Elder boys, let him not rove;
The heath is wide, the heath is large,
From your sight he must not move.
But rove he did: they had not been
One short hour the heath upon,
When he was no where to be seen;
"Where," said they, "is William gone?"
Mind not the elder boys' distress;
Let them run, and let them fly.
Their own neglect and giddiness
They are justly suffering by.
William his little basket fill'd
With his berries ripe and red;
Then, naughty boy, two bees he kill'd,
Under foot he stamp'd them dead.
William had cours'd them o'er the heath,
After them his steps did wander;
When he was nearly out of breath,
The last bee his foot was under.
A cruel triumph, which did not
Last but for a moment's space,
For now he finds that he has got
Out of sight of every face.
What are the berries now to him?
What the bees which he hath slain?
Fear now possesses every limb,
He cannot trace his steps again.
The poor bees William had affrighted
In more terror did not haste,
Than he from bush to bush, benighted
And alone amid the waste.
Late in the night the child was found:
He who these two bees had crush'd
Was lying on the cold damp ground,
Sleep had then his sorrows hush'd.
A fever follow'd from the fright,
And from sleeping in the dew;
He many a day and many a night
Suffer'd ere he better grew.
His aching limbs while sick he lay
Made him learn the crush'd bees' pain;
Oft would he to his mother say,
"I ne'er will kill a bee again."
THE JOURNEY FROM SCHOOL AND TO SCHOOL
O what a joyous joyous day
Is that on which we come
At the recess from school away,
Each lad to his own home!
What though the coach is crammed full,
The weather very warm;
Think you a boy of us is dull,
Or feels the slightest harm?
The dust and sun is life and fun;
The hot and sultry weather
A higher zest gives every breast,
Thus jumbled all together.
Sometimes we laugh aloud aloud,
Sometimes huzzah, huzzah.
Who is so buoyant, free, and proud,
As we home-travellers are?
But sad, but sad is every lad
That day on which we come,
That last last day on which away
We all come from our home.
The coach too full is found to be:
Why is it crammed thus?
Now every one can plainly see
There's not half room for us.
Soon we exclaim, O shame, O shame,
This hot and sultry weather,
Who but our master is to blame,
Who pack'd us thus together!
Now dust and sun does every one
Most terribly annoy;
Complaints begun, soon every one
Elbows his neighbour boy.
Not now the joyous laugh goes round,
We shout not now huzzah;
A sadder group may not be found
Than we returning are.
THE ORANGE
The month was June, the day was hot,
And Philip had an orange got.
The fruit was fragrant, tempting, bright,
Refreshing to the smell and sight;
Not of that puny size which calls
Poor customers to common stalls,
But large and massy, full of juice,
As any Lima can produce.
The liquor would, if squeezed out,
Have fill'd a tumbler thereabout--
The happy boy, with greedy eyes,
Surveys and re-surveys his prize.
He turns it round, and longs to drain,
And with the juice his lips to stain.
His throat and lips were parch'd with heat;
The orange seem'd to cry, _Come eat_.
He from his pocket draws a knife--
When in his thoughts there rose a strife,
Which folks experience when they wish,
Yet scruple to begin a dish,
And by their hesitation own
It is too good to eat alone.
But appetite o'er indecision
Prevails, and Philip makes incision.
The melting fruit in quarters came--
Just then there passed by a dame--
One of the poorer sort she seem'd,
As by her garb you would have deem'd--
Who in her toil-worn arms did hold
A sickly infant ten months old;
That from a fever, caught in spring,
Was slowly then recovering.
The child, attracted by the view
Of that fair orange, feebly threw
A languid look--perhaps the smell
Convinc'd it that there sure must dwell
A corresponding sweetness there,
Where lodg'd a scent so good and rare--
Perhaps the smell the fruit did give
Felt healing and restorative--
For never had the child been grac'd
To know such dainties by their taste.
When Philip saw the infant crave,
He straitway to the mother gave
His quarter'd orange; nor would stay
To hear her thanks, but tript away.
Then to the next clear spring he ran
To quench his drought, a happy man!
THE YOUNG LETTER-WRITER
_Dear Sir, Dear Madam_, or _Dear Friend_,
With ease are written at the top;
When those two happy words are penn'd,
A youthful writer oft will stop,
And bite his pen, and lift his eyes,
As if he thinks to find in air
The wish'd-for following words, or tries
To fix his thoughts by fixed stare.
