of mistTo rouse the northern fowl.
Up there shall start ten thousand wings,With a rushing, whistling din;Up shall the auk and fulmar start,—All but the fat penguin.
And there, in the wastes of the silent sky,With the silent earth below,We shall see far off to his lonely rockThe lonely eagle go.
Then softly, softly will we treadBy island streams, to seeWhere the pelican of the silent NorthSits there all silently.
William Howitt.
The gay belles of fashion may boast of excellingIn waltz or cotillion, at whist or quadrille;And seek admiration by vauntingly tellingOf drawing, and painting, and musical skill;But give me the fair one, in country or city,Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart,Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty,While plying the needle with exquisite art:The bright little needle—the swift-flying needle,The needle directed by beauty and art.If Love have a potent, a magical token,A talisman, ever resistless and true—A charm that is never evaded or broken,A witchery certain the heart to subdue—'T is this—and his armory never has furnishedSo keen and unerring, or polished a dart;Let Beauty direct it, so pointed and burnished,And, oh! it is certain of touching the heart:The bright little needle—the swift-flying needle,The needle directed by beauty and art.Be wise, then, ye maidens, nor seek admirationBy dressing for conquest, and flirting with all;You never, whate'er be your fortune or station,Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball,As gayly convened at a work-covered table,Each cheerfully active and playing her part,Beguiling the task with a song or a fable,And plying the needle with exquisite art:The bright little needle—the swift-flying needle,The needle directed by beauty and art.Samuel Woodworth.
The gay belles of fashion may boast of excellingIn waltz or cotillion, at whist or quadrille;And seek admiration by vauntingly tellingOf drawing, and painting, and musical skill;But give me the fair one, in country or city,Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart,Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty,While plying the needle with exquisite art:The bright little needle—the swift-flying needle,The needle directed by beauty and art.If Love have a potent, a magical token,A talisman, ever resistless and true—A charm that is never evaded or broken,A witchery certain the heart to subdue—'T is this—and his armory never has furnishedSo keen and unerring, or polished a dart;Let Beauty direct it, so pointed and burnished,And, oh! it is certain of touching the heart:The bright little needle—the swift-flying needle,The needle directed by beauty and art.
Be wise, then, ye maidens, nor seek admirationBy dressing for conquest, and flirting with all;You never, whate'er be your fortune or station,Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball,As gayly convened at a work-covered table,Each cheerfully active and playing her part,Beguiling the task with a song or a fable,And plying the needle with exquisite art:The bright little needle—the swift-flying needle,The needle directed by beauty and art.
Samuel Woodworth.
Enter a procession of charming girls; wee ones like Nikolina and Jessie, others, like Peggy, just entering their teens. Some are so saintly we can almost see the halos above their lovely heads—like Mrs. Browning's human angel in the first poem, or like Shakespeare's Silvia, who excels each mortal thing; others are just happy children, like Little Bell.
The poets, as you will see, have delighted to paint the beauties of this rosebud garden. There is sweet Phyllis, the little dairymaid, whose hand seemed milk, in milk it was so white; Annie Laurie, with her brow like the snowdrift and her voice like wind in summer sighing; merry Margaret, like midsummer flower; but you will note that in all of them sunny hair and dewy eyes are not where the beauty lies. "Love deep and kind" leaves good gifts behind, with Bell and with Mally, too, who is rare and fair and every way complete, and who is also modest and discreet. On the other hand, Burns does not describe Nannie by so much as a single word, but it is easy to conjure up her picture, so eloquently he paints the dreariness of the world "when Nannie's awa'."
Will you not add to this garden of girls others whom you would like to see blooming beside them? Remember, it is a rosebud garden, and the new-comers must be not only beautiful, but sweet and fragrant with pretty, womanly virtues.
"She walks—the lady of my delightA shepherdess of sheep.Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white;She guards them from the steep.She feeds them on the fragrant height,And folds them in for sleep."
"She walks—the lady of my delightA shepherdess of sheep.Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white;She guards them from the steep.She feeds them on the fragrant height,And folds them in for sleep."
