Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber,Holy angels guard thy bed!Heavenly blessings without numberGently falling on thy head.Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,House and home, thy friends provide;All without thy care or payment:All thy wants are well supplied.How much better thou'rt attendedThan the Son of God could be,When from heaven He descendedAnd became a child like thee!Soft and easy is thy cradle:Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,When His birthplace was a stableAnd His softest bed was hay.Blessed babe! what glorious features—Spotless fair, divinely bright!Must He dwell with brutal creatures?How could angels bear the sight?Was there nothing but a mangerCursed sinners could affordTo receive the heavenly stranger?Did they thus affront their Lord?Soft, my child: I did not chide thee,Though my song might sound too hard;'Tis thy mother sits beside thee,And her arm shall be thy guard.See the kinder shepherds round Him,Telling wonders from the sky!Where they sought Him, there they found Him,With His Virgin mother by.See the lovely babe a-dressing;Lovely infant, how He smiled!When He wept, His mother's blessingSoothed and hush'd the holy Child,Lo, He slumbers in a manger,Where the hornèd oxen fed:—Peace, my darling, here's no danger;There's no ox anear thy bed.May'st thou live to know and fear Him,Trust and love Him all thy days;Then go dwell forever near Him,See His face, and sing His praise!Isaac Watts.
If all the skies were sunshine,Our faces would be fainTo feel once more upon themThe cooling splash of rain.If all the world were music,Our hearts would often longFor one sweet strain of silence,To break the endless song.If life were always merry,Our souls would seek relief,And rest from weary laughterIn the quiet arms of grief.Henry van Dyke.
In a valley, centuries ago,Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender,Veining delicate and fibers tender,Waving when the wind crept down so low;Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it;Playful sunbeams darted in and found it;Drops of dew stole down by night and crowned it;But no foot of man e'er came that way;Earth was young and keeping holiday.Monster fishes swam the silent main;Stately forests waved their giant branches;Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches;Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain,Nature reveled in grand mysteries.But the little fern was not like these,Did not number with the hills and trees,Only grew and waved its sweet, wild way;No one came to note it day by day.Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood,Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motionOf the strong, dread currents of the ocean;Moved the hills and shook the haughty wood;Crushed the little fern in soft, moist clay,Covered it, and hid it safe away.Oh, the long, long centuries since that day;Oh, the changes! Oh, life's bitter cost,Since the little useless fern was lost!Useless? Lost? There came a thoughtful manSearching Nature's secrets far and deep;From a fissure in a rocky steepHe withdrew a stone, o'er which there ranFairy pencilings, a quaint design,Leafage, veining, fibers, clear and fine,And the fern's life lay in every line.So, I think, God hides some souls away,Sweetly to surprise us the Last Day.Mary L. Bolles Branch.
Cleon hath ten thousand acres,Ne'er a one have I;Cleon dwelleth in a palace,In a cottage, I;Cleon hath a dozen fortunes,Not a penny, I,Yet the poorer of the twain isCleon, and not I.Cleon, true, possesseth acres,But the landscape, I;Half the charms to me it yieldethMoney cannot buy;Cleon harbors sloth and dullness,Freshening vigor, I;He in velvet, I in fustian—Richer man am I.Cleon is a slave to grandeur,Free as thought am I;Cleon fees a score of doctors,Need of none have I;Wealth-surrounded, care-environed,Cleon fears to die;Death may come—he'll find me ready,Happier man am I.Cleon sees no charms in nature,In a daisy, I;Cleon hears no anthems ringing'Twixt the sea and sky;Nature sings to me forever,Earnest listener, I;State for state, with all attendants—Who would change?—Not I.Charles Mackay.
Great were the hearts and strong the mindsOf those who framed in high debateThe immortal league of love that bindsOur fair, broad empire, State with State.And deep the gladness of the hourWhen, as the auspicious task was done,In solemn trust the sword of powerWas given to Glory's Unspoiled Son.That noble race is gone—the sunsOf fifty years have risen and set;—But the bright links, those chosen ones,So strongly forged, are brighter yet.Wide—as our own free race increase—Wide shall extend the elastic chain,And bind in everlasting peaceState after State, a mighty train.W.C. Bryant.