But haply all in vain--the next
Two words may be so long before
They'll come, the writer, sore perplext,
Gives in despair the matter o'er;
And when maturer age he sees
With ready pen so swift inditing,
With envy he beholds the ease
Of long-accustom'd letter-writing.
Courage, young friend; the time may be,
When you attain maturer age,
Some young as you are now may see
You with like ease glide down a page.
Ev'n then when you, to years a debtor,
In varied phrase your meanings wrap,
The welcom'st words in all your letter
May be those two kind words at top.
THE THREE FRIENDS
(_Text of 1818_)
Three young maids in friendship met;
Mary, Martha, Margaret.
Margaret was tall and fair,
Martha shorter by a hair;
If the first excell'd in feature,
Th' other's grace and ease were greater;
Mary, though to rival loth,
In their best gifts equall'd both.
They a due proportion kept;
Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept;
Margaret joy'd when any good
She of Martha understood;
And in sympathy for either
Mary was outdone by neither.
Thus far, for a happy space,
All three ran an even race,
A most constant friendship proving,
Equally belov'd and loving;
All their wishes, joys, the same;
Sisters only not in name.
Fortune upon each one smil'd,
As upon a fav'rite child;
Well to do and well to see
Were the parents of all three;
Till on Martha's father crosses
Brought a flood of worldly losses,
And his fortunes rich and great
Chang'd at once to low estate;
Under which o'erwhelming blow
Martha's mother was laid low;
She a hapless orphan left,
Of maternal care bereft,
Trouble following trouble fast,
Lay in a sick bed at last.
In the depth of her affliction
Martha now receiv'd conviction,
That a true and faithful friend
Can the surest comfort lend.
Night and day, with friendship tried,
Ever constant by her side
Was her gentle Mary found,
With a love that knew no bound;
And the solace she imparted
Sav'd her dying' broken-hearted.
In this scene of earthly things
Not one good unmixed springs.
That which had to Martha proved
A sweet consolation, moved
Different feelings of regret
In the mind of Margaret.
She, whose love was not less dear,
Nor affection less sincere
To her friend, was, by occasion
Of more distant habitation,
Fewer visits forc'd to pay her,
When no other cause did stay her;
And her Mary living nearer,
Margaret began to fear her,
Lest her visits day by day
Martha's heart should steal away.
That whole heart she ill could spare her,
Where till now she'd been a sharer.
From this cause with grief she pined,
Till at length her health declined.
All her chearful spirits flew,
Fast as Martha gather'd new;
And her sickness waxed sore,
Just when Martha felt no more.
Mary, who had quick suspicion
Of her alter'd friend's condition,
Seeing Martha's convalescence
Less demanded now her presence,
With a goodness, built on reason,
Chang'd her measures with the season;
Turn'd her steps from Martha's door,
Went where she was wanted more;
All her care and thoughts were set
Now to tend on Margaret.
Mary living 'twixt the two,
From her home could oft'ner go,
Either of her friends to see,
Than they could together be.
Truth explain'd is to suspicion
Evermore the best physician.
Soon her visits had the effect;
All that Margaret did suspect,
From her fancy vanish'd clean;
She was soon what she had been,
And the colour she did lack
To her faded cheek came back.
Wounds which love had made her feel,
Love alone had power to heal.
Martha, who the frequent visit
Now had lost, and sore did miss it,
With impatience waxed cross,
Counted Margaret's gain her loss:
All that Mary did confer
On her friend, thought due to her.
In her girlish bosom rise
Little foolish jealousies,
Which into such rancour wrought,
She one day for Margaret sought;
Finding her by chance alone,
She began, with reasons shown,
To insinuate a fear
Whether Mary was sincere;
Wish'd that Margaret would take heed
Whence her actions did proceed.
For herself, she'd long been minded
Not with outsides to be blinded;
All that pity and compassion,
She believ'd was affectation;
In her heart she doubted whether
Mary car'd a pin for either.
She could keep whole weeks at distance,
And not know of their existence,
While all things remain'd the same;
But, when some misfortune came,
Then she made a great parade
Of her sympathy and aid,--
Not that she did really grieve,
It was only _make-believe_,
And she car'd for nothing, so
She might her fine feelings shew,
And get credit, on her part,
For a soft and tender heart.
