Robert, the Bruce, in his dungeon stood,Waiting the hour of doom;Behind him the palace of Holyrood,Before him—a nameless tomb.And the foam on his lip was flecked with red,As away to the past his memory sped,Upcalling the day of his past renown,When he won and he wore the Scottish crown:Yet come there shadow or come there shine,The spider is spinning his thread so fine."Time and again I have fronted the tideOf the tyrant's vast array,But only to see on the crimson tideMy hopes swept far away;—Now a landless chief and a crownless king,On the broad, broad earth not a living thingTo keep me court, save this insect small,Striving to reach from wall to wall:"For come there shadow or come there shine,The spider is spinning his thread so fine."Work! work like a fool, to the certain loss,Like myself, of your time and pain;The space is too wide to be bridged across,You but waste your strength in vain!"And Bruce for the moment forgot his grief,His soul now filled with the sure beliefThat, howsoever the issue went,For evil or good was the omen sent:And come there shadow or come there shine,The spider is spinning his thread so fine.As a gambler watches the turning cardOn which his all is staked,—As a mother waits for the hopeful wordFor which her soul has ached,—It was thus Bruce watched, with every senseCentred alone in that look intense;All rigid he stood, with scattered breath—Now white, now red, but as still as death:Yet come there shadow or come there shine,The spider is spinning his thread so fine.Six several times the creature tried,When at the seventh, "See, see!He has spanned it over!" the captive cried;"Lo! a bridge of hope to me;Thee, God, I thank, for this lesson hereHas tutored my soul to PERSEVERE!"And it served him well, for erelong he woreIn freedom the Scottish crown once more:And come there shadow or come there shine,The spider is spinning his thread so fine.
Robert, the Bruce, in his dungeon stood,Waiting the hour of doom;Behind him the palace of Holyrood,Before him—a nameless tomb.And the foam on his lip was flecked with red,As away to the past his memory sped,Upcalling the day of his past renown,When he won and he wore the Scottish crown:Yet come there shadow or come there shine,The spider is spinning his thread so fine.
"Time and again I have fronted the tideOf the tyrant's vast array,But only to see on the crimson tideMy hopes swept far away;—Now a landless chief and a crownless king,On the broad, broad earth not a living thingTo keep me court, save this insect small,Striving to reach from wall to wall:"For come there shadow or come there shine,The spider is spinning his thread so fine.
"Work! work like a fool, to the certain loss,Like myself, of your time and pain;The space is too wide to be bridged across,You but waste your strength in vain!"And Bruce for the moment forgot his grief,His soul now filled with the sure beliefThat, howsoever the issue went,For evil or good was the omen sent:And come there shadow or come there shine,The spider is spinning his thread so fine.
As a gambler watches the turning cardOn which his all is staked,—As a mother waits for the hopeful wordFor which her soul has ached,—It was thus Bruce watched, with every senseCentred alone in that look intense;All rigid he stood, with scattered breath—Now white, now red, but as still as death:Yet come there shadow or come there shine,The spider is spinning his thread so fine.
Six several times the creature tried,When at the seventh, "See, see!He has spanned it over!" the captive cried;"Lo! a bridge of hope to me;Thee, God, I thank, for this lesson hereHas tutored my soul to PERSEVERE!"And it served him well, for erelong he woreIn freedom the Scottish crown once more:And come there shadow or come there shine,The spider is spinning his thread so fine.
John Brougham.
Who taught the natives of the field and floodTo shun their poison and to choose their food?Prescient, the tides or tempests to withstand,Build on the wave, or arch beneath the sand?Who made the spider parallels designSure as De Moivre, without rule or line?Who bid the stork Columbus-like exploreHeavens not his own, and worlds unknown before?Who calls the council, states the certain day,Who forms the phalanx, and who points the way?
Who taught the natives of the field and floodTo shun their poison and to choose their food?Prescient, the tides or tempests to withstand,Build on the wave, or arch beneath the sand?Who made the spider parallels designSure as De Moivre, without rule or line?Who bid the stork Columbus-like exploreHeavens not his own, and worlds unknown before?Who calls the council, states the certain day,Who forms the phalanx, and who points the way?
Pope.
Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descendingBrought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superblyWaving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled.Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor,Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their uddersUnto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadenceInto the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness;Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.
Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descendingBrought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superblyWaving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled.Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor,Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their uddersUnto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadenceInto the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness;Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.
H. W. Longfellow:Evangeline.
And now, beset with many ills,A toilsome life I follow;Compelled to carry from the hills,These logs to the impatient mills,Below there in the hollow.Yet something ever cheers and charmsThe rudeness of my labors;Daily I water with these armsThe cattle of a hundred farms,And have the birds for neighbors.
And now, beset with many ills,A toilsome life I follow;Compelled to carry from the hills,These logs to the impatient mills,Below there in the hollow.
Yet something ever cheers and charmsThe rudeness of my labors;Daily I water with these armsThe cattle of a hundred farms,And have the birds for neighbors.
H. W. Longfellow:Mad River.
Dozing, and dozing, and dozing!Pleasant enough,Dreaming of sweet cream and mouse-meat,—Delicate stuff!Waked by a somerset, whirlingFrom cushion to floor;Waked to a wild rush for safetyFrom window to door.Waking to hands that first smooth us,And then pull our tails;Punished with slaps when we show themThe length of our nails!These big mortal tyrants even grudge usA place on the mat.Do they think we enjoy for our musicStaccatoes of "scat"?To be treated, now, just as you treat us,—The question is pat,—To take just our chances in living,Wouldyoube a cat?
Dozing, and dozing, and dozing!Pleasant enough,Dreaming of sweet cream and mouse-meat,—Delicate stuff!
Waked by a somerset, whirlingFrom cushion to floor;Waked to a wild rush for safetyFrom window to door.
Waking to hands that first smooth us,And then pull our tails;Punished with slaps when we show themThe length of our nails!
These big mortal tyrants even grudge usA place on the mat.Do they think we enjoy for our musicStaccatoes of "scat"?
To be treated, now, just as you treat us,—The question is pat,—To take just our chances in living,Wouldyoube a cat?
Lucy Larcom.
Want any papers, Mister?Wish you'd buy 'em of me—Ten year old, an' a fam'ly,An' bizness dull, you see.Fact, Boss! There's Tom, an' Tibby,An' Dad, an' Mam, an Mam's cat,None on 'em earning money—What do you think of that?Couldn't Dad work? Why yes, Boss,He's working for gov'ment now,—They give him his board for nothin',—All along of a drunken row.An' Mam? Well, she's in the poorhouse,—Been there a year or so;So I'm taking care of the others,Doing as well as I know.Oughtn't to live so? Why, Mister,What's a feller to do?Some nights, when I'm tired an' hungry,Seems as if each on 'em knew—They'll all three cuddle around me,Till I get cheery, and say:Well, p'raps I'll have sisters an' brothers,An' money an' clothes, too, some day.But if I do git rich, Boss,(An' a lecturin' chap one nightSaid newsboys could be PresidentsIf only they acted right);So, if I was President, Mister,The very first thing I'd do,I'd buy poor Tom an' TibbyA dinner—an' Mam's cat, too!None o' your scraps an' leavin's,But a good square meal for all three;If you think I'd skimp my friends, Boss,That shows you don't know me.So 'ere's your papers—come take one,Gimme a lift if you can—For now you've heard my story,You see I'm a fam'ly man!
Want any papers, Mister?Wish you'd buy 'em of me—Ten year old, an' a fam'ly,An' bizness dull, you see.Fact, Boss! There's Tom, an' Tibby,An' Dad, an' Mam, an Mam's cat,None on 'em earning money—What do you think of that?
Couldn't Dad work? Why yes, Boss,He's working for gov'ment now,—They give him his board for nothin',—All along of a drunken row.An' Mam? Well, she's in the poorhouse,—Been there a year or so;So I'm taking care of the others,Doing as well as I know.
Oughtn't to live so? Why, Mister,What's a feller to do?Some nights, when I'm tired an' hungry,Seems as if each on 'em knew—They'll all three cuddle around me,Till I get cheery, and say:Well, p'raps I'll have sisters an' brothers,An' money an' clothes, too, some day.
But if I do git rich, Boss,(An' a lecturin' chap one nightSaid newsboys could be PresidentsIf only they acted right);So, if I was President, Mister,The very first thing I'd do,I'd buy poor Tom an' TibbyA dinner—an' Mam's cat, too!