"One Name is Elizabeth."—Jonson.I will paint her as I see her:Ten times have the lilies blown,Since she looked upon the sun.And her face is lily-clear—Lily-shaped, and drooped in dutyTo the law of its own beauty.Oval cheeks encolored faintly,Which a trail of golden hairKeeps from fading off to air:And a forehead fair and saintly,Which two blue eyes undershine,Like meek prayers before a shrine.Face and figure of a child,—Though too calm, you think, and tender,For the childhood you would lend her.Yet child-simple, undefiled,Frank, obedient,—waiting stillOn the turnings of your will.Moving light, as all young things—As young birds, or early wheatWhen the wind blows over it.Only free from flutteringsOf loud mirth that scorneth measure—Taking love for her chief pleasure:Choosing pleasures (for the rest)Which come softly—just as she,When she nestles at your knee.Quiet talk she liketh best,In a bower of gentle looks,—Watering flowers, or reading books.And her voice, it murmurs lowly,As a silver stream may run,Which yet feels, you feel, the sun.And her smile, it seems half holy,As if drawn from thoughts more fairThan our common jestings are.And if any poet knew her,He would sing of her with fallsUsed in lovely madrigals.And if any painter drew her,He would paint her unawareWith a halo round her hair.And if reader read the poem,He would whisper—"You have done aConsecrated little Una!"And a dreamer (did you show himThat same picture) would exclaim,"'Tis my angel, with a name!"And a stranger,—when he sees herIn the street even—smileth stilly,Just as you would at a lily.And all voices that address her,Soften, sleeken every word,As if speaking to a bird.And all fancies yearn to coverThe hard earth whereon she passes.With the thymy scented grasses.And all hearts do pray, "God love her!"Ay, and always, in good sooth,We may all be sure he doth.Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
"One Name is Elizabeth."—Jonson.
I will paint her as I see her:Ten times have the lilies blown,Since she looked upon the sun.
And her face is lily-clear—Lily-shaped, and drooped in dutyTo the law of its own beauty.
Oval cheeks encolored faintly,Which a trail of golden hairKeeps from fading off to air:
And a forehead fair and saintly,Which two blue eyes undershine,Like meek prayers before a shrine.
Face and figure of a child,—Though too calm, you think, and tender,For the childhood you would lend her.
Yet child-simple, undefiled,Frank, obedient,—waiting stillOn the turnings of your will.
Moving light, as all young things—As young birds, or early wheatWhen the wind blows over it.
Only free from flutteringsOf loud mirth that scorneth measure—Taking love for her chief pleasure:
Choosing pleasures (for the rest)Which come softly—just as she,When she nestles at your knee.
Quiet talk she liketh best,In a bower of gentle looks,—Watering flowers, or reading books.
And her voice, it murmurs lowly,As a silver stream may run,Which yet feels, you feel, the sun.
And her smile, it seems half holy,As if drawn from thoughts more fairThan our common jestings are.
And if any poet knew her,He would sing of her with fallsUsed in lovely madrigals.
And if any painter drew her,He would paint her unawareWith a halo round her hair.
And if reader read the poem,He would whisper—"You have done aConsecrated little Una!"
And a dreamer (did you show himThat same picture) would exclaim,"'Tis my angel, with a name!"
And a stranger,—when he sees herIn the street even—smileth stilly,Just as you would at a lily.
And all voices that address her,Soften, sleeken every word,As if speaking to a bird.
And all fancies yearn to coverThe hard earth whereon she passes.With the thymy scented grasses.
