"Where is thy crown, O tree of Love?Flowers only bears thy root!Will never rain drop from aboveDivine enough for fruit?"
"I dwell in hope that gives good cheer,Twilight my darkest hour;For seest thou not that every yearI break in better flower?"
God gives his child upon his slate a sum—To find eternity in hours and years;With both sides covered, back the child doth come,His dim eyes swollen with shed and unshed tears;God smiles, wipes clean the upper side and nether,And says, "Now, dear, we'll do the sum together!"
O Father, I am in the dark,My soul is heavy-bowed:I send my prayer up like a lark,Up through my vapoury shroud,To find thee,And remind theeI am thy child, and thou my father,Though round me death itself should gather.
Lay thy loved hand upon my head,Let thy heart beat in mine;One thought from thee, when all seems dead,Will make the darkness shineAbout meAnd throughout me!And should again the dull night gather,I'll cry again,Thou art my father.
If in my arms I bore my child,Would he cry out for fearBecause the night was dark and wildAnd no one else was near?
Shall I then treat thee, Father, asMy fatherhood would grieve?I will be hopeful, though, alas,I cannot quite believe!
I had no power, no wish to be:Thou madest me half blind!The darkness comes! I cling to thee!Be thou my perfect mind.
There breathes not a breath of the summer airBut the spirit of love is moving there;Not a trembling leaf on the shadowy tree,Flutters with hundreds in harmony,But that spirit can part its tone from the rest,And read the life in its beetle's breast.When the sunshiny butterflies come and go,Like flowers paying visits to and fro,Not a single wave of their fanning wingsIs unfelt by the spirit that feeleth all things.The long-mantled moths that sleep at noonAnd rove in the light of the gentler moon;And the myriad gnats that dance like a wall,Or a moving column that will not fall;And the dragon-flies that go burning by,Shot like a glance from a seeking eye—There is one being that loves them all:Not a fly in a spider's web can fallBut he cares for the spider, and cares for the fly;He cares for you, whether you laugh or cry,Cares whether your mother smile or sigh.How he cares for so many, I do not know,But it would be too strange if he did not so—Dreadful and dreary for even a fly:So I cannot wait for thehowandwhy,But believe that all things are gathered and nursedIn the love of him whose love went firstAnd made this world—like a huge great nestFor a hen to sit on with feathery breast.
The bird on the leafy tree,The bird in the cloudy sky,The hart in the forest free,The stag on the mountain high,The fish inside the sea,The albatross asleepOn the outside of the deep,The bee through the summer sunnyHunting for wells of honey—What is the thought in the breastOf the little bird in its nest?What is the thought in the songsThe lark in the sky prolongs?What mean the dolphin's rays,Winding his watery ways?What is the thought of the stag,Stately on yonder crag?What does the albatross think,Dreaming upon the brinkOf the mountain billow, and thenDreaming down in its glen?What is the thought of the beeFleeting so silently,Or flitting—with busy hum,But a careless go-and-come—From flower-chalice to chalice,Like a prince from palace to palace?What makes them alive, so very—Some of them, surely, merry.And others so stately calmThey might be singing a psalm?
I cannot tell what they think—-Only know they eat and drink,And on all that lies aboutWith a quiet heart look out,Each after its kind, stately or coy,Solemn like man, gamesome like boy,Glad with its own mysterious joy.
And God, who knows their thoughts and waysThough his the creatures do not know,From his full heart fills each of theirs:Into them all his breath doth go;Good and better with them he shares;Content with their bliss while they have no prayers,He takes their joy for praise.
If thou wouldst be like him, little one, goAnd be kind with a kindness undefiled;Who gives for the pleasure of thanks, my child,God's gladness cannot know.
Root met root in the spongy ground,Searching each for food:Each turned aside, and away it wound.And each got something good.
Sound met sound in the wavy air—That made a little to-do!They jostled not long, but were quick and fair;Each found its path and flew.
Drop dashed on drop, as the rain-shower fell;They joined and sank below:In gathered thousands they rose a well,With a singing overflow.
Wind met wind in a garden green,They began to push and fret:A tearing whirlwind arose between:There love lies bleeding yet.
Winter froze both brook and well;Fast and fast the snowflakes fell;Children gathered round the hearthMade a summer of their mirth;When a boy, so lately comeThat his life was yet one sumOf delights—of aimless rambles.Romps and dreams and games and gambols,Thought aloud: "I wish I knewWhat makes summer—that I do!"Father heard, and it did show himHow to write a little poem.
What makes summer, little one,Do you ask? It is the sun.Want of heat is all the harm,Summer is but winter warm.'Tis the sun—yes, that one there,Dim and gray, low in the air!Now he looks at us askance,But will lift his countenanceHigher up, and look down straighter.Rise much earlier, set much later,Till we sing out, "Hail, Well-comer,Thou hast brought our own old Summer!"