With such speeches, smoothly made,
She found methods to persuade
Margaret (who, being sore
From the doubts she'd felt before,
Was prepared for mistrust)
To believe her reasons just;
Quite destroy'd that comfort glad,
Which in Mary late she had;
Made her, in experience' spite,
Think her friend a hypocrite,
And resolve, with cruel scoff,
To renounce and cast her off.
See how good turns are rewarded!
She of both is now discarded,
Who to both had been so late
Their support in low estate,
All their comfort, and their stay--
Now of both is cast away.
But the league her presence cherish'd,
Losing its best prop, soon perish'd;
She, that was a link to either,
To keep them and it together,
Being gone, the two (no wonder)
That were left, soon fell asunder;--
Some civilities were kept,
But the heart of friendship slept;
Love with hollow forms was fed,
But the life of love lay dead:--
A cold intercourse they held
After Mary was expell'd.
Two long years did intervene
Since they'd either of them seen,
Or, by letter, any word
Of their old companion heard,--
When, upon a day, once walking,
Of indifferent matters talking,
They a female figure met;--
Martha said to Margaret,
"That young maid in face does carry
A resemblance strong of Mary."
Margaret, at nearer sight,
Own'd her observation right:
But they did not far proceed
Ere they knew 'twas she indeed.
She--but ah! how chang'd they view her
From that person which they knew her!
Her fine face disease had scarr'd,
And its matchless beauty marr'd:--
But enough was left to trace
Mary's sweetness--Mary's grace.
When her eye did first behold them,
How they blush'd!--but, when she told them
How on a sick bed she lay
Months, while they had kept away,
And had no inquiries made
If she were alive or dead;--
How, for want of a true friend,
She was brought near to her end,
And was like so to have died,
With no friend at her bed-side;--
How the constant irritation,
Caus'd by fruitless expectation
Of their coming, had extended
The illness, when she might have mended,--
Then, O then, how did reflection
Come on them with recollection!
All that she had done for them,
How it did their fault condemn!
But sweet Mary, still the same,
Kindly eas'd them of their shame;
Spoke to them with accents bland,
Took them friendly by the hand;
Bound them both with promise fast,
Not to speak of troubles past;
Made them on the spot declare
A new league of friendship there;
Which, without a word of strife,
Lasted thenceforth long as life.
Martha now and Margaret
Strove who most should pay the debt
Which they ow'd her, nor did vary
Ever after from their Mary.
ON THE LORD'S PRAYER
I have taught your young lips the good words to say over,
Which form the petition we call the Lord's Pray'r,
And now let me help my dear child to discover
The meaning of all the good words that are there.
"Our Father," the same appellation is given
To a parent on earth, and the parent of all--
O gracious permission, the God that's in heaven
Allows his poor creatures him Father to call.
To "hallow his name," is to think with devotion
Of it, and with reverence mention the same;
Though you are so young, you should strive for some notion
Of the awe we should feel at the Holy One's name.
His "will done on earth, as it is done in heaven,"
Is a wish and a hope we are suffer'd to breathe,
That such grace and favour to us may be given,
Like good angels on high we may live here beneath.
"Our daily bread give us," your young apprehension
May well understand is to pray for our food;
Although we ask bread, and no other thing mention,
God's bounty gives all things sufficient and good.
You pray that your "trespasses may be forgiven,
As you forgive those that are done unto you;"
Before this you say to the God that's in heaven,
Consider the words which you speak. Are they true?
If any one has in the past time offended
Us angry creatures who soon take offence,
These words in the prayer are surely intended
To soften our minds, and expel wrath from thence.
We pray that "temptations may never assail us,"
And "deliverance beg from all evil" we find;
But we never can hope that our pray'r will avail us,
If we strive not to banish ill thoughts from our mind.
"For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory,
For ever and ever," these titles are meant
To express God's dominion and majesty o'er ye:
And "Amen" to the sense of the whole gives assent.
"SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN, AND FORBID THEM NOT, TO COME UNTO ME"
To Jesus our Saviour some parents presented
Their children--what fears and what hopes they must feel!
When this the disciples would fain have prevented,
Our Saviour reprov'd their unseas'nable zeal.
Not only free leave to come to him was given,
But "Of such" were the blessed words Christ our Lord spake,
"Of such is composed the kingdom of heaven:"
The disciples, abashed, perceiv'd their mistake.