And all hearts do pray, "God love her!"Ay, and always, in good sooth,We may all be sure he doth.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray:"Pretty maid, slow wandering this way,What's your name?" quoth he—"What's your name? Oh, stop and straight unfold,Pretty maid with showery curls of gold,"—"Little Bell," said she.Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks—Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks—"Bonny bird," quoth she,"Sing me your best song before I go.""Here's the very finest song I know,Little Bell," said he.And the blackbird piped; you never heardHalf so gay a song from any bird;—Full of quips and wiles,Now so round and rich, now soft and slow,All for love of that sweet face below,Dimpled o'er with smiles.And the while the bonny bird did pourHis full heart out freely o'er and o'er,'Neath the morning skies,In the little childish heart below,All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,And shine forth in happy overflowFrom the blue, bright eyes.Down the dell she tripped; and through the gladePeeped the squirrel from the hazel shade,And from out the treeSwung and leaped and frolicked, void of fear,While bold blackbird piped, that all might hear,"Little Bell!" piped he.Little Bell sat down amid the fern:"Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return;Bring me nuts!" quoth she.Up, away, the frisky squirrel hies,Golden wood lights glancing in his eyes;And adown the tree,Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun,In the little lap drop, one by one:Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun!"Happy Bell!" pipes he.Little Bell looked up and down the glade:"Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid,Come and share with me!"Down came squirrel, eager for his fare,Down came bonny blackbird, I declare.Little Bell gave each his honest share,Ah the merry three!And the while these frolic playmates twainPiped and frisked from bough to bough again,'Neath the morning skies,In the little childish heart below,All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,And shine out in happy overflow,From her blue, bright eyes.By her snow-white cot at close of day,Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray:Very calm and clearRose the praying voice to where, unseen,In blue heaven, an angel shape serenePaused awhile to hear."What good child is this," the angel said,"That, with happy heart, beside her bedPrays so lovingly?"Low and soft, oh! very low and soft,Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft,"Bell,dearBell!" crooned he."Whom God's creatures love," the angel fairMurmured, "God doth bless with angels' care;Child, thy bed shall beFolded safe from harm. Love, deep and kind,Shall watch around, and leave good gifts behind,Little Bell, for thee."Thomas Westwood.
Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray:"Pretty maid, slow wandering this way,What's your name?" quoth he—"What's your name? Oh, stop and straight unfold,Pretty maid with showery curls of gold,"—"Little Bell," said she.
Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks—Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks—"Bonny bird," quoth she,"Sing me your best song before I go.""Here's the very finest song I know,Little Bell," said he.
And the blackbird piped; you never heardHalf so gay a song from any bird;—Full of quips and wiles,Now so round and rich, now soft and slow,All for love of that sweet face below,Dimpled o'er with smiles.
And the while the bonny bird did pourHis full heart out freely o'er and o'er,'Neath the morning skies,In the little childish heart below,All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,And shine forth in happy overflowFrom the blue, bright eyes.
Down the dell she tripped; and through the gladePeeped the squirrel from the hazel shade,And from out the treeSwung and leaped and frolicked, void of fear,While bold blackbird piped, that all might hear,"Little Bell!" piped he.
Little Bell sat down amid the fern:"Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return;Bring me nuts!" quoth she.Up, away, the frisky squirrel hies,Golden wood lights glancing in his eyes;And adown the tree,Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun,In the little lap drop, one by one:Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun!"Happy Bell!" pipes he.
Little Bell looked up and down the glade:"Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid,Come and share with me!"Down came squirrel, eager for his fare,Down came bonny blackbird, I declare.Little Bell gave each his honest share,Ah the merry three!
And the while these frolic playmates twainPiped and frisked from bough to bough again,'Neath the morning skies,In the little childish heart below,All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,And shine out in happy overflow,From her blue, bright eyes.
By her snow-white cot at close of day,Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray:Very calm and clearRose the praying voice to where, unseen,In blue heaven, an angel shape serenePaused awhile to hear.
"What good child is this," the angel said,"That, with happy heart, beside her bedPrays so lovingly?"Low and soft, oh! very low and soft,Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft,"Bell,dearBell!" crooned he.
"Whom God's creatures love," the angel fairMurmured, "God doth bless with angels' care;Child, thy bed shall beFolded safe from harm. Love, deep and kind,Shall watch around, and leave good gifts behind,Little Bell, for thee."
Thomas Westwood.