Slow the Kansas sun was setting,O'er the wheat fields far away,Streaking all the air with cobwebsAt the close of one hot day;And the last rays kissed the foreheadOf a man and maiden fair,He with whiskers short and frowsy,She with red and glistening hair,He with shut jaws stern and silent;She, with lips all cold and white,Struggled to keep back the murmur,"Towser shall be tied to-night.""Papa," slowly spoke the daughter,"I am almost seventeen,And I have a real lover,Though he's rather young and green;But he has a horse and buggyAnd a cow and thirty hens,—Boys that start out poor, dear Papa,Make the best of honest men,But if Towser sees and bites him,Fills his eyes with misty light,He will never come again, Pa;Towser must be tied to-night.""Daughter," firmly spoke the farmer,(Every word pierced her young heartLike a carving knife through chickenAs it hunts the tender part)—"I've a patch of early melons,Two of them are ripe to-day;Towser must be loose to watch themOr they'll all be stole away.I have hoed them late and earlyIn dim morn and evening light;Now they're grown I must not lose them;Towser'll not be tied to-night."Then the old man ambled forward,Opened wide the kennel-door,Towser bounded forth to meet himAs he oft had done before.And the farmer stooped and loosed himFrom the dog-chain short and stout;To himself he softly chuckled,"Bessie's feller must look out."But the maiden at the windowSaw the cruel teeth show white;In an undertone she murmured,—"Towser must be tied to-night."Then the maiden's brow grew thoughtfulAnd her breath came short and quick,Till she spied the family clothesline,And she whispered, "That's the trick."From the kitchen door she glidedWith a plate of meat and bread;Towser wagged his tail in greeting,Knowing well he would be fed.In his well-worn leather collar,Tied she then the clothesline tight,All the time her white lips saying:"Towser shall be tied to-night,""There, old doggie," spoke the maiden,"You can watch the melon patch,But the front gate's free and open,When John Henry lifts the latch.For the clothesline tight is fastenedTo the harvest apple tree,You can run and watch the melons,But the front gate you can't see."Then her glad ears hear a buggy,And her eyes grow big and bright,While her young heart says in gladness,"Towser dog is tied to-night."Up the path the young man sauntersWith his eye and cheek aglow;For he loves the red-haired maidenAnd he aims to tell her so.Bessie's roguish little brother,In a fit of boyish glee,Had untied the slender clothesline,From the harvest apple tree.Then old Towser heard the footsteps,Raised his bristles, fixed for fight,—"Bark away," the maiden whispers;"Towser, you are tied to-night."Then old Towser bounded forward,Passed the open kitchen door;Bessie screamed and quickly followed,But John Henry's gone before.Down the path he speeds most quickly,For old Towser sets the pace;And the maiden close behind themShows them she is in the race.Then the clothesline, can she get it?And her eyes grow big and bright;And she springs and grasps it firmly:"Towser shall be tied to-night."Oftentimes a little minuteForms the destiny of men.You can change the fate of nationsBy the stroke of one small pen.Towser made one last long effort,Caught John Henry by the pants,But John Henry kept on runningFor he thought that his last chance.But the maiden held on firmly,And the rope was drawn up tight.But old Towser kept the garments,For he was not tied that night.Then the father hears the racket;With long strides he soon is there,When John Henry and the maiden,Crouching, for the worst prepare.At his feet John tells his story,Shows his clothing soiled and torn;And his face so sad and pleading,Yet so white and scared and worn,Touched the old man's heart with pity,Filled his eyes with misty light."Take her, boy, and make her happy,—Towser shall be tied to-night."
O Liberty, thou child of Law,God's seal is on thy brow!O Law, her Mother first and last,God's very self art thou!Two flowers alike, yet not alike,On the same stem that grow,Two friends who cannot live apart,Yet seem each other's foe.One, the smooth river's mirrored flowWhich decks the world with green;And one, the bank of sturdy rockWhich hems the river in.O Daughter of the timeless Past,O Hope the Prophets saw,God give us Law in LibertyAnd Liberty in Law!E.J. Cutler.