With joy then the parents their children brought nigher,
And earnestly begg'd that his hands he would lay
On their heads; and they made a petition still higher,
That he for a blessing upon them would pray.
O happy young children, thus brought to adore him,
To kneel at his feet, and look up in his face;
No doubt now in heaven they still are before him,
Children still of his love, and enjoying his grace.
For being so blest as to come to our Saviour,
How deep in their innocent hearts it must sink!
'Twas a visit divine; a most holy behaviour
Must flow from that spring of which then they did drink.
THE MAGPYE'S NEST OR A LESSON OF DOCILITY
A FABLE
When the arts in their infancy were,
In a fable of old 'tis exprest,
A wise Magpye constructed that rare
Little house for young birds, call'd a nest.
This was talk'd of the whole country round,
You might hear it on every bough sung,
"Now no longer upon the rough ground
Will fond mothers brood over their young.
"For the Magpye with exquisite skill
Has invented a moss-cover'd cell,
Within which a whole family will
In the utmost security dwell."
To her mate did each female bird say,
"Let us fly to the Magpye, my dear;
If she will but teach us the way,
A nest we will build us up here.
"It's a thing that's close arch'd over head,
With a hole made to creep out and in;
We, my bird, might make just such a bed,
If we only knew how to begin."
To the Magpye soon every bird went,
And in modest terms made their request,
That she would be pleas'd to consent
To teach them to build up a nest.
She replied, "I will shew you the way,
So observe every thing that I do.
First two sticks cross each other I lay--"
"To be sure," said the Crow; "why, I knew,
"It must be begun with two sticks,
And I thought that they crossed should be."
Said the Pye, "Then some straw and moss mix,
In the way you now see done by me."
"O yes, certainly," said the Jack Daw,
"That must follow of course, I have thought;
Though I never before building saw,
I guess'd that without being taught."
"More moss, straw, and feathers, I place,
In this manner," continued the Pye.
"Yes, no doubt, Madam, that is the case;
Though no builder myself, even I,"
Said the Starling, "conjectur'd 'twas so;
It must of necessity follow:
For more moss, straw, and feathers, I know,
It requires, to be soft, round, and hollow."
Whatever she taught them beside,
In his turn every bird of them said,
Though the nest-making art he ne'er tried,
He had just such a thought in his head.
Still the Pye went on shewing her art,
Till a nest she had built up half way;
She no more of her skill would impart,
But in anger went flutt'ring away.
And this speech in their hearing she made,
As she perched o'er their heads on a tree,
"If ye all were well skill'd in my trade,
Pray, why came ye to learn it of me?"--
When a scholar is willing to learn,
He with silent submission should hear.
Too late they their folly discern;
The effect to this day does appear:
For whenever a Pye's nest you see,
Her charming warm canopy view,
All birds' nests but hers seem to be
A Magpye's nest just cut in two.
THE BOY AND THE SKY-LARK
A FABLE
"A wicked action fear to do,
When you are by yourselves; for though
You think you can conceal it,
A little bird that's in the air
The hidden trespass shall declare,
And openly reveal it."
Richard this saying oft had heard,
Until the sight of any bird
Would set his heart a quaking;
He saw a host of winged spies
For ever o'er him in the skies,
Note of his actions taking.
This pious precept, while it stood
In his remembrance, kept him good
When nobody was by him;
For though no human eye was near,
Yet Richard still did wisely fear
The little bird should spy him.
But best resolves will sometimes sleep;
Poor frailty will not always keep
From that which is forbidden;
And Richard one day, left alone,
Laid hands on something not his own,
And hop'd the theft was hidden.
His conscience slept a day or two,
As it is very apt to do
When we with pain suppress it;
And though at times a slight remorse
Would raise a pang, it had not force
To make him yet confess it.
When on a day, as he abroad
Walk'd by his mother, in their road
He heard a sky-lark singing;
Smit with the sound, a flood of tears
Proclaim'd the superstitious fears
His inmost bosom wringing.
His mother, wond'ring, saw him cry,
And fondly ask'd the reason why;
Then Richard made confession,
And said, he fear'd the little bird
He singing in the air had heard
Was telling his transgression.
The words which Richard spoke below,
As sounds by nature upwards go,
Were to the sky-lark carried;
The airy traveller with surprise
To hear his sayings, in the skies
On his mid journey tarried.
His anger then the bird exprest:
"Sure, since the day I left the nest,
I ne'er heard folly utter'd
So fit to move a sky-lark's mirth,
As what this little son of earth
Hath in his grossness mutter'd.