When the sun thus rises earlyAnd keeps shining all day rarely,Up he draws the larks to meet him,Earth's bird-angels, wild to greet him;Up he draws the clouds, and poursDown again their shining showers;Out he draws the grass and clover,Daisies, buttercups all over;Out he wiles all flowers to stareAt their father in the air—He all light, they how much duller,Yet son-suns of every colour!Then he draws their odours out,Sends them on the winds about.Next he draws out flying things—Out of eggs, fast-flapping wings;Out of lumps like frozen snails,Butterflies with splendid sails;Draws the blossoms from the trees,From their hives the buzzy bees,Golden things from muddy cracks—Beetles with their burnished backs;Laughter draws he from the riverGleaming back to the gleam-giver;Light he sends to every nookThat no creature be forsook;Draws from gloom and pain and sadness,Hope and blessing, peace and gladness,Making man's heart sing and shineWith his brilliancy divine:Summer, thus it is he makes it,And the little child he takes it.
Day's work done, adown the westLingering he goes to rest;Like a child, who, blissful yet,Is unwilling to forget,And, though sleepy, heels and head,Thinks he cannot go to bed.Even when down behind the hillBack his bright look shineth still,Whose keen glory with the nightMakes the lovely gray twilight—Drawing out the downy owl,With his musical bird-howl;Drawing out the leathery bats—Mice they are, turned airy cats—Noiseless, sly, and slippery thingsSwimming through the air on wings;Drawing out the feathery moth,Lazy, drowsy, very loath;Drawing children to the doorFor one goodnight-frolic more;Drawing from the glow-worms' tailsGlimmers green in grassy dales;Making ocean's phosphor-flashesGlow as if they were sun-ashes.
Then the moon comes up the hill,Wide awake, but dreaming still,Soft and slow, as if in fearLest her path should not be clear.Like a timid lady sheLooks around her daintily,Begs the clouds to come about her,Tells the stars to shine without her,Then unveils, and, bolder grown,Climbs the steps of her blue throne:Stately in a calm delight,Mistress of a whole fair night,Lonely but for stars a few,There she sits in silence blue,And the world before her liesFaint, a round shade in the skies!
But what fun is all aboutWhen the humans are shut out!Shadowy to the moon, the earthIs a very world of mirth!Night is then a dream opaqueFull of creatures wide awake!Noiseless then, on feet or wings,Out they come, all moon-eyed things!In and out they pop and play,Have it all their own wild way,Fly and frolic, scamper, glow;Treat the moon, for all her show,State, and opal diadem,Like a nursemaid watching them.And the nightingale doth snareAll the merry tumult rare,All the music and the magic,All the comic and the tragic,All the wisdom and the riotOf the midnight moonlight diet,In a diamond hoop of song,Which he trundles all night long.
What doth make the sun, you ask,Able for such mighty task?He is not a lamp hung highSliding up and down the sky,He is carried in a hand:That's what makes him strong and grand!From that hand comes all his power;If it set him down one hour,Yea, one moment set him by,In that moment he would die,And the winter, ice, and snowCome on us, and never go.
Need I tell you whose the handBears him high o'er sea and land?
Beautiful mother is busy all day,So busy she neither can sing nor say;But lovely thoughts, in a ceaseless flow,Through her eyes, and her ears, and her bosom go—Motion, sight, and sound, and scent,Weaving a royal, rich content.
When night is come, and her children sleep,Beautiful mother her watch doth keep;With glowing stars in her dusky hairDown she sits to her music rare;And her instrument that never fails,Is the hearts and the throats of her nightingales.
Kiss me: there now, little Neddy,Do you see her staring steady?There again you had a chance of her!Didn't you catch the pretty glance of her?See her nest! On any planetNever was a sweeter than it!Never nest was such as this is:Tis the nest of all the kisses,With the mother kiss-bird sittingAll through Christmas, never flitting,Kisses, kisses, kisses hatching,Sweetest birdies, for the catching!Oh, the precious little broodAlways in a loving mood!—There's one under Mamy's hood!
There, that's one I caught this minute,Musical as any linnet!Where it is, your big eyes question,With of doubt a wee suggestion?There it is—upon mouth merry!There it is—upon cheek cherry!There's another on chin-chinnie!Now it's off, and lights on Minnie!There's another on nose-nosey!There's another on lip-rosy!And the kissy-bird is hatchingHundreds more for only catching.
Why the mistletoe she chooses,And the Christmas-tree refuses?There's a puzzle for your mother?I'll present you with another!Tell me why, you question-asker,Cruel, heartless mother-tasker—Why, of all the trees before her,Gathered round, or spreading o'er her,Jenny Wren should choose the appleFor her nursery and chapel!Or Jack Daw build in the steepleHigh above the praying people!Tell me why the limping ploverO'er moist meadow likes to hover;Why the partridge with such troubleBuilds her nest where soon the stubbleWill betray her hop-thumb-cheepersTo the eyes of all the reapers!—Tell me, Charley; tell me, Janey;Answer all, or answer any,And I'll tell you, with much pleasure,Why this little bird of treasureNestles only in the mistletoe,Never, never goes the thistle to.
Not an answer? Tell without it?Yes—all that I know about it:—Mistletoe, then, cannot flourish,Cannot find the food to nourishBut on other plant when planted—And for kissing two are wanted.That is why the kissy-birdieLooks about for oak-tree sturdyAnd the plant that grows upon itLike a wax-flower on a bonnet.