None o' your scraps an' leavin's,But a good square meal for all three;If you think I'd skimp my friends, Boss,That shows you don't know me.So 'ere's your papers—come take one,Gimme a lift if you can—For now you've heard my story,You see I'm a fam'ly man!
E. T. Corbett.
I like little pussy, her coat is so warm,And if I don't hurt her, she'll do me no harm;So I'll not pull her tail, nor drive her away,But pussy and I very gently will play:She shall sit by my side, and I'll give her some food;And she'll love me, because I am gentle and good.I'll pat little pussy, and then she will purr,And thus show her thanks for my kindness to her.
I like little pussy, her coat is so warm,And if I don't hurt her, she'll do me no harm;So I'll not pull her tail, nor drive her away,But pussy and I very gently will play:
She shall sit by my side, and I'll give her some food;And she'll love me, because I am gentle and good.I'll pat little pussy, and then she will purr,And thus show her thanks for my kindness to her.
E. Taylor.
They in the valley's sheltering care,Soon crop the meadow's tender prime,And when the sod grows brown and bare,The shepherd strives to make them climbTo airy shelves of pastures greenThat hang along the mountain's side,Where grass and flowers together lean,And down through mists the sunbeams slide:But nought can tempt the timid thingsThe steep and rugged paths to try,Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings,And seared below the pastures lie,—Till in his arms their lambs he takesAlong the dizzy verge to go,Then heedless of the rifts and breaksThey follow on o'er rock and snow.And in those pastures lifted fair,More dewy soft than lowland mead,The shepherd drops his tender care,And sheep and lambs together feed.
They in the valley's sheltering care,Soon crop the meadow's tender prime,And when the sod grows brown and bare,The shepherd strives to make them climb
To airy shelves of pastures greenThat hang along the mountain's side,Where grass and flowers together lean,And down through mists the sunbeams slide:
But nought can tempt the timid thingsThe steep and rugged paths to try,Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings,And seared below the pastures lie,—
Till in his arms their lambs he takesAlong the dizzy verge to go,Then heedless of the rifts and breaksThey follow on o'er rock and snow.
And in those pastures lifted fair,More dewy soft than lowland mead,The shepherd drops his tender care,And sheep and lambs together feed.
Maria Lowell.
Little lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?Gave thee life and made thee feedBy the stream and o'er the mead;Gave thee clothing of delight,—Softest clothing, woolly, bright?Gave thee such a tender voice,Making all the vales rejoice;Little lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?Little lamb, I'll tell thee;Little lamb, I'll tell thee;He is callen by thy name,For he calls himself a lamb.He is meek, and He is mild;He became a little child.I a child, and thou a lamb,We are called by His name.Little lamb, God bless thee!Little lamb, God bless thee!
Little lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?Gave thee life and made thee feedBy the stream and o'er the mead;Gave thee clothing of delight,—Softest clothing, woolly, bright?Gave thee such a tender voice,Making all the vales rejoice;Little lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?
Little lamb, I'll tell thee;Little lamb, I'll tell thee;He is callen by thy name,For he calls himself a lamb.He is meek, and He is mild;He became a little child.I a child, and thou a lamb,We are called by His name.Little lamb, God bless thee!Little lamb, God bless thee!
William Blake.
Well—one at least is safe. One sheltered hareHas never heard the sanguinary yellOf cruel man, exulting in her woes.Innocent partner of my peaceful home,Whom ten long years' experience of my careHas made at last familiar, she has lostMuch of her vigilant instinctive dread,Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine.Yes—thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the handThat feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floorAt evening, and at night retire secureTo thy straw-couch, and slumber unalarmed;For I have gained thy confidence, have pledgedAll that is human in me to protectThine unsuspecting gratitude and love.If I survive thee I will dig thy grave,And when I place thee in it, sighing say,I knew at least one hare that had a friend.