"Dull fool! to think we sons of air
On man's low actions waste a care,
His virtues or his vices;
Or soaring on the summer gales,
That we should stoop to carry tales
Of him or his devices!
"Our songs are all of the delights
We find in our wild airy flights,
And heavenly exaltation;
The earth you mortals have at heart
Is all too gross to have a part
In sky-lark's conversation.
"Unless it be in what green field
Or meadow we our nest may build,
Midst flowering broom, or heather;
From whence our new-fledg'd offspring may
With least obstruction wing their way
Up to the walks of ether.
"Mistaken fool! man needs not us
His secret merits to discuss,
Or spy out his transgression;
When once he feels his conscience stirr'd,
That voice within him is the _bird_
That moves him to confession."
THE MEN AND WOMEN, AND THE MONKEYS
A FABLE
When beasts by words their meanings could declare,
Some well-drest men and women did repair
To gaze upon two monkeys at a fair:
And one who was the spokesman in the place
Said, in their count'nance you might plainly trace
The likeness of a wither'd old man's face.
His observation none impeach'd or blam'd,
But every man and woman when 'twas nam'd
Drew in the head, or slunk away asham'd.
One monkey, who had more pride than the other,
His infinite chagrin could scarcely smother;
But Pug the wiser said unto his brother:
"The slights and coolness of this human nation
Should give a sensible ape no mort'fication;
'Tis thus they always serve a poor relation."
LOVE, DEATH, AND REPUTATION
A FABLE
Once on a time, Love, Death, and Reputation,
Three travellers, a tour together went;
And, after many a long perambulation,
Agreed to part by mutual consent.
Death said: "My fellow tourists, I am going
To seek for harvests in th' embattled plain;
Where drums are beating, and loud trumpets blowing,
There you'll be sure to meet with me again"
Love said: "My friends, I mean to spend my leisure
With some young couple, fresh in Hymen's bands;
Or 'mongst relations, who in equal measure
Have had bequeathed to them house or lands."
But Reputation said: "If once we sever,
Our chance of future meeting is but vain:
Who parts from me, must look to part for ever,
For _Reputation lost comes not again_."
THE SPARROW AND THE HEN
A Sparrow, when Sparrows like Parrots could speak,
Addressed an old Hen who could talk like a Jay:
Said he, "It's unjust that we Sparrows must seek
Our food, when your family's fed every day.
"Were you like the Peacock, that elegant bird,
The sight of whose plumage her master may please,
I then should not wonder that you are preferr'd
To the yard, where in affluence you live at your ease.
"I affect no great style, am not costly in feathers,
A good honest brown I find most to my liking,
It always looks neat, and is fit for all weathers,
But I think your gray mixture is not very striking.
"We know that the bird from the isles of Canary
Is fed, foreign airs to sing in a fine cage;
But your note from a cackle so seldom does vary,
The fancy of man it cannot much engage.
"My chirp to a song sure approaches much nearer,
Nay, the Nightingale tells me I sing not amiss;
If voice were in question I ought to be dearer;
But the Owl he assures me there's nothing in this.
"Nor is it your proneness to domestication,
For he dwells in man's barn, and I build in man's thatch,
As we say to each other--but, to our vexation,
O'er your safety alone man keeps diligent watch."
"Have you e'er learned to read?" said the Hen to the Sparrow.
"No, Madam," he answer'd, "I can't say I have,"
"Then that is the reason your sight is so narrow,"
The old Hen replied, with a look very grave.
"Mrs. Glasse in a Treatise--I wish you could read--
Our importance has shown, and has prov'd to us why
Man shields us and feeds us: of us he has need
Ev'n before we are born, even after we die."
WHICH IS THE FAVOURITE?
Brothers and sisters I have many:
Though I know there is not any
Of them but I love, yet I
Will just name them all; and try,
As one by one I count them o'er,
If there be one a little more
Lov'd by me than all the rest.
Yes; I do think, that I love best
My brother Henry, because he
Has always been most fond of me.
Yet, to be sure, there's Isabel;
I think I love her quite as well.
And, I assure you, little Ann,
No brother nor no sister can
Be more dear to me than she.
Only, I must say, Emily,
Being the eldest, it's right her
To all the rest I should prefer.
Yet after all I've said, suppose
My greatest fav'rite should be Rose.