Beneath the hot midsummer sunThe men had marched all day,And now beside a rippling streamUpon the grass they lay.Tiring of games and idle jestAs swept the hours along,They cried to one who mused apart,"Come, friend, give us a song.""I fear I can not please," he said;"The only songs I knowAre those my mother used to singFor me long years ago.""Sing one of those," a rough voice cried."There's none but true men here;To every mother's son of usA mother's songs are dear."Then sweetly rose the singer's voiceAmid unwonted calm:"Am I a soldier of the Cross,A follower of the Lamb?And shall I fear to own His cause?"The very stream was stilled,And hearts that never throbbed with fear,With tender thoughts were filled.Ended the song, the singer said,As to his feet he rose,"Thanks to you all, my friends; goodnight.God grant us sweet repose.""Sing us one more," the captain begged.The soldier bent his head,Then, glancing round, with smiling lips,"You'll join with me?" he said."We'll sing that old familiar airSweet as the bugle call,'All hail the power of Jesus' name!Let angels prostrate fall.'"Ah, wondrous was the old tune's spell.As on the soldiers sang;Man after man fell into line,And loud the voices rang.The songs are done, the camp is still,Naught but the stream is heard;But, ah! the depths of every soulBy those old hymns are stirred,And up from many a bearded lip,In whispers soft and low,Rises the prayer that mother taughtHer boy long years ago.
We all look on with anxious eyesWhen Father carves the duck,And Mother almost always sighsWhen Father carves the duck;Then all of us prepare to riseAnd hold our bibs before our eyes,And be prepared for some surpriseWhen Father carves the duck.He braces up and grabs the fork,Whene'er he carves the duck,And won't allow a soul to talkUntil he carves the duck.The fork is jabbed into the sides,Across the breast the knife he slides,While every careful person hidesFrom flying chips of duck.The platter's always sure to slipWhen Father carves the duck,And how it makes the dishes skip—Potatoes fly amuck.The squash and cabbage leap in space,We get some gravy in our face,And Father mutters Hindoo graceWhene'er he carves a duck.We then have learned to walk aroundThe dining room and pluckFrom off the window-sills and wallsOur share of Father's duck.While Father growls and blows and jaws,And swears the knife was full of flaws,And Mother laughs at him becauseHe couldn't carve a duck.E.V. Wright.
I was sitting in my study,Writing letters when I heard,"Please, dear mamma, Mary told meMamma mustn't be 'isturbed."But I'se tired of the kitty,Want some ozzer fing to do.Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma?Tan't I wite a letter too?""Not now, darling, mamma's busy;Run and play with kitty, now.""No, no, mamma, me wite letter;Tan if 'ou will show me how."I would paint my darling's portraitAs his sweet eyes searched my face—Hair of gold and eyes of azure,Form of childish, witching grace.But the eager face was clouded,As I slowly shook my head,Till I said, "I'll make a letterOf you, darling boy, instead."So I parted back the tressesFrom his forehead high and white,And a stamp in sport I pasted'Mid its waves of golden light.Then I said, "Now, little letter,Go away and bear good news."And I smiled as down the staircaseClattered loud the little shoes.Leaving me, the darling hurriedDown to Mary in his glee,"Mamma's witing lots of letters;I'se a letter, Mary—see!"No one heard the little prattler,As once more he climbed the stair,Reached his little cap and tippet,Standing on the entry stair.No one heard the front door open,No one saw the golden hair,As it floated o'er his shouldersIn the crisp October air.Down the street the baby hastenedTill he reached the office door."I'se a letter, Mr. Postman;Is there room for any more?"'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa,Papa lives with God, 'ou know,Mamma sent me for a letter,Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go?"But the clerk in wonder answered,"Not to-day, my little man.""Den I'll find anozzer office,'Cause I must go if I tan."Fain the clerk would have detained him,But the pleading face was gone,And the little feet were hastening—By the busy crowd swept on.Suddenly the crowd was parted,People fled to left and right,As a pair of maddened horsesAt the moment dashed in sight.No one saw the baby figure—No one saw the golden hair,Till a voice of frightened sweetnessRang out on the autumn air.'Twas too late—a moment onlyStood the beauteous vision there,Then the little face lay lifeless,Covered o'er with golden hair.Reverently they raised my darling,Brushed away the curls of gold,Saw the stamp upon the forehead,Growing now so icy cold.Not a mark the face disfigured,Showing where a hoof had trod;But the little life was ended—"Papa's letter" was with God.