But, my blessed little mannie,All the birdies are not cannieThat the kissy-birdie hatches!Some are worthless little patches,Which indeed if they don't smutch you,'Tis they're dead before they touch you!While for kisses vain and greedy,Kisses flattering, kisses needy,They are birds that never waddledOut of eggs that only addled!Some there are leave spots behind them,On your cheek for years you'd find them:Little ones, I do beseech you,Never let such birdies reach you.
It depends what net you ventureWhat the sort of bird will enter!I will tell you in a minuteWhat net takes kiss—lark or linnet—Any bird indeed worth hatchingAnd just therefore worth the catching:The one net that never missesCatching at least some true kisses,Is the heart that, loving truly,Always loves the old love newly;But to spread out would undo it—Let the birdies fly into it.
Nobody knows the world but me.The rest go to bed; I sit up and see.I'm a better observer than any of you all,For I never look out till the twilight fall,And never then without green glasses,And that is how my wisdom passes.
I never think, for that is not fit:I observe.I have seen the white moon sitOn her nest, the sea, like a fluffy owl,Hatching the boats and the long-legged fowl!When the oysters gape—you may make a note—She drops a pearl into every throat.
I can see the wind: can you do that?I see the dreams he has in his hat,I see him shaking them out as he goes,I see them rush in at man's snoring nose.Ten thousand things you could not think,I can write down plain with pen and ink!
You know that I know; therefore pull off your hat,Whether round and tall, or square and flat:You cannot do better than trust in me;You may shut your eyes in fact—Isee!Lifelong I will lead you, and then, like the owl,I will bury you nicely with my spade and showl.
I will sing a song,Said the owl.You sing a song, sing-songUgly fowl!What will you sing about,Night in and day out?
All about the night,When the grayWith her cloak smothers bright,Hard, sharp day.Oh, the moon! the cool dew!And the shadows!—tu-whoo!
I will sing a song,Said the nightingale.Sing a song, long, long,Little Neverfail!What will you sing about,Day in or day out?
All about the lightGone away,Down, away, and out of sight:Wake up, day!For the master is not dead,Only gone to bed.
I will sing a song,Said the lark.Sing, sing, Throat-strong,Little Kill-the-dark!What will you sing about,Day in and night out?
I can only call!I can't think!Let me up, that's all!I see a chink!I've been thirsting all nightFor the glorious light!
I have only one foot, but thousands of toes;My one foot stands well, but never goes;I've a good many arms, if you count them all,But hundreds of fingers, large and small;From the ends of my fingers my beauty grows;I breathe with my hair, and I drink with my toes;I grow bigger and bigger about the waistAlthough I am always very tight laced;None e'er saw me eat—I've no mouth to bite!Yet I eat all day, and digest all night.In the summer, with song I shake and quiver,But in winter I fast and groan and shiver.
There is a plough that hath no share,Only a coulter that parteth fair;But the ridges they riseTo a terrible sizeOr ever the coulter comes near to tear:The horses and ridges fierce battle make;The horses are safe, but the plough may break.
Seed cast in its furrows, or green or sear,Will lift to the sun neither blade nor ear:Down it drops plumbWhere no spring-times come,Nor needeth it any harrowing gear;Wheat nor poppy nor blade has been foundAble to grow on the naked ground.
Who is it that sleeps like a top all night,And wakes in the morning so fresh and brightThat he breaks his bed as he gets up,And leaves it smashed like a china cup?
I've a very long nose, but what of that?It is not too long to lie on a mat!
I have very big jaws, but never get fat:I don't go to church, and I'm not a church rat!
I've a mouth in my middle my food goes in at,Just like a skate's—that's a fish that's a flat.
In summer I'm seldom able to breathe,But when winter his blades in ice doth sheathe
I swell my one lung, I look big and I puff,And I sometimes hiss.—There, that's enough!
Where did you come from, baby dear?Out of the everywhere into here.
Where did you get those eyes so blue?Out of the sky as I came through.
What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?Some of the starry twinkles left in.
Where did you get that little tear?I found it waiting when I got here.
What makes your forehead so smooth and high?A soft hand stroked it as I went by.
What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?I saw something better than any one knows.
Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?Three angels gave me at once a kiss.
Where did you get this pearly ear?God spoke, and it came out to hear.
Where did you get those arms and hands?Love made itself into bonds and bands.
Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?From the same box as the cherubs' wings.
How did they all just come to be you?God thought about me, and so I grew.
But how did you come to us, you dear?God thought about you, and so I am here.
The sun is gone downAnd the moon's in the skyBut the sun will come upAnd the moon be laid by.
The flower is asleep.But it is not dead,When the morning shinesIt will lift its head.
When winter comesIt will die! No, no,It will only hideFrom the frost and snow.
Sure is the summer,Sure is the sun;The night and the winterAway they run.
What would you see, if I took you upMy little aerie-stair?You would see the sky like a clear blue cupTurned upside down in the air.
What would you do, up my aerie-stairIn my little nest on the tree?With cry upon cry you would ripple the airTo get at what you would see.
And what would you reach in the top of the treeTo still your grasping grief?Not a star would you clutch of all you would see,You would gather just one green leaf.
But when you had lost your greedy grief,Content to see from afar,Your hand it would hold a withering leaf,But your heart a shining star.