No, John and Paul are both more dear
To me than Rose, that's always here,
While they are half the year at school;
And yet that neither is no rule.
I've nam'd them all, there's only seven;
I find my love to all so even,
To every sister, every brother,
I love not one more than another.
THE BEGGAR-MAN
Abject, stooping, old, and wan,
See yon wretched beggar man;
Once a father's hopeful heir,
Once a mother's tender care.
When too young to understand
He but scorch'd his little hand,
By the candle's flaming light
Attracted, dancing, spiral, bright,
Clasping fond her darling round,
A thousand kisses heal'd the wound.
Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,
No mother tends the beggar man.
Then nought too good for him to wear,
With cherub face and flaxen hair,
In fancy's choicest gauds array'd,
Cap of lace with rose to aid,
Milk-white hat and feather blue,
Shoes of red, and coral too
With silver bells to please his ear,
And charm the frequent ready tear.
Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,
Neglected is the beggar man.
See the boy advance in age,
And learning spreads her useful page;
In vain! for giddy pleasure calls,
And shews the marbles, tops, and balls.
What's learning to the charms of play?
The indulgent tutor must give way.
A heedless wilful dunce, and wild,
The parents' fondness spoil'd the child;
The youth in vagrant courses ran;
Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,
Their fondling is the beggar man.
CHOOSING A PROFESSION
A Creole boy from the West Indies brought,
To be in European learning taught,
Some years before to Westminster he went,
To a Preparatory School was sent.
When from his artless tale the mistress found,
The child had not one friend on English ground,
She, ev'n as if she his own mother were,
Made the dark Indian her peculiar care.
Oft on her fav'rite's future lot she thought;
To know the bent of his young mind she sought,
For much the kind preceptress wish'd to find
To what profession he was most inclin'd,
That where his genius led they might him train;
For nature's kindly bent she held not vain.
But vain her efforts to explore his will;
The frequent question he evaded still:
Till on a day at length he to her came,
Joy sparkling in his eyes; and said, the same
Trade he would be those boys of colour were,
Who danc'd so happy in the open air.
It was a troop of chimney-sweeping boys,
With wooden music and obstrep'rous noise,
In tarnish'd finery and grotesque array,
Were dancing in the street the first of May.
BREAKFAST
A dinner party, coffee, tea,
Sandwich, or supper, all may be
In their way pleasant. But to me
Not one of these deserves the praise
That welcomer of new-born days,
_A breakfast_, merits; ever giving
Cheerful notice we are living
Another day refresh'd by sleep,
When its festival we keep.
Now although I would not slight
Those kindly words we use "Good night,"
Yet parting words are words of sorrow,
And may not vie with sweet "Good morrow,"
With which again our friends we greet,
When in the breakfast-room we meet,
At the social table round,
Listening to the lively sound
Of those notes which never tire,
Of urn, or kettle on the fire.
Sleepy Robert never hears
Or urn, or kettle; he appears
When all have finish'd, one by one
Dropping off, and breakfast done.
Yet has he too his own pleasure,
His breakfast hour's his hour of leisure;
And, left alone, he reads or muses,
Or else in idle mood he uses
To sit and watch the vent'rous fly,
Where the sugar's piled high,
Clambering o'er the lumps so white,
Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.
WEEDING
As busy Aurelia, 'twixt work and 'twixt play,
Was lab'ring industriously hard
To cull the vile weeds from the flow'rets away,
Which grew in her father's court-yard;
In her juvenile anger, wherever she found,
She pluck'd, and she pull'd, and she tore;
The poor passive suff'rers bestrew'd all the ground;
Not a weed of them all she forbore.
At length 'twas her chance on some nettles to light
(Things, till then, she had scarcely heard nam'd);
The vulgar intruders call'd forth all her spite;
In a transport of rage she exclaim'd,
"Shall briars so unsightly and worthless as those
Their great sprawling leaves thus presume
To mix with the pink, the jonquil, and the rose,
And take up a flower's sweet room?"
On the odious offenders enraged she flew;
But she presently found to her cost
A tingling unlook'd for, a pain that was new,
And rage was in agony lost.
To her father she hastily fled for relief,
And told him her pain and her smart;
With kindly caresses he soothed her grief,
Then smiling he took the weed's part.
"The world, my Aurelia, this garden of ours
Resembles: too apt we're to deem
In the world's larger garden ourselves as the flow'rs,
And the poor but as weeds to esteem.
