A fair little girl sat under a tree,Sewing as long as her eyes could see,Then smoothed her work, and folded it right,And said, "Dear work, good night, good night!"Such a number of rooks came over her head,Crying "Caw, caw," on their way to bed;She said, as she watched their curious flight,"Little black things, good night, good night!"The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed,The sheep's "bleat, bleat" came over the road,And all seemed to say, with a quiet delight,"Good little girl, good night, good night!"She did not say to the sun "Good night,"Tho' she saw him there like a ball of light;For she knew he had God's own time to keepAll over the world, and never could sleep.The tall pink foxglove bowed his head,The violets curtseyed and went to bed;And good little Lucy tied up her hair,And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.And, while on her pillow she softly lay,She knew nothing more till again it was day;And all things said to the beautiful sun,"Good morning, good morning, our work is begun!"Lord Houghton.
"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?""Over the sea.""Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?""All that love me.""Are you not tired with rolling and neverResting to sleep?Why look so pale and so sad, as for everWishing to weep?""Ask me not this, little child, if you love me;You are too boldI must obey my dear Father above me,And do as I'm told.""Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?""Over the sea.""Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?""All that love me."Lord Houghton.
Breathes there the man with soul so deadWho never to himself hath said,This is my own, my native land?Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,As home his footsteps he hath turnedFrom wandering on a foreign strand?If such there breathe, go, mark him well;For him no minstrel raptures swell;High though his titles, proud his name,Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,—Despite those titles, power, and pelf,The wretch, concentred all in self,Living, shall forfeit fair renown,And, doubly dying, shall go downTo the vile dust from whence he sprung,Unwept, unhonored and unsung.Sir Walter Scott.
The year's at the spring,And day's at the morn;Morning's at seven;The hillside's dew-pearled;The lark's on the wing;The snail's on the thorn;God's in His heaven—All's right with the world!Robert Browning.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star;How I wonder what you are!Up above the world so high,Like a diamond in the sky.When the glorious sun is set,When the grass with dew is wet,Then you show your little light,Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.In the dark blue sky you keep,And often through my curtains peep;For you never shut your eyeTill the sun is in the sky.As your bright and tiny sparkLights the traveler in the dark,Though I know not what you are,Twinkle, twinkle, little star.Jane Taylor.
Sunset and evening star,And one clear call for me!And may there be no moaning of the bar,When I put out to sea,But such a tide as moving seems asleep,Too full for sound and foam,When that which drew from out the boundless deepTurns again home.Twilight and evening bell,And after that the dark!And may there be no sadness of farewell,When I embark;For tho' from out our bourne of Time and PlaceThe flood may bear me far,I hope to see my Pilot face to faceWhen I have crost the bar.Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
The Tree's early leaf buds were bursting their brown;"Shall I take them away?" said the Frost, sweeping down."No, leave them aloneTill the blossoms have grown,"Prayed the Tree, while he trembled from rootlet to crown.The Tree bore his blossoms, and all the birds sung:"Shall I take them away?" said the Wind, as he swung,"No, leave them aloneTill the blossoms have grown,"Said the Tree, while his leaflets quivering hung.The Tree bore his fruit in the midsummer glow:Said the child, "May I gather thy berries now?""Yes, all thou canst see:Take them; all are for thee,"Said the Tree, while he bent down his laden boughs low.Bjorrstjerne Bjornson.
Into the sunshine,Full of the light,Leaping and flashingFrom morn till night;Into the moonlight,Whiter than snow,Waving so flower-likeWhen the winds blow;Into the starlightRushing in spray,Happy at midnight,Happy by day;Ever in motion,Blithesome and cheery,Still climbing heavenward,Never aweary;Glad of all weathers,Still seeming best,Upward or downward,Motion thy rest;Full of a natureNothing can tame,Changed every moment,Ever the same;Ceaseless aspiring,Ceaseless content,Darkness or sunshineThy element;Glorious fountain,Let my heart beFresh, changeful, constant,Upward, like thee!James Russell Lowell.