Well—one at least is safe. One sheltered hareHas never heard the sanguinary yellOf cruel man, exulting in her woes.Innocent partner of my peaceful home,Whom ten long years' experience of my careHas made at last familiar, she has lostMuch of her vigilant instinctive dread,Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine.Yes—thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the handThat feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floorAt evening, and at night retire secureTo thy straw-couch, and slumber unalarmed;For I have gained thy confidence, have pledgedAll that is human in me to protectThine unsuspecting gratitude and love.If I survive thee I will dig thy grave,And when I place thee in it, sighing say,I knew at least one hare that had a friend.
Cowper.
Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside,Nor crush that helpless worm!The frame thy wayward looks derideRequired a God to form.The common lord of all that move,From whom thy being flowed,A portion of his boundless loveOn that poor worm bestowed.Let them enjoy their little day,Their humble bliss receive;Oh! do not lightly take awayThe life thou canst not give!
Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside,Nor crush that helpless worm!The frame thy wayward looks derideRequired a God to form.
The common lord of all that move,From whom thy being flowed,A portion of his boundless loveOn that poor worm bestowed.
Let them enjoy their little day,Their humble bliss receive;Oh! do not lightly take awayThe life thou canst not give!
T. Gisborne.
I've despised you, old worm, for I think you'll admitThat you never were beautiful even in youth;I've impaled you on hooks, and not felt it a bit;But all's changed now that Darwin has told us the truthOf your diligent life, and endowed you with fame:You begin to inspire me with kindly regard.I have friends of my own, clever worm, I could name,Who have ne'er in their lives been at work half so hard.It appears that we owe you our acres of soil,That the garden could never exist without you,That from ages gone by you were patient in toil,Till a Darwin revealed all the good that you do.Now you've turned with a vengeance, and all must confessYour behavior should make poor humanity squirm;For there's many a man on this planet, I guess,Who is not half so useful as you, Mister worm.
I've despised you, old worm, for I think you'll admitThat you never were beautiful even in youth;I've impaled you on hooks, and not felt it a bit;But all's changed now that Darwin has told us the truthOf your diligent life, and endowed you with fame:You begin to inspire me with kindly regard.I have friends of my own, clever worm, I could name,Who have ne'er in their lives been at work half so hard.
It appears that we owe you our acres of soil,That the garden could never exist without you,That from ages gone by you were patient in toil,Till a Darwin revealed all the good that you do.Now you've turned with a vengeance, and all must confessYour behavior should make poor humanity squirm;For there's many a man on this planet, I guess,Who is not half so useful as you, Mister worm.
Punch.
Green little vaulter in the sunny grass,Catching your heart up at the feet of June,Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,Whenever the bees lag at the summoning brass;And you, warm little housekeeper, who classWith those who think the candles come too soon,Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tuneNicks the glad silent moments as they pass.O sweet and tidy cousins, that belongOne to the fields, the other to the hearth,Both have your sunshine: both, though small, are strongAt your clear hearts; and both seem given to earthTo ring in thoughtful ears this natural song—Indoors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.
Green little vaulter in the sunny grass,Catching your heart up at the feet of June,Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,Whenever the bees lag at the summoning brass;And you, warm little housekeeper, who classWith those who think the candles come too soon,Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tuneNicks the glad silent moments as they pass.
O sweet and tidy cousins, that belongOne to the fields, the other to the hearth,Both have your sunshine: both, though small, are strongAt your clear hearts; and both seem given to earthTo ring in thoughtful ears this natural song—Indoors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.
Leigh Hunt.
Therefore doth Heaven divideThe state of man in divers functions,Setting endeavor in continual motion;To which is fixed, as an aim or butt,Obedience: for so work the honey-bees;Creatures, that, by a rule in nature, teachThe act of order to a peopled kingdom.They have a king and officers of sorts:Where some, like magistrates, correct at home;Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings,Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds;Which pillage they with merry march bring homeTo the tent royal of their emperor:Who, busied in his majesty, surveysThe singing masons building roofs of gold;The civil citizens kneading up the honey;The poor mechanic porters crowding inTheir heavy burdens at his narrow gate;The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum,Delivering o'er to the executioner's paleThe lazy, yawning drone.