"But them if we rate, or with rudeness repel,
Though some will be passive enough,
From others who're more independent 'tis well
If we meet not a _stinging rebuff_."
PARENTAL RECOLLECTIONS
A child's a plaything for an hour;
Its pretty tricks we try
For that or for a longer space;
Then tire, and lay it by.
But I knew one, that to itself
All seasons could controul;
That would have mock'd the sense of pain
Out of a grieved soul.
Thou, straggler into loving arms,
Young climber up of knees,
When I forget thy thousand ways,
Then life and all shall cease.
THE TWO BOYS
I saw a boy with eager eye
Open a book upon a stall,
And read as he'd devour it all:
Which when the stall-man did espy,
Soon to the boy I heard him call,
"You, Sir, you never buy a book,
Therefore in one you shall not look."
The boy pass'd slowly on, and with a sigh
He wish'd he never had been taught to read,
Then of the old churl's books he should have had no need.
Of sufferings the poor have many,
Which never can the rich annoy.
I soon perceiv'd another boy
Who look'd as if he'd not had any
Food for that day at least, enjoy
The sight of cold meat in a tavern larder.
This boy's case, thought I, is surely harder,
Thus hungry longing, thus without a penny,
Beholding choice of dainty dressed meat:
No wonder if he wish he ne'er had learn'd to eat.
THE OFFER
"Tell me, would you rather be
Chang'd by a fairy to the fine
Young orphan heiress Geraldine,
Or still be Emily?
"Consider, ere you answer me,
How many blessings are procur'd
By riches, and how much endur'd
By chilling poverty."
After a pause, said Emily:
"In the words orphan heiress I
Find many a solid reason why
I would not changed be.
"What though I live in poverty,
And have of sisters eight--so many,
That few indulgences, if any,
Fall to the share of me;
"Think you that for wealth I'd be
Of ev'n the least of them bereft,
Or lose my parent, and be left
An orphan'd Emily?
"Still should I be Emily,
Although I look'd like Geraldine;
I feel within this heart of mine
No change could worked be."
THE SISTER'S EXPOSTULATION ON THE BROTHER'S LEARNING LATIN
Shut these odious books up, brother--
They have made you quite another
Thing from what you us'd to be--
Once you lik'd to play with me--
Now you leave me all alone,
And are so conceited grown
With your Latin, you'll scarce look
Upon any English book.
We had us'd on winter eyes
To con over Shakespeare's leaves,
Or on Milton's harder sense
Exercise our diligence--
And you would explain with ease
The obscurer passages,
Find me out the prettiest places
The poetic turns, and graces,
Which alas! now you are gone,
I must puzzle out alone,
And oft miss the meaning quite,
Wanting you to set me right.
All this comes since you've been under
Your new master. I much wonder
What great charm it is you see
In those words, _musa, musæ_;
Or in what they do excel
Our word, _song_. It sounds as well
To my fancy as the other.
Now believe me, dearest brother,
I would give my finest frock,
And my cabinet, and stock
Of new playthings, every toy,
I would give them all with joy,
Could I you returning see
Back to English and to me.
THE BROTHER'S REPLY
Sister, fie, for shame, no more,
Give this ignorant babble o'er,
Nor with little female pride
Things above your sense deride.
Why this foolish under-rating
Of my first attempts at Latin?
Know you not each thing we prize
Does from small beginnings rise?
'Twas the same thing with your writing,
Which you now take such delight in.
First you learnt the down-stroke line,
Then the hair-stroke thin and fine,
Then a curve, and then a better,
Till you came to form a letter;
Then a new task was begun,
How to join them two in one;
Till you got (these first steps past)
To your fine text-hand at last.
So though I at first commence
With the humble accidence,
And my study's course affords
Little else as yet but words,
I shall venture in a while
At construction, grammar, style,
Learn my syntax, and proceed
Classic authors next to read,
Such as wiser, better, make us,
Sallust, Phædrus, Ovid, Flaccus:
All the poets (with their wit),
All the grave historians writ,
Who the lives and actions show
Of men famous long ago;
Ev'n their very sayings giving
In the tongue they us'd when living.
Think not I shall do that wrong
Either to my native tongue,
English authors to despise,
Or those books which you so prize;
Though from them awhile I stray,
By new studies call'd away,
Them when next I take in hand,
I shall better understand.