A child most infantineYet wandering far beyond that innocent ageIn all but its sweet looks and mien divine.* * * *She moved upon this earth a shape of brightness,A power, that from its objects scarcely drewOne impulse of her being—in her lightnessMost like some radiant cloud of morning dew,Which wanders through the waste air's pathless blue,To nourish some far desert; she did seemBeside me, gathering beauty as she grew,Like the bright shade of some immortal dreamWhich walks, when tempest sleeps, the wave of life's dark stream.As mine own shadow was this child to me.* * * *This playmate sweet,This child of twelve years old.Percy Bysshe ShelleyFrom "The Revolt of Islam."
A child most infantineYet wandering far beyond that innocent ageIn all but its sweet looks and mien divine.
* * * *
She moved upon this earth a shape of brightness,A power, that from its objects scarcely drewOne impulse of her being—in her lightnessMost like some radiant cloud of morning dew,Which wanders through the waste air's pathless blue,To nourish some far desert; she did seemBeside me, gathering beauty as she grew,Like the bright shade of some immortal dreamWhich walks, when tempest sleeps, the wave of life's dark stream.As mine own shadow was this child to me.
* * * *
This playmate sweet,This child of twelve years old.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
From "The Revolt of Islam."
It was the charming month of May,When all the flowers were fresh and gay,One morning by the break of day,The youthful charming ChloeFrom peaceful slumbers she arose,Girt on her mantle and her hose,And o'er the flowery mead she goes,The youthful charming Chloe.Lovely was she by the dawn,Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe,Tripping o'er the pearly lawn,The youthful charming Chloe.The feather'd people you might see,Perch'd all around on every tree,In notes of sweetest melodyThey hail the charming Chloe;Till painting gay the eastern skies,The glorious sun began to rise,Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyesOf youthful, charming Chloe.Lovely was she by the dawn,Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe,Tripping o'er the pearly lawn,The youthful, charming Chloe.Robert Burns.
It was the charming month of May,When all the flowers were fresh and gay,One morning by the break of day,The youthful charming ChloeFrom peaceful slumbers she arose,Girt on her mantle and her hose,And o'er the flowery mead she goes,The youthful charming Chloe.Lovely was she by the dawn,Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe,Tripping o'er the pearly lawn,The youthful charming Chloe.
The feather'd people you might see,Perch'd all around on every tree,In notes of sweetest melodyThey hail the charming Chloe;Till painting gay the eastern skies,The glorious sun began to rise,Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyesOf youthful, charming Chloe.Lovely was she by the dawn,Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe,Tripping o'er the pearly lawn,The youthful, charming Chloe.
Robert Burns.
As I was walking up the street,A barefit maid I chanced to meet;But O the road was very hardFor that fair maiden's tender feet.O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet,Mally's modest and discreet,Mally's rare, Mally's fair,Mally's every way complete.It were more meet that those fine feetWere weel laced up in silken shoon,And 'twere more fit that she should sitWithin yon chariot gilt aboon.Her yellow hair, beyond compare,Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck,And her two eyes, like stars in skies,Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck.O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet,Mally's modest and discreet,Mally's rare, Mally's fair,Mally's every way complete.Robert Burns.
As I was walking up the street,A barefit maid I chanced to meet;But O the road was very hardFor that fair maiden's tender feet.O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet,Mally's modest and discreet,Mally's rare, Mally's fair,Mally's every way complete.
It were more meet that those fine feetWere weel laced up in silken shoon,And 'twere more fit that she should sitWithin yon chariot gilt aboon.
Her yellow hair, beyond compare,Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck,And her two eyes, like stars in skies,Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck.O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet,Mally's modest and discreet,Mally's rare, Mally's fair,Mally's every way complete.
Robert Burns.
Who is Silvia? What is she,That all our swains commend her?Holy, fair, and wise is she;The heaven such grace did lend her,That she might admirèd be.Is she kind as she is fair?For beauty lives with kindness:Love doth to her eyes repair,To help him of his blindness;And, being helped, inhabits there.Then to Silvia let us sing,That Silvia is excelling;She excels each mortal thingUpon the dull earth dwelling;To her let us garlands bring.William Shakespeare.From "The Two Gentlemen of Verona."