The lightning and thunderThey go and they come:But the stars and the stillnessAre always at home.
Little Bo-Peep, she has lost her sheep,And will not know where to find them;They are over the height and out of sight,Trailing their tails behind them!
Little Bo-Peep woke out of her sleep,Jump'd up and set out to find them:"The silly things! they've got no wings,And they've left their trails behind them!
"They've taken their tails, but they've left their trails,And so I shall follow and find them!"For wherever a tail had dragged a trailThe grass lay bent behind them.
She washed in the brook, and caught up her crook.And after her sheep did runAlong the trail that went up the daleAcross the grass in the sun.
She ran with a will, and she came to a hillThat went up steep like a spire;On its very top the sun seemed to stop,And burned like a flame of fire.
But now she went slow, for the hill did goUp steeper as she went higher;When she reached its crown, the sun was down,Leaving a trail of fire.
And her sheep were gone, and hope she had none.For now was no trail behind them.Yes, there they were! long-tailed and fair!But to see was not to find them!
Golden in hue, and rosy and blue,And white as blossom of pears,Her sheep they did run in the trail of the sun,As she had been running in theirs!
After the sun like clouds they did run,But she knew they were her sheep:She sat down to cry and look up at the sky,But she cried herself to sleep.
And as she slept the dew down wept,And the wind did blow from the sky;And doings strange brought a lovely change:She woke with a different cry!
Nibble, nibble, crop, without a stop!A hundred little lambsDid pluck and eat the grass so sweetThat grew in the trail of their dams!
She gave one look, she caught up her crook,Wiped away the sleep that did blind her;And nibble-nibble-crop, without a stopThe lambs came nibbling behind her.
Home, home she came, both tired and lame,With three times as large a stock;In a month or more, they'll be sheep as before,A lovely, long-wooled flock!
But what will she say, if, one fine day,When they've got their bushiest tails,Their grown-up game should be just the same,And again she must follow mere trails?
Never weep, Bo-Peep, though you lose your sheep,Tears will turn rainbow-laughter!In the trail of the sun if the mothers did run,The lambs are sure to run after;
But a day is coming when little feet drummingWill wake you up to find them—All the old sheep—how your heart will leap!—With their big little lambs behind them!
Little Boy Blue lost his way in a wood—Sing apples and cherries, roses and honey:He said, "I would not go back if I could,It's all so jolly and funny!"
He sang, "This wood is all my own—Apples and cherries, roses and honey!Here I will sit, a king on my throne,All so jolly and funny!"
A little snake crept out of a tree—Apples and cherries, roses and honey:"Lie down at my feet, little snake," said he—All so jolly and funny!
A little bird sang in the tree overhead—"Apples and cherries, roses and honey:""Come and sing your song on my finger," he said,All so jolly and funny.
Up coiled the snake; the bird came down,And sang him the song of Birdie Brown.
But little Boy Blue found it tiresome to sitThough it was on a throne: he would walk a bit!
He took up his horn, and he blew a blast:"Snake, you go first, and, birdie, come last."
Waves of green snake o'er the yellow leaves went;The snake led the way, and he knew what he meant:
But by Boy Blue's head, with flutter and dart,Flew Birdie Brown, her song in her heart.
Boy Blue came where apples grew fair and sweet:"Tree, drop me an apple down at my feet."
He came where cherries hung plump and red:"Come to my mouth, sweet kisses," he said.
And the boughs bow down, and the apples they dappleThe grass, too many for him to grapple;
And the cheeriest cherries, with never a miss,Fall to his mouth, each a full-grown kiss.
He met a little brook singing a song:"Little brook," he said, "you are going wrong,
"You must follow me, follow me, follow, I say,Do as I tell you, and come this way."
And the song-singing, sing-songing forest brookLeapt from its bed and after him took;
And the dead leaves rustled, yellow and wan,As over their beds the water ran.
He called every bird that sat on a bough;He called every creature with poop and prow—
I mean, with two ends, that is, nose and tail:With legs or without, they followed full sail;
Squirrels that carried their tails like a sack,Each his own on his little brown humpy back;
Snails that drew their own caravans,Poking out their own eyes on the point of a lance,
And houseless slugs, white, black, and red—Snails too lazy to build a shed;
And butterflies, flutterbys, weasels, and larks,And owls, and shrew-mice, and harkydarks,
Cockchafers, henchafers, cockioli-birds,Cockroaches, henroaches, cuckoos in herds;
The dappled fawns fawning, the fallow-deer following;The swallows and flies, flying and swallowing—
All went flitting, and sailing, and flowingAfter the merry boy running and blowing.
The spider forgot, and followed him spinning,And lost all his thread from end to beginning;
The gay wasp forgot his rings and his waist—He never had made such undignified haste!
The dragon-flies melted to mist with their hurrying;The mole forsook his harrowing and burrowing;
The bees went buzzing, not busy but beesy,And the midges in columns, upright and easy.
But Little Boy Blue was not content,Calling for followers still as he went,
Blowing his horn, and beating his drum,And crying aloud, "Come all of you, come!"
He said to the shadows, "Come after me;"And the shadows began to flicker and flee,
And away through the wood went flattering and fluttering,Shaking and quivering, quavering and muttering.