Therefore doth Heaven divideThe state of man in divers functions,Setting endeavor in continual motion;To which is fixed, as an aim or butt,Obedience: for so work the honey-bees;Creatures, that, by a rule in nature, teachThe act of order to a peopled kingdom.They have a king and officers of sorts:Where some, like magistrates, correct at home;Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings,Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds;Which pillage they with merry march bring homeTo the tent royal of their emperor:Who, busied in his majesty, surveysThe singing masons building roofs of gold;The civil citizens kneading up the honey;The poor mechanic porters crowding inTheir heavy burdens at his narrow gate;The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum,Delivering o'er to the executioner's paleThe lazy, yawning drone.
Shakespeare:Henry V., Act 1, Sc. 2.
Said a little wandering maidenTo a bee with honey laden,"Bee, at all the flowers you work,Yet in some does poison lurk.""That I know, my little maiden,"Said the bee with honey laden;"But the poison I forsake,And the honey only take.""Cunning bee with honey laden,That is right," replied the maiden;"So will I, from all I meet,Only draw the good and sweet."
Said a little wandering maidenTo a bee with honey laden,"Bee, at all the flowers you work,Yet in some does poison lurk."
"That I know, my little maiden,"Said the bee with honey laden;"But the poison I forsake,And the honey only take."
"Cunning bee with honey laden,That is right," replied the maiden;"So will I, from all I meet,Only draw the good and sweet."
Anon.
Only an insect; yet I knowIt felt the sunlight's golden glow,And the sweet morning made it gladWith all the little heart it had.It saw the shadows move; it knewThe grass-blades glittered, wet with dew;And gayly o'er the ground it went;It had its fulness of content.Some dainty morsel then it spied,And for the treasure turned aside;Then, laden with its little spoil,Back to its nest began to toil.An insect formed of larger frame,Called man, along the pathway came.A ruthless foot aside he thrust,And ground the beetle in the dust.Perchance no living being missedThe life that there ceased to exist;Perchance the passive creature knewNo wrong, nor felt the deed undue;Yet its small share of life was givenBy the same hand that orders heaven.'Twas for no other power to say,Or should it go or should it stay.
Only an insect; yet I knowIt felt the sunlight's golden glow,And the sweet morning made it gladWith all the little heart it had.
It saw the shadows move; it knewThe grass-blades glittered, wet with dew;And gayly o'er the ground it went;It had its fulness of content.
Some dainty morsel then it spied,And for the treasure turned aside;Then, laden with its little spoil,Back to its nest began to toil.
An insect formed of larger frame,Called man, along the pathway came.A ruthless foot aside he thrust,And ground the beetle in the dust.
Perchance no living being missedThe life that there ceased to exist;Perchance the passive creature knewNo wrong, nor felt the deed undue;
Yet its small share of life was givenBy the same hand that orders heaven.'Twas for no other power to say,Or should it go or should it stay.
Anon.
I know an old couple that lived in a wood—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!And up in a tree-top their dwelling it stood—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!The summer it came, and the summer it went—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!And there they lived on, and they never paid rent—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!Their parlor was lined with the softest of wool—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!Their kitchen was warm, and their pantry was full—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!And four little babies peeped out at the sky—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!You never saw darlings so pretty and shy—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!Now winter came on with its frost and its snow—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!They cared not a bit when they heard the wind blow—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!For, wrapped in their furs, they all lay down to sleep—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!But oh, in the spring, how their bright eyes will peep—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!
I know an old couple that lived in a wood—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!And up in a tree-top their dwelling it stood—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!The summer it came, and the summer it went—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!And there they lived on, and they never paid rent—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!
Their parlor was lined with the softest of wool—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!Their kitchen was warm, and their pantry was full—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!And four little babies peeped out at the sky—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!You never saw darlings so pretty and shy—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!
Now winter came on with its frost and its snow—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!They cared not a bit when they heard the wind blow—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!For, wrapped in their furs, they all lay down to sleep—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!But oh, in the spring, how their bright eyes will peep—Chipperee, chipperee, chip!
Unknown.
The mountain and the squirrelHad a quarrel;And the former called the latter "Little Prig."Bun replied,"You are doubtless very big;But all sorts of things and weatherMust be taken in togetherTo make up a yearAnd a sphere;And I think it no disgraceTo occupy my place.If I'm not so large as you,You are not so small as I,And not half so spry.I'll not deny you makeA very pretty squirrel track.Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;If I cannot carry forests on my back,Neither can you crack a nut."