Who is Silvia? What is she,That all our swains commend her?Holy, fair, and wise is she;The heaven such grace did lend her,That she might admirèd be.
Is she kind as she is fair?For beauty lives with kindness:Love doth to her eyes repair,To help him of his blindness;And, being helped, inhabits there.
Then to Silvia let us sing,That Silvia is excelling;She excels each mortal thingUpon the dull earth dwelling;To her let us garlands bring.
William Shakespeare.
From "The Two Gentlemen of Verona."
Merry MargaretAs midsummer flower—Gentle as falcon,Or hawk of the tower;With solace and gladness,Much mirth and no madness,All good and no badness;So joyously,So maidenly,So womanlyHer demeaning,—In everythingFar, far passingThat I can inditeOr suffice to write,Of merry Margaret,As midsummer flower,Gentle as falconOr hawk of the tower;As patient and as still,And as full of good-will,As fair Isiphil,Coliander,Sweet Pomander,Good Cassander;Steadfast of thought,Well made, well wrought;Far may be soughtEre you can findSo courteous, so kind,As merry Margaret,This midsummer flower—Gentle as falconOr hawk of the tower.John Skelton.
Merry MargaretAs midsummer flower—Gentle as falcon,Or hawk of the tower;With solace and gladness,Much mirth and no madness,All good and no badness;So joyously,So maidenly,So womanlyHer demeaning,—In everythingFar, far passingThat I can inditeOr suffice to write,Of merry Margaret,As midsummer flower,Gentle as falconOr hawk of the tower;As patient and as still,And as full of good-will,As fair Isiphil,Coliander,Sweet Pomander,Good Cassander;Steadfast of thought,Well made, well wrought;Far may be soughtEre you can findSo courteous, so kind,As merry Margaret,This midsummer flower—Gentle as falconOr hawk of the tower.
John Skelton.
She stood breast-high amid the corn,Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,Like the sweetheart of the sun,Who many a glowing kiss had won.On her cheek an autumn flush.Deeply ripened;—such a blushIn the midst of brown was born,Like red poppies grown with corn.Round her eyes her tresses fell,Which were blackest none could tell,But long lashes veil'd a lightThat had else been all too bright.And her hat, with shady brim,Made her tressy forehead dim;—Thus she stood amid the stooks,Praising God with sweetest looks."Sure," I said, "Heav'n did not meanWhere I reap thou shouldst but glean;Lay thy sheaf adown and come,Share my harvest and my home."Thomas Hood.
She stood breast-high amid the corn,Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,Like the sweetheart of the sun,Who many a glowing kiss had won.
On her cheek an autumn flush.Deeply ripened;—such a blushIn the midst of brown was born,Like red poppies grown with corn.
Round her eyes her tresses fell,Which were blackest none could tell,But long lashes veil'd a lightThat had else been all too bright.
And her hat, with shady brim,Made her tressy forehead dim;—Thus she stood amid the stooks,Praising God with sweetest looks.
"Sure," I said, "Heav'n did not meanWhere I reap thou shouldst but glean;Lay thy sheaf adown and come,Share my harvest and my home."
Thomas Hood.
My Peggy is a young thing,Just entered in her teens,Fair as the day, and sweet as May,Fair as the day, and always gay,My Peggy is a young thing,And I'm not very auld,Yet well I like to meet her atThe wauking of the fauld.* * * *My Peggy sings sae saftly,When on my pipe I play;By a' the rest it is confest,By a' the rest, that she sings best.My Peggy sings sae saftly,And in her sangs are tauld,With innocence, the wale of sense,At wauking of the fauld.Allan Ramsay.From "The Gentle Shepherd."
My Peggy is a young thing,Just entered in her teens,Fair as the day, and sweet as May,Fair as the day, and always gay,My Peggy is a young thing,And I'm not very auld,Yet well I like to meet her atThe wauking of the fauld.