He said to the wind, "Come, follow; come, followWith whistle and pipe, with rustle and hollo;"
And the wind wound round at his desire,As if Boy had been the gold cock on the spire;
And the cock itself flew down from the churchAnd left the farmers all in the lurch.
Everything, everything, all and sum,They run and they fly, they creep and they come;
The very trees they tugged at their roots,Only their feet were too fast in their boots—
After him leaning and straining and bending,As on through their boles the army kept wending,
Till out of the wood Boy burst on a lea,Shouting and calling, "Come after me,"
And then they rose with a leafy hissAnd stood as if nothing had been amiss.
Little Boy Blue sat down on a stone,And the creatures came round him every one.
He said to the clouds, "I want you there!"And down they sank through the thin blue air.
He said to the sunset far in the west,"Come here; I want you; 'tis my behest!"
And the sunset came and stood up on the wold,And burned and glowed in purple and gold.
Then Little Boy Blue began to ponder:"What's to be done with them all, I wonder!"
He thought a while, then he said, quite low,"What to do with you all, I am sure I don't know!"
The clouds clodded down till dismal it grew;The snake sneaked close; round Birdie Brown flew;
The brook, like a cobra, rose on its tail,And the wind sank down with awhat-will-youwail,
And all the creatures sat and stared;The mole opened the eyes that he hadn't, and glared;
And for rats and bats, and the world and his wifeLittle Boy Blue was afraid of his life.
Then Birdie Brown began to sing,And what he sang was the very thing:
"Little Boy Blue, you have brought us all hither:Pray, are we to sit and grow old together?"
"Go away; go away," said Little Boy Blue;"I'm sure I don't want you! get away—do."
"No, no; no, no; no, yes, and no, no,"Sang Birdie Brown, "it mustn't be so!
"If we've come for no good, we can't go away.Give us reason for going, or here we stay!"
They covered the earth, they darkened the air,They hovered, they sat, with a countless stare.
"If I do not give them something to do,They will stare me up!" said Little Boy Blue.
"Oh dear! oh dear!" he began to cry,"They're an awful crew, and I feel so shy!"
All of a sudden he thought of a thing,And up he stood, and spoke like a king:
"You're the plague of my life! have done with your bother!Off with you all: take me back to my mother!"
The sunset went back to the gates of the west."Followme" sang Birdie, "I know the way best!"
"I am going the same way as fast as I can!"Said the brook, as it sank and turned and ran.
To the wood fled the shadows, like scared black ghosts:"If we stay, we shall all be missed from our posts!"
Said the wind, with a voice that had changed its cheer,"I was just going there when you brought me here!"
"That's where I live," said the sack-backed squirrel,And he turned his sack with a swing and a swirl.
Said the gold weather-cock, "I'm the churchwarden!"Said the mole, "I live in the parson's garden!"
Said they all, "If that's where you want us to steer for,What on earth or in air did you bring us here for?"
"You are none the worse!" said Boy. "If you won'tDo as I tell you, why, then, don't;
"I'll leave you behind, and go home without you;And it's time I did: I begin to doubt you!"
He jumped to his feet. The snake rose on his tail,And hissed three times, a hiss full of bale,
And shot out his tongue at Boy Blue to scare him,And stared at him, out of his courage to stare him.
"You ugly snake," Little Boy Blue said,"Get out of my way, or I'll break your head!"
The snake would not move, but glared at him glum;Boy Blue hit him hard with the stick of his drum.
The snake fell down as if he was dead.Little Boy Blue set his foot on his head.
"Hurrah!" cried the creatures, "hurray! hurrah!Little Boy Blue, your will is a law!"
And away they went, marching before him,And marshalled him home with a high cockolorum.
And Birdie Brown sang,"Twirrr twitter, twirrr twee!In the rosiest rose-bush a rare nest!Twirrr twitter, twirrr twitter, twirrr twitter, twirrrrr tweeeee!In the fun he has found the earnest!"
Willie speaks.
Is it wrong, the wish to be great,For I do wish it so?I have asked already my sister Kate;She says she does not know.
Yestereve at the gate I stoodWatching the sun in the west;When I saw him look so grand and goodIt swelled up in my breast.
Next from the rising moonIt stole like a silver dart;In the night when the wind began his tuneIt woke with a sudden start.
This morning a trumpet blastMade all the cottage quake;It came so sudden and shook so fastIt blew me wide awake.
It told me I must make haste,And some great glory win,For every day was running to waste,And at once I must begin.
I want to be great and strong,I want to begin to-day;But if you think it very wrongI will send the wish away.
The Father answers.
Wrong to wish to be great?No, Willie; it is not wrong:The child who stands at the high closed gateMust wish to be tall and strong!
If you did not wish to growI should be a sorry man;I should think my boy was dull and slow,Nor worthy of his clan.
You are bound to be great, my boy:Wish, and get up, and do.Were you content to be little, my joyWould be little enough in you.
Willie speaks.
Papa, papa! I'm so gladThat what I wish is right!I will not lose a chance to be had;I'll begin this very night.
I will work so hard at school!I will waste no time in play;At my fingers' ends I'll have every rule,For knowledge is power, they say.