The mountain and the squirrelHad a quarrel;And the former called the latter "Little Prig."Bun replied,"You are doubtless very big;But all sorts of things and weatherMust be taken in togetherTo make up a yearAnd a sphere;And I think it no disgraceTo occupy my place.If I'm not so large as you,You are not so small as I,And not half so spry.I'll not deny you makeA very pretty squirrel track.Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;If I cannot carry forests on my back,Neither can you crack a nut."
Emerson.
Wee sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!Thou need na start awa sae hasty,Wi' bickering brattle!I wad be laith to rin and chase theeWi' murd'ring pattle!I'm truly sorry man's dominionHas broken nature's social union,And justifies that ill opinionWhich makes thee startleAt me, thy poor earth-born companionAnd fellow-mortal!Thou saw the fields lay bare and wasteAnd weary winter comin' fast,And cozie here, beneath the blast,Thou thought to dwell,Till, crash! the cruel coulter pastOut thro' thy cell.But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane2In proving foresight may be bain:The best laid schemes o' mice and menGang aft a-gley,And lea'e us nought but grief and vain,For promised joy.
Wee sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!Thou need na start awa sae hasty,Wi' bickering brattle!I wad be laith to rin and chase theeWi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominionHas broken nature's social union,And justifies that ill opinionWhich makes thee startleAt me, thy poor earth-born companionAnd fellow-mortal!
Thou saw the fields lay bare and wasteAnd weary winter comin' fast,And cozie here, beneath the blast,Thou thought to dwell,Till, crash! the cruel coulter pastOut thro' thy cell.
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane2In proving foresight may be bain:The best laid schemes o' mice and menGang aft a-gley,And lea'e us nought but grief and vain,For promised joy.
Burns.
See what a lovely shell,Small and pure as a pearl,Lying close to my foot.Frail, but a work divine,Made so fairily wellWith delicate spire and whorl.How exquisitely minuteA miracle of design!The tiny cell is forlorn,Void of the little living willThat made it stir on the shore.Did he stand at the diamond doorOf his house in a rainbow frill?Did he push when he was uncurled,A golden foot or a fairy hornThrough his dim water-world?Slight, to be crushed with a tapOf my finger-nail on the sand;Small, but a work divine:Frail, but of force to withstand,Year upon year, the shockOf cataract seas that snapThe three-decker's oaken spine,Athwart the ledges of rock,Here on the Breton strand.
See what a lovely shell,Small and pure as a pearl,Lying close to my foot.Frail, but a work divine,Made so fairily wellWith delicate spire and whorl.How exquisitely minuteA miracle of design!
The tiny cell is forlorn,Void of the little living willThat made it stir on the shore.Did he stand at the diamond doorOf his house in a rainbow frill?Did he push when he was uncurled,A golden foot or a fairy hornThrough his dim water-world?
Slight, to be crushed with a tapOf my finger-nail on the sand;Small, but a work divine:Frail, but of force to withstand,Year upon year, the shockOf cataract seas that snapThe three-decker's oaken spine,Athwart the ledges of rock,Here on the Breton strand.
Alfred Tennyson.
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed,—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year's dwelling for the new,Stole with soft steps its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven within a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unwresting sea!"
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed,—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year's dwelling for the new,Stole with soft steps its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—
"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven within a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unwresting sea!"
O. W. Holmes.
When he heard the owls at midnight,Hooting, laughing in the forest,"What is that?" he cried in terror;"What is that?" he said, "Nokomis?"And the good Nokomis answered:"That is but the owl and owlet,Talking in their native language,Talking, scolding at each other."Then the little HiawathaLearned of every bird its language,Learned their names and all their secrets,How they built their nests in Summer,Where they hid themselves in Winter,Talked with them whene'er he met them,Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens."Of all beasts he learned the language,Learned their names and all their secrets,How the beavers built their lodges,Where the squirrels hid their acorns,How the reindeer ran so swiftly,Why the rabbit was so timid,Talked with them whene'er he met them,Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers."Then Iagoo, the great boaster,He the marvellous story-teller,He the traveller and the talker,He the friend of old Nokomis,Made a bow for Hiawatha;From a branch of ash he made it,From an oak-bough made the arrows,Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers,And the cord he made of deer-skin.Then he said to Hiawatha:"Go, my son, into the forest,Where the red deer herd together,Kill for us a famous roebuck,Kill for us a deer with antlers!"Forth into the forest straightwayAll alone walked HiawathaProudly, with his bow and arrows;And the birds sang ruffed him, o'er him,"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!"Sang the robin, the Opechee,Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa,"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!"Up the oak-tree, close beside him,Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo,In and out among the branches,Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree,Laughed, and said between his laughing,"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!"And the rabbit from his pathwayLeaped aside, and at a distanceSat erect upon his haunches,Half in fear and half in frolic,Saying to the little hunter,"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!"But he heeded not, nor heard them,For his thoughts were with the red deer;On their tracks his eyes were fastened,Leading downward to the river,To the ford across the river,And as one in slumber walked he.