* * * *
My Peggy sings sae saftly,When on my pipe I play;By a' the rest it is confest,By a' the rest, that she sings best.My Peggy sings sae saftly,And in her sangs are tauld,With innocence, the wale of sense,At wauking of the fauld.
Allan Ramsay.
From "The Gentle Shepherd."
Maxwelton braes are bonnieWhere early fa's the dew,And it's there that Annie LaurieGie'd me her promise true,—Gie'd me her promise true,Which ne'er forgot will be;And for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me doune and dee.Her brow is like the snawdrift,Her throat is like the swan,Her face it is the fairestThat e'er the sun shone on,—That e'er the sun shone on;And dark blue is her e'e;And for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me doune and dee.Like dew on the gowan lyingIs the fa' o' her fairy feet;Like the winds in summer sighing,Her voice is low and sweet,—Her voice is low and sweet;And she's a' the world to me;And for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me doune and dee.William Douglas of Fingland.
Maxwelton braes are bonnieWhere early fa's the dew,And it's there that Annie LaurieGie'd me her promise true,—Gie'd me her promise true,Which ne'er forgot will be;And for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me doune and dee.
Her brow is like the snawdrift,Her throat is like the swan,Her face it is the fairestThat e'er the sun shone on,—That e'er the sun shone on;And dark blue is her e'e;And for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me doune and dee.
Like dew on the gowan lyingIs the fa' o' her fairy feet;Like the winds in summer sighing,Her voice is low and sweet,—Her voice is low and sweet;And she's a' the world to me;And for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me doune and dee.
William Douglas of Fingland.
Three years she grew in sun and shower;Then Nature said, "A lovelier flowerOn earth was never sown:This child I to myself will take;She shall be mine, and I will makeA lady of my own."Myself will to my darling beBoth law and impulse: and with meThe girl, in rock and plain,In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,Shall feel an overseeing powerTo kindle or restrain."She shall be sportive as the fawnThat, wild with glee, across the lawn,Or up the mountain springs;And hers shall be the breathing balm,And hers the silence and the calmOf mute, insensate things."The floating clouds their state shall lendTo her; for her the willow bend;Nor shall she fail to seeE'en in the motions of the stormGrace that shall mold the maiden's formBy silent sympathy."The stars of midnight shall be dearTo her; and she shall lean her earIn many a secret placeWhere rivulets dance their wayward round,And beauty born of murmuring soundShall pass into her face."And vital feelings of delightShall rear her form to stately height,Her virgin bosom swell;Such thoughts to Lucy I will giveWhile she and I together liveHere in this happy dell."Thus Nature spake—the work was done—How soon my Lucy's race was run!She died, and left to meThis heath, this calm and quiet scene;The memory of what has been,And nevermore will be.William Wordsworth.
Three years she grew in sun and shower;Then Nature said, "A lovelier flowerOn earth was never sown:This child I to myself will take;She shall be mine, and I will makeA lady of my own.
"Myself will to my darling beBoth law and impulse: and with meThe girl, in rock and plain,In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,Shall feel an overseeing powerTo kindle or restrain.
"She shall be sportive as the fawnThat, wild with glee, across the lawn,Or up the mountain springs;And hers shall be the breathing balm,And hers the silence and the calmOf mute, insensate things.
"The floating clouds their state shall lendTo her; for her the willow bend;Nor shall she fail to seeE'en in the motions of the stormGrace that shall mold the maiden's formBy silent sympathy.
"The stars of midnight shall be dearTo her; and she shall lean her earIn many a secret placeWhere rivulets dance their wayward round,And beauty born of murmuring soundShall pass into her face.
"And vital feelings of delightShall rear her form to stately height,Her virgin bosom swell;Such thoughts to Lucy I will giveWhile she and I together liveHere in this happy dell."
Thus Nature spake—the work was done—How soon my Lucy's race was run!She died, and left to meThis heath, this calm and quiet scene;The memory of what has been,And nevermore will be.
William Wordsworth.