Iwouldbe a king and reign,But I can't be that, and soField-marshal I'll be, I think, and gainSharp battles and sieges slow.
I shall gallop and shout and call,Waving my shining sword:Artillery, cavalry, infantry, allHear and obey my word.
Or admiral I will be,Wherever the salt wave runs,Sailing, fighting over the sea,With flashing and roaring guns.
I will make myself hardy and strong;I will never, never give in.Iamso glad it is not wrong!At once I will begin.
The Father speaks.
Fighting and shining along,All for the show of the thing!Any puppet will mimic the grand and strongIf you pull the proper string!
Willie speaks.
But indeed I want tobegreat,I should despise mere show;The thing I want is the glory-state—Above the rest, you know!
The Father answers.
The harder you run that race,The farther you tread that track,The greatness you fancy before your faceIs the farther behind your back.
To be up in the heavens afar,Miles above all the rest,Would make a star not the greatest star,Only the dreariest.
That book on the highest shelfIs not the greatest book;If you would be great, it must be in yourself,Neither by place nor look.
The Highest is not highBy being higher than others;To greatness you come not a step more nighBy getting above your brothers.
Willie speaks.
I meant the boys at school,I did not mean my brother.Somebody first, is there the rule—It must be me or another.
The Father answers.
Oh, Willie, it's all the same!They are your brothers all;For when you say, "Hallowed be thy name!"Whose Father is it you call?
Could you pray for such rule tohim?Do you think that he would hear?Must he favour one in a greedy whimWhere all are his children dear?
It is right to get up and do,But why outstrip the rest?Why should one of the many be one of the few?Why shouldyouthink to be best?
Willie speaks.
Then how am I to be great?I know no other way;It would be folly to sit and wait,I must up and do, you say!
The Father answers.
I do not want you to wait,For few before they dieHave got so far as begin to be great,The lesson is so high.
I will tell you the only planTo climb and not to fall:He who would rise and be greater thanHe is, must be servant of all.
Turn it each way in your mind,Try every other plan,You may think yourself great, but at length you'll findYou are not even a man.
Climb to the top of the trees,Climb to the top of the hill,Get up on the crown of the sky if you please,You'll be a small creature still.
Be admiral, poet, or king,Let praises fill both your ears,Your soul will be but a windmill thingBlown round by its hopes and fears.
Willie speaks.
Then put me in the way,For you, papa, are a man:What thing shall I do this very day?—Only be sure Ican.
I want to know—I am willing,Let me at least have a chance!Shall I give the monkey-boy my shilling?—I want to serve at once.
The Father answers.
Give all your shillings you mightAnd hurt your brothers the more;He only can serve his fellows arightWho goes in at the little door.
We must do the thing wemustBefore the thing wemay;We are unfit for any trustTill we can and do obey.
Willie speaks.
I will try more and more;I have nothing now to ask;ObedienceI know is the little door:Now set me some hard task.
The Father answers.
No, Willie; the father of all,Teacher and master high,Has set your task beyond recall,Nothing can set it by.
Willie speaks.
What is it, father dear,That he would have me do?I'd ask himself, but he's not near,And so I must ask you!
The Father answers.
Me 'tis no use to ask,I too am one of his boys!But he tells each boy his own plain task;Listen, and hear his voice.
Willie speaks.
Father, I'm listeningsoTo hear him if I may!His voice must either be very low,Or very far away!
The Father answers.
It is neither hard to hear,Nor hard to understand;It is very low, but very near,A still, small, strong command.
Willie answers.
I do not hear it at all;I am only hearing you!
The Father speaks.
Think: is there nothing, great or small,You ought to go and do?
Willie answers.
Let me think:—I ought to feedMy rabbits. I went awayIn such a hurry this morning! IndeedThey've not had enough to-day!
The Father speaks.
That is his whisper low!That is his very word!You had only to stop and listen, and soVery plainly you heard!
That duty's the little door:You must open it and go in;There is nothing else to do before,There is nowhere else to begin.
Willie speaks.
But that's so easily done!It's such a trifling affair!So nearly over as soon as begun.For that he can hardly care!
The Father answers.
You are turning from his callIf you let that duty wait;You would not think any duty smallIf you yourself were great.
The nearest is at life's core;With the first, you all begin:What matter how little the little doorIf it only let you in?
Willie speaks.
Papa, I am come again:It is now three months and moreThat I've tried to do the thing that was plain,And I feel as small as before.
The Father answers.
Your honour comes too slow?How much then have you done?One foot on a mole-heap, would you crowAs if you had reached the sun?
Willie speaks.
But I cannot help a doubtWhether this way be the true:The more I do to work it outThe more there comes to do;
And yet, were all done and past,I should feel just as small,For when I had tried to the very last—'Twas my duty, after all!
It is only much the sameAs not being liar or thief!
The Father answers.
One who tried it found even, with shame,That of sinners he was the chief!
My boy, I am glad indeedYou have been finding the truth!
Willie speaks.
But where's the good? I shall never speed—Be one whit greater, in sooth!
If duty itself must fail,And that be the only plan,How shall my scarce begun duty prevailTo make me a mighty man?
The Father answers.