When he heard the owls at midnight,Hooting, laughing in the forest,"What is that?" he cried in terror;"What is that?" he said, "Nokomis?"And the good Nokomis answered:"That is but the owl and owlet,Talking in their native language,Talking, scolding at each other."Then the little HiawathaLearned of every bird its language,Learned their names and all their secrets,How they built their nests in Summer,Where they hid themselves in Winter,Talked with them whene'er he met them,Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens."Of all beasts he learned the language,Learned their names and all their secrets,How the beavers built their lodges,Where the squirrels hid their acorns,How the reindeer ran so swiftly,Why the rabbit was so timid,Talked with them whene'er he met them,Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers."Then Iagoo, the great boaster,He the marvellous story-teller,He the traveller and the talker,He the friend of old Nokomis,Made a bow for Hiawatha;From a branch of ash he made it,From an oak-bough made the arrows,Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers,And the cord he made of deer-skin.Then he said to Hiawatha:"Go, my son, into the forest,Where the red deer herd together,Kill for us a famous roebuck,Kill for us a deer with antlers!"Forth into the forest straightwayAll alone walked HiawathaProudly, with his bow and arrows;And the birds sang ruffed him, o'er him,"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!"Sang the robin, the Opechee,Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa,"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!"Up the oak-tree, close beside him,Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo,In and out among the branches,Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree,Laughed, and said between his laughing,"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!"And the rabbit from his pathwayLeaped aside, and at a distanceSat erect upon his haunches,Half in fear and half in frolic,Saying to the little hunter,"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!"But he heeded not, nor heard them,For his thoughts were with the red deer;On their tracks his eyes were fastened,Leading downward to the river,To the ford across the river,And as one in slumber walked he.
H. W. Longfellow:Hiawatha.
The Being that is in the clouds and air,That is in the green leaves among the groves,Maintains a deep and reverential careFor the unoffending creatures whom he loves.One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,Taught both by what He shows, and what conceals,Never to blend our pleasure or our prideWith sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
The Being that is in the clouds and air,That is in the green leaves among the groves,Maintains a deep and reverential careFor the unoffending creatures whom he loves.
One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,Taught both by what He shows, and what conceals,Never to blend our pleasure or our prideWith sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
Wordsworth.
And sooth to say, yon vocal groveAlbeit uninspired by love,By love untaught to ring,May well afford to mortal earAn impulse more profoundly dearThan music of the spring.But list! though winter storms be nighUnchecked is that soft harmony:There lives Who can provide,For all his creatures: and in Him,Even like the radiant Seraphim,These choristers confide.
And sooth to say, yon vocal groveAlbeit uninspired by love,By love untaught to ring,May well afford to mortal earAn impulse more profoundly dearThan music of the spring.
But list! though winter storms be nighUnchecked is that soft harmony:There lives Who can provide,For all his creatures: and in Him,Even like the radiant Seraphim,These choristers confide.
Wordsworth.
Happy, happy liver,With a soul as strong as a mountain river,Pouring out praises to the Almighty Giver.
Happy, happy liver,With a soul as strong as a mountain river,Pouring out praises to the Almighty Giver.
Wordsworth.
When weary, weary winterHath melted into air,And April leaf and blossomHath clothed the branches bare,Came round our English dwellingA voice of summer cheer:'Twas thine, returning swallow,The welcome and the dear.Far on the billowy oceanA thousand leagues are we,Yet here, sad hovering o'er our bark,What is it that we see?Dear old familiar swallow,What gladness dost thou bring:Here rest upon our flowing sailThy weary, wandering wing.