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!Will you listen to me?Who stole four eggs I laid,And the nice nest I made?""Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!Such a thing I'd never do;I gave you a wisp of hay,But didn't take your nest away.Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!Such a thing I'd never do.""To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!Will you listen to me?Who stole four eggs I laid,And the nice nest I made?""Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow!I gave the hairs the nest to make,But the nest I did not take.Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!I'm not so mean, anyhow.""To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!Will you listen to me?Who stole four eggs I laid,And the nice nest I made?""Not I," said the sheep, "oh, no!I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.I gave the wool the nest to line,But the nest was none of mine.Baa! Baa!" said the sheep; "oh, no!I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.""Caw! Caw!" cried the crow;"I should like to knowWhat thief took awayA bird's nest to-day?""I would not rob a bird,"Said little Mary Green;"I think I never heardOf anything so mean.""It is very cruel, too,"Said little Alice Neal;"I wonder if he knewHow sad the bird would feel?"A little boy hung down his head,And went and hid behind the bed,For he stole that pretty nestFrom poor little yellow-breast;And he felt so full of shame,He didn't like to tell his name.Lydia Maria Child.
I, who was always counted, they say,Rather a bad stick anyway,Splintered all over with dodges and tricks,Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six";I, the truant, saucy and bold,The one black sheep in my father's fold,"Once on a time," as the stories say,Went over the hill on a winter's day—Over the hill to the poor-house.Tom could save what twenty could earn;Butgivin'was somethin' he ne'er would learn;Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak—Committed a hundred verses a week;Never forgot, an' never slipped;But "Honor thy father and mother," he skipped;So over the hill to the poor-house!As for Susan, her heart was kindAn' good—what there was of it, mind;Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice,Nothin' she wouldn't sacrificeFor one she loved; an' that 'ere oneWas herself, when all was said an' done;An' Charley an' 'Becca meant well, no doubt,But anyone could pull 'em about;An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see,Save one poor fellow, an' that was me;An' when, one dark an' rainy night,A neighbor's horse went out o' sight,They hitched on me, as the guilty chapThat carried one end o' the halter-strap.An' I think, myself, that view of the caseWasn't altogether out o' place;My mother denied it, as mothers do,But I am inclined to believe 'twas true.Though for me one thing might be said—That I, as well as the horse, was led;And the worst of whisky spurred me on,Or else the deed would have never been done.But the keenest grief I ever feltWas when my mother beside me knelt,An' cried, an' prayed, till I melted down,As I wouldn't for half the horses in town.I kissed her fondly, then an' there,An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.I served my sentence—a bitter pillSome fellows should take who never will;And then I decided to go "out West,"Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best;Where, how I prospered, I never could tell,But Fortune seemed to like me well;An' somehow every vein I struckWas always bubbling over with luck.An', better than that, I was steady an' true,An' put my good resolutions through.But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said,"You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead,An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more,Than if I had lived the same as before."But when this neighbor he wrote to me,"Your mother's in the poor-house," says he,I had a resurrection straightway,An' started for her that very day.And when I arrived where I was grown,I took good care that I shouldn't be known;But I bought the old cottage, through and through,Of someone Charley had sold it to;And held back neither work nor goldTo fix it up as it was of old.The same big fire-place, wide and high,Flung up its cinders toward the sky;The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf—I wound it an' set it a-goin' myself;An' if everything wasn't just the same,Neither I nor money was to blame;Then—over the hill to the poor-house!One blowin', blusterin' winter's day,With a team an' cutter I started away;My fiery nags was as black as coal;(They some'at resembled the horse I stole;)I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door—A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor;She rose to her feet in great surprise,And looked, quite startled, into my eyes;I saw the whole of her trouble's traceIn the lines that marred her dear old face;"Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows is done!You're adopted along o' your horse thief son,Come over the hill from the poor-house!"She didn't faint; she knelt by my side,An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried.An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay,An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day;An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright,An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight,To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea,An' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me;An' maybe we didn't live happy for years,In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers,Who often said, as I have heard,That they wouldn't own a prison-bird;(Though they're gettin' over that, I guess,For all of 'em owe me more or less;)But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a manIn always a-doin' the best he can;That whether on the big book, a blotGets over a fellow's name or not,Whenever he does a deed that's white,It's credited to him fair and right.An' when you hear the great bugle's notes,An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats,However they may settle my case,Wherever they may fix my place,My good old Christian mother, you'll see,Will be sure to stand right up for me,Withover the hill from the poor-house!Will Carleton.