Ah, Willie! what if it wereQuite another way to fall?What if the greatness itself lie there—In knowing that you are small?
In seeing the good so goodThat you feel poor, weak, and low;And hungrily long for it as for food,With an endless need to grow?
The man who was lord of fate,Born in an ox's stall,Was great because he was much too greatTo care about greatness at all.
Ever and only he soughtThe will of his Father good;Never of what was high he thought,But of what his Father would.
You long to be great; you try;You feel yourself smaller still:In the name of God let ambition die;Let him make you what he will.
Who does the truth, is oneWith the living Truth above:Be God's obedient little son,Let ambition die in love.
King Cole he reigned in Aureoland,But the sceptre was seldom in his hand
Far oftener was there his golden cup—He ate too much, but he drank all up!
To be called a king and to be a king,That is one thing and another thing!
So his majesty's head began to shake,And his hands and his feet to swell and ache,
The doctors were called, but they dared not sayYour majesty drinks too much Tokay;
So out of the king's heart died all mirth,And he thought there was nothing good on earth.
Then up rose the fool, whose every wordWas three parts wise and one part absurd.
Nuncle, he said, never mind the gout;I will make you laugh till you laugh it out.
King Cole pushed away his full gold plate:The jester he opened the palace gate,
Brought in a cold man, with hunger grim,And on the dais-edge seated him;
Then caught up the king's own golden plate,And set it beside him: oh, how he ate!
And the king took note, with a pleased surprise,That he ate with his mouth and his cheeks and his eyes,
With his arms and his legs and his body whole,And laughed aloud from his heart and soul.
Then from his lordly chair got up,And carried the man his own gold cup;
The goblet was deep and wide and full,The poor man drank like a cow at a pool.
Said the king to the jester—I call it well doneTo drink with two mouths instead of one!
Said the king to himself, as he took his seat,It is quite as good to feed as to eat!
It is better, I do begin to think,To give to the thirsty than to drink!
And now I have thought of it, said the king,There might be more of this kind of thing!
The fool heard. The king had not long to wait:The fool cried aloud at the palace-gate;
The ragged and wretched, the hungry and thin,Loose in their clothes and tight in their skin,
Gathered in shoals till they filled the hall,And the king and the fool they fed them all;
And as with good things their plates they piledThe king grew merry as a little child.
On the morrow, early, he went abroadAnd sought poor folk in their own abode—
Sought them till evening foggy and dim,Did not wait till they came to him;
And every day after did what he could,Gave them work and gave them food.
Thus he made war on the wintry weather,And his health and the spring came back together.
But, lo, a change had passed on the king,Like the change of the world in that same spring!
His face had grown noble and good to see,And the crown sat well on his majesty.
Now he ate enough, and ate no more,He drank about half what he drank before,
He reigned a real king in Aureoland,Reigned with his head and his heart and his hand.
All this through the fool did come to pass.And every Christmas-eve that was,
The palace-gates stood open wideAnd the poor came in from every side,
And the king rose up and served them duly,And his people loved him very truly.
Said the boy as he read, "I too will be bold,I will fight for the truth and its glory!"He went to the playground, and soon had toldA very cowardly story!
Said the girl as she read, "That was grand, I declare!What a true, what a lovely, sweet soul!"In half-an-hour she went up the stair,Looking as black as a coal!
"The mean little wretch, I wish I could flingThis book at his head!" said another;Then he went and did the same ugly thingTo his own little trusting brother!
Alas for him who sees a thing grandAnd does not fit himself to it!But the meanest act, on sea or on land,Is to find a fault, and then do it!
"What! you Dr. Doddridge's dog, and not know who made you?"
My little dog, who blessed youWith such white toothy-pegs?And who was it that dressed youIn such a lot of legs?
Perhaps he never told you!Perhaps you know quite well,And beg me not to scold youFor you can't speak to tell!
I'll tell you, little brother,In case you do not know:—One only, not another,Could make us two just so.
You love me?—Quiet!—I'm proving!—It must be God aboveThat filled those eyes with loving:He was the first to love!
One day he'll stop all sadness—Hark to the nightingale!Oh blessed God of gladness!—Come, doggie, wag your tail!
That's—Thank you, God!—He gave youOf life this little taste;And with more life he'll save you,Not let you go to waste!
He says now, Live together,And share your bite and sup;And then he'll say, Come hither—And lift us both high up.
There was a girl that lost things—Nor only from her hand;She lost, indeed—why, most things,As if they had been sand!
She said, "But I must use them,And can't look after all!Indeed I did not lose them,I only let them fall!"
That's how she lost her thimble,It fell upon the floor:Her eyes were very nimbleBut she never saw it more.
And then she lost her dolly,Her very doll of all!That loss was far from jolly,But worse things did befall.
She lost a ring of pearlsWith a ruby in them set;But the dearest girl of girlsCried only, did not fret.
And then she lost her robin;Ah, that was sorrow dire!He hopped along, and—bob in—Hopped bob into the fire!
And once she lost a kissAs she came down the stair;But that she did not miss,For sure it was somewhere!
Just then she lost her heart too,But did so well without itShe took that in good part too,And said—not much about it.
But when she lost her healthShe did feel rather poor,Till in came loads of wealthBy quite another door!