When weary, weary winterHath melted into air,And April leaf and blossomHath clothed the branches bare,Came round our English dwellingA voice of summer cheer:'Twas thine, returning swallow,The welcome and the dear.
Far on the billowy oceanA thousand leagues are we,Yet here, sad hovering o'er our bark,What is it that we see?Dear old familiar swallow,What gladness dost thou bring:Here rest upon our flowing sailThy weary, wandering wing.
Mrs. Howitt.
Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wingWhence is it ye come with the flowers of spring?"We come from the shores of the green old Nile,From the land where the roses of Sharon smile,From the palms that wave through the Indian sky,From the myrrh trees of glowing Araby."
Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wingWhence is it ye come with the flowers of spring?"We come from the shores of the green old Nile,From the land where the roses of Sharon smile,From the palms that wave through the Indian sky,From the myrrh trees of glowing Araby."
Mrs. Hemans.
With elegies of loveMake vocal every spray.
With elegies of loveMake vocal every spray.
Cunningham.
Whither hath the wood thrush flownFrom our greenwood bowers?Wherefore builds he not againWhere the wild thorn flowers?Bid him come! for on his wingsThe sunny year he bringeth,And the heart unlocks its springsWheresoe'er he singeth.
Whither hath the wood thrush flownFrom our greenwood bowers?Wherefore builds he not againWhere the wild thorn flowers?
Bid him come! for on his wingsThe sunny year he bringeth,And the heart unlocks its springsWheresoe'er he singeth.
Barry Cornwall.
Within the bush her covert nestA little linnet fondly prest,The dew sat chilly on her breastSae early in the morning.She soon shall see her tender broodThe pride, the pleasure o' the wood,Among the fresh green leaves bedewed,Awake the early morning.
Within the bush her covert nestA little linnet fondly prest,The dew sat chilly on her breastSae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender broodThe pride, the pleasure o' the wood,Among the fresh green leaves bedewed,Awake the early morning.
Burns.
But thee no wintry skies can harmWho only needs to singTo make even January charmAnd every season Spring.
But thee no wintry skies can harmWho only needs to singTo make even January charmAnd every season Spring.
Cowper.
Little feathered songsters of the airIn woodlands tuneful woo and fondly pair.
Little feathered songsters of the airIn woodlands tuneful woo and fondly pair.
Savage.
The "Chapter of the Cattle:" Heaven is whose,And whose is earth? Say Allah's, That did chooseOn His own might to lay the law of mercy.He, at the Resurrection, will not loseOne of His own. What falleth, night or day,Falleth by His Almighty word alway.Wilt thou have any other Lord than Allah,Who is not fed, but feedeth all flesh? Say!For if He visit thee with woe, none makesThe woe to cease save He; and if He takesPleasure to send thee pleasure, He is MasterOver all gifts; nor doth His thought forsakeThe creatures of the field, nor fowls that fly;They are "a people" also: "These, too, IHave set," the Lord saith, "in My book of record;These shall be gathered to Me by and by."With Him of all things secret are the keys;None other hath them, but He hath; and seesWhatever is in land, or air, or water,Each bloom that blows, each foam-bell on the seas.
The "Chapter of the Cattle:" Heaven is whose,And whose is earth? Say Allah's, That did chooseOn His own might to lay the law of mercy.He, at the Resurrection, will not lose
One of His own. What falleth, night or day,Falleth by His Almighty word alway.Wilt thou have any other Lord than Allah,Who is not fed, but feedeth all flesh? Say!
For if He visit thee with woe, none makesThe woe to cease save He; and if He takesPleasure to send thee pleasure, He is MasterOver all gifts; nor doth His thought forsake
The creatures of the field, nor fowls that fly;They are "a people" also: "These, too, IHave set," the Lord saith, "in My book of record;These shall be gathered to Me by and by."
With Him of all things secret are the keys;None other hath them, but He hath; and seesWhatever is in land, or air, or water,Each bloom that blows, each foam-bell on the seas.
E. Arnold:Pearls of the Faith.