The good dame looked from her cottageAt the close of the pleasant day,And cheerily called to her little son,Outside the door at play:"Come, Peter, come! I want you to go,While there is light to see.To the hut of the blind old man who livesAcross the dike, for me;And take these cakes I made for him—They are hot and smoking yet;You have time enough to go and comeBefore the sun is set."Then the good-wife turned to her labor,Humming a simple song,And thought of her husband, working hardAt the sluices all day long;And set the turf a-blazing,And brought the coarse black bread,That he might find a fire at nightAnd find the table spread.And Peter left the brotherWith whom all day he had played,And the sister who had watched their sportsIn the willow's tender shade;And told them they'd see him back beforeThey saw a star in sight,Though he wouldn't be afraid to goIn the very darkest night!For he was a brave, bright fellow,With eye and conscience clear;He could do whatever a boy might do,And he had not learned to fear.Why, he wouldn't have robbed a bird's nest,Nor brought a stork to harm,Though never a law in HollandHad stood to stay his arm!And now with his face all glowing,And eyes as bright as the dayWith the thoughts of his pleasant errand,He trudged along the way;And soon his joyous prattleMade glad a lonesome place—Alas! if only the blind old man,Could have seen that happy face!Yet he somehow caught the brightnessWhich his voice and presence lent;And he felt the sunshine come and goAs Peter came and went.And now, as the day was sinking,And the winds began to rise,The mother looked from her door again,Shading her anxious eyes,And saw the shadows deepenAnd birds to their homes come back,But never a sign of PeterAlong the level track.But she said, "He will come at morning,So I need not fret nor grieve—Though it isn't like my boy at allTo stay without my leave."But where was the child delaying?On the homeward way was he,Across the dike while the sun was upAn hour above the sea.He was stopping now to gather flowers,Now listening to the sound,As the angry waters dashed themselvesAgainst their narrow bound."Ah! well for us," said Peter,"That the gates are good and strong,And my father tends them carefully,Or they would not hold you long!You're a wicked sea," said Peter,""I know why you fret and chafe;You would like to spoil our lands and homes,But our sluices keep you safe!But hark! Through the noise of watersComes a low, clear, trickling sound;And the child's face pales with terror,And his blossoms drop to the ground,He is up the bank in a moment,And, stealing through the sand,He sees a stream not yet so largeAs his slender, childish hand.'Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy,Unused to fearful scenes;But, young as he is, he has learned to knowThe dreadful thing that means.A leak in the dike! The stoutest heartGrows faint that cry to hear,And the bravest man in all the landTurns white with mortal fear;For he knows the smallest leak may growTo a flood in a single night;And he knows the strength of the cruel seaWhen loosed in its angry might.And the boy! He has seen the dangerAnd shouting a wild alarm,He forces back the weight of the seaWith the strength of his single arm!He listens for the joyful soundOf a footstep passing nigh;And lays his ear to the ground, to catchThe answer to his cry.And he hears the rough winds blowing,And the waters rise and fall,But never an answer comes to himSave the echo of his call.He sees no hope, no succor,His feeble voice is lost;Yet what shall he do but watch and wait,Though he perish at his post!So, faintly calling and cryingTill the sun is under the sea;Crying and moaning till the starsCome out for company;He thinks of his brother and sister,Asleep in their safe warm bed;He thinks of his father and mother,Of himself as dying—and dead;And of how, when the night is over,They must come and find him at last;But he never thinks he can leave the placeWhere duty holds him fast.The good dame in the cottageIs up and astir with the light,For the thought of her little PeterHas been with her all night.And now she watches the pathway,As yester eve she had done;But what does she see so strange and blackAgainst the rising sun?Her neighbors are bearing between themSomething straight to her door;Her child is coming home, but notAs he ever came before!"He is dead!" she cries, "my darling!"And the startled father hears.And comes and looks the way she looks,And fears the thing she fears;Till a glad shout from the bearersThrills the stricken man and wife—"Give thanks, for your son, has saved our land,And God has saved his life!"So, there in the morning sunshineThey knelt about the boy;And every head was bared and bentIn tearful, reverent joy.'Tis many a year since then, but still,When the sea roars like a flood,Their boys are taught what a boy can doWho is brave and true and good;For every man in that countryTakes his son by the hand,And tells him of little PeterWhose courage saved the land.They have many a valiant heroRemembered through the years;But never one whose name so oftIs named with loving tears;And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,And told to the child on the knee,So long as the dikes of HollandDivide the land from the sea!Phoebe Cary.