And soon she lost a dimpleThat was upon her cheek,But that was very simple—She was so thin and weak!
And then she lost her mother,And thought that she was dead;Sure there was not anotherOn whom to lay her head!
And then she lost her self—But that she threw away;And God upon his shelfIt carefully did lay.
And then she lost her sight,And lost all hope to find it;But a fountain-well of lightCame flashing up behind it.
At last she lost the world:In a black and stormy windAway from her it whirled—But the loss how could she mind?
For with it she lost her losses,Her aching and her weeping,Her pains and griefs and crosses,And all things not worth keeping;
It left her with the lost thingsHer heart had still been craving;'Mong them she found—why, most things,And all things worth the saving.
She found her precious mother,Who not the least had died;And then she found that otherWhose heart had hers inside.
And next she found the kissShe lost upon the stair;'Twas sweeter far, I guess,For ripening in that air.
She found her self, all mended,New-drest, and strong, and white;She found her health, new-blendedWith a radiant delight.
She found her little robin:He made his wings go flap,Came fluttering, and went bob in,Went bob into her lap.
So, girls that cannot keep things,Be patient till to-morrow;And mind you don't beweep thingsThat are not worth such sorrow;
For the Father great of fathers,Of mothers, girls, and boys,In his arms his children gathers,And sees to all their toys.
I will think as thinks the rabbit:—
Oh, delightIn the nightWhen the moonSets the tuneTo the woods!And the broodsAll run out,Frisk about,Go and come,Beat the drum—Here in groups,There in troops!Now there's one!Now it's gone!There are none!And now they are dancing like chaff!I look, and I laugh,But sit by my door, and keep to my habit—A wise, respectable, clean-furred old rabbit!
Now I'm going,Business calls me out—Going, going,Very knowing,Slow, long-heeled, and stout,Loping, lumbering,Nipping, numbering,Head on this side and on that,Along the pathway footed flat,Through the meadow, through the heather,Through the rich dusky weather—Big stars and little moon!
Dews are lighting down in crowds,Odours rising in thin clouds,Night has all her chords in tune—The very night for us, God's rabbits,Suiting all our little habits!Wind not loud, but playful with our fur,Just a cool, a sweet, a gentle stir!And all the way not one rough bur,But the dewiest, freshest grasses,That whisper thanks to every foot that passes!
I, the king the rest call Mappy,Canter on, composed and happy,Till I come where there is plentyFor a varied meal and dainty.Is it cabbage, I grab it;Is it parsley, I nab it;Is it carrot, I mar it;The turnip I turn upAnd hollow and swallow;A lettuce? Let us eat it!A beetroot? Let's beat it!If you are juicy,Sweet sir, I will use you!For all kinds of corn-cropI have a born crop!Are you a green top?You shall be gleaned up!Sucking and feazing,Crushing and squeezingAll that is feathery,Crisp, not leathery,Juicy and bruisy—All comes properTo my little hopperStill on the dance,Driven by hunger and drouth!
All is welcome to my crunching,Finding, grinding,Milling, munching,Gobbling, lunching,Fore-toothed, three-lipped mouth—Eating side way, round way, flat way,Eating this way, eating that way,Every way at once!
Hark to the rain!—Pattering, clattering,The cabbage leaves battering,Down it comes amain!—Home we hurryHop and scurry,And in with a flurry!Hustling, jostlingOut of the airy landInto the dry warm sand;Our family white tails,The last of our vitals,Following hard with a whisk to them,And with a great sense of risk to them!
Hear to it pouring!Hear the thunder roaringFar off and up high,While we all lieSo warm and so dryIn the mellow dark,Where never a spark,White or rosy or blue,Of the sheeting, fleeting,Forking, frightening,Lashing lightningEver can come through!
Let the wind chafeIn the trees overhead,We are quite safeIn our dark, yellow bed!Let the rain pour!It never can boreA hole in our roof—It is waterproof!So is the cloakWe always carry,We furry folk,In sandhole or quarry!It is perfect blissTo lie in a nestSo soft as this,All so warmly drest!No one to flurry you!No one to hurry you!No one to scurry you!Holes plenty to creep in!All day to sleep in!All night to roam in!Gray dawn to run home in!And all the days and nights to come after—All the to-morrows for hind-legs and laughter!
Now the rain is over,We are out again,Every merry, leaping rover,On his right leg and his wrong leg,On his doubled, shortened long leg,Floundering amain!Oh, it is merryAnd jolly—yes, very!
But what—what is that?What can he be at?Is it a cat?Ah, my poor little brother,He's caught in the trapThat goes-to with a snap!Ah me! there was never,Nor will be for ever—There was never such another,Such a funny, funny bunny,Such a frisking, such a whisking,Such a frolicking brother!He's screeching, beseeching!They're going to—
Ah, my poor foot,It is caught in a root!No, no! 'tis a trapThat goes-to with a snap!Ah me, I'm forsaken!Ah me, I am taken!I am screeching, beseeching!They are going to—
No more! no more! I must stop this play,Be a boy again, and kneel down and prayTo the God of sparrows and rabbits and men,Who never lets any one out of his ken—It must be so, though it be bewild'ring—To save his dear beasts from his cruel children!