Merrily swinging on briar and weed,Near to the nest of his little dame,Over the mountain-side or mead,Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Snug and safe is that nest of ours,Hidden among the summer flowers.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln is gaily drest,Wearing a bright black wedding coat;White are his shoulders and white his crest,Hear him call in his merry note:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Look, what a nice new coat is mine,Sure there was never a bird so fine.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,Passing at home a patient life,Broods in the grass while her husband sings:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Brood, kind creature; you need not fearThieves and robbers while I am here.Chee, chee, chee.Modest and shy as a nun is she;One weak chirp is her only note.Braggart and prince of braggarts is he,Pouring boasts from his little throat:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Never was I afraid of man;Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can.Chee, chee, chee.Six white eggs on a bed of hay,Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!There as the mother sits all day,Robert is singing with all his might:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Nice, good wife, that never goes out,Keeping the house while I frolic about.Chee, chee, chee.Soon as the little ones chip the shellSix wide mouths are open for food;Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;This new life is likely to beHard for a gay young fellow like me.Chee, chee, chee.Robert of Lincoln at length is madeSober with work, and silent with care;Off is his holiday garment laid,Half forgotten that merry air,Bob-o'-link, Bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;Nobody knows but my mate and IWhere our nest and our nestlings lie.Chee, chee, chee.Summer wanes; the children are grown;Fun and frolic no more he knows;Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone;Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink;When you can pipe that merry old strain,Robert of Lincoln, come back again.Chee, chee, chee,William Cullen Bryant.
Ring-Ting! I wish I were a Primrose,A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the spring!The stooping boughs above me,The wandering bee to love me,The fern and moss to creep across,And the Elm tree for our king!Nay—stay! I wish I were an Elm tree,A great, lofty Elm tree, with green leaves gay!The winds would set them dancing,The sun and moonshine glance in,The birds would house among the boughs,And sweetly sing.Oh no! I wish I were a Robin,A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go;Through forest, field, or garden,And ask no leave or pardon,Till winter comes with icy thumbsTo ruffle up our wing!Well—tell! Where should I fly to,Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell?Before a day was over,Home comes the rover.For mother's kiss—sweeter thisThan any other thing.William Allingham.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO'er the grave where our hero we buried.We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning;By struggling moonbeam's misty light,And the lantern dimly burning.No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,With his martial cloak around him.Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,And smoothed down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head;And we far away on the billow!Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;But little he'll reck; if they let him sleep onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.But half of our heavy task was done,When the clock tolled the hour for retiring;And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.Slowly and sadly we laid him down.From the field of his fame fresh and gory;We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,But we left him alone with his glory!Charles Wolfe.
How many seconds in a minute?Sixty, and no more in it.How many minutes in an hour?Sixty for sun and shower.How many hours in a day?Twenty-four for work and play.How many days in a week?Seven both to hear and speak.How many weeks in a month?Four, as the swift moon runn'th.How many months in a year?Twelve, the almanack makes clear.How many years in an age?One hundred, says the sage.How many ages in time?No one knows the rhyme.Christina G. Rossetti.
Here hath been dawning another blue day:Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away?Out of Eternity this new day was born;Into Eternity, at night, will return.Behold it aforetime no eye ever did;So soon it forever from all eyes is hid.Here hath been dawning another blue day:Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away?Thomas Carlyle.
Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out.You stareIn the airLike a ghost in a chair,Always looking what I am about;I hate to be watched—I will blow you out."The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.So deep,On a heapOf clouds, to sleep,Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon—Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."He turned in his bed; she was there again!On highIn the skyWith her one clear eye,The Moon shone white and alive and plain.Said the Wind—"I will blow you out again."The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim."With my sledgeAnd my wedgeI have knocked off her edge!If only I blow right fierce and grim,The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."He blew and blew, and she thinned to a thread."One puffMore's enoughTo blow her to snuff!One good puff more where the last was bred,And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread!"He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone;In the airNowhereWas a moonbeam bare;Far off and harmless the shy stars shone;Sure and certain the Moon was gone.The Wind, he took to his revels once more;On downIn town,Like a merry-mad clown,He leaped and halloed with whistle and roar,"What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!He flew in a rage—he danced and blew;But in vainWas the painOf his bursting brain;For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew,The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.Slowly she grew—till she filled the night,And shoneOn her throneIn the sky alone,A matchless, wonderful, silvery light,Radiant and lovely, the Queen of the Night.Said the Wind—"What a marvel of power am I!With my breath,Good faith!I blew her to death—First blew her away right out of the sky—Then blew her in; what a strength have I!"But the Moon, she knew nothing about the affair,For, highIn the sky,With her one white eyeMotionless, miles above the air,She had never heard the great Wind blare.George Macdonald.
In the heart of a seed,Buried deep, so deep,A dear little plantLay fast asleep!"Wake!" said the sunshine,"And creep to the light!""Wake!" said the voiceOf the raindrop bright.The little plant heardAnd it rose to seeWhat the wonderfulOutside world might be.Kate L. Brown.