For I've heard wise men declare
Many words in English are
From the Latin tongue deriv'd,
Of whose sense girls are depriv'd
'Cause they do not Latin know.--
But if all this anger grow
From this cause, that you suspect
By proceedings indirect,
I would keep (as misers pelf)
All this learning to myself;
Sister, to remove this doubt,
Rather than we will fall out,
(If our parents will agree)
You shall Latin learn with me.
NURSE GREEN
"Your prayers you have said, and you've wished Good night:
What cause is there yet keeps my darling awake?
This throb in your bosom proclaims some affright
Disturbs your composure. Can innocence quake?
"Why thus do you cling to my neck, and enfold me,
What fear unimparted your quiet devours?"
"O mother, there's reason--for Susan has told me,
A dead body lies in the room next to ours."
"I know it; and, but for forgetfulness, dear,
I meant you the coffin this day should have seen,
And read the inscription, and told me the year
And day of the death of your poor old Nurse Green."
"O not for the wealth of the world would I enter
A chamber wherein a dead body lay hid,
Lest somebody bolder than I am should venture
To go near the coffin and lift up the lid."
"And should they do so and the coffin uncover,
The corpse underneath it would be no ill sight;
This frame, when its animal functions are over,
Has nothing of horror the living to fright.
"To start at the dead is preposterous error,
To shrink from a foe that can never contest;
Shall that which is motionless move thee to terror;
Or thou become restless, 'cause they are at rest?
"To think harm of her our good feelings forbid us
By whom when a babe you were dandled and fed;
Who living so many good offices did us,
I ne'er can persuade me would hurt us when dead.
"But if no endeavour your terrors can smother,
If vainly against apprehension you strive,
Come, bury your fears in the arms of your mother;
My darling, cling close to me, I am alive."
GOOD TEMPER
In whatsoever place resides
Good Temper, she o'er all presides;
The most obdurate heart she guides.
Even Anger yields unto her power,
And sullen Spite forgets to lour,
Or reconciled weeps a shower;
Reserve she softens into Ease,
Makes Fretfulness leave off to teaze,
She Waywardness itself can please.
Her handmaids they are not a few:
Sincerity that's ever true,
And Prompt Obedience always new,
Urbanity that ever smiles,
And Frankness that ne'er useth wiles,
And Friendliness that ne'er beguiles,
And Firmness that is always ready
To make young good-resolves more steady,
The only safeguard of the giddy;
And blushing Modesty, and sweet
Humility in fashion neat;
Yet still her train is incomplete,
Unless meek Piety attend
Good Temper as her surest friend,
Abiding with her to the end.
MODERATION IN DIET
The drunkard's sin, excess in wine,
Which reason drowns, and health destroys,
As yet no failing is of thine,
Dear Jim; strong drink's not given to boys.
You from the cool fresh steam allay
Those thirsts which sultry suns excite;
When choak'd with dust, or hot with play,
A cup of water yields delight.
And reverence still that temperate cup,
And cherish long the blameless taste;
To learn the faults of men grown up,
Dear Jim, be wise and do not haste.
They'll come too soon.--But there's a vice,
That shares the world's contempt no less;
To be in eating over-nice,
Or to court surfeits by excess.
The first, as finical, avoid;
The last is proper to a swine:
By temperance meat is best enjoy'd;
Think of this maxim when you dine.
Prefer with plain food to be fed,
Rather than what are dainties styl'd;
A sweet tooth in an infant's head
Is pardon'd, not in a grown child.
If parent, aunt, or liberal friend,
With splendid shilling line your purse,
Do not the same on sweetmeats spend,
Nor appetite with pampering nurse.
Go buy a book; a dainty eaten
Is vanish'd, and no sweets remain;
They who their minds with knowledge sweeten,
The savour long as life retain.
Purchase some toy, a horse of wood,
A pasteboard ship; their structure scan;
Their mimic uses understood,
The school-boy make a kind of man.
Go see some show; pictures or prints;
Or beasts far brought from Indian land;
Those foreign sights oft furnish hints,
That may the youthful mind expand.
And something of your store impart,
To feed the poor and hungry soul;
What buys for you the needless tart,
May purchase him a needful roll.
INCORRECT SPEAKING
Incorrectness in your speech
Carefully avoid, my Anna;
Study well the sense of each
Sentence, lest in any manner
It misrepresent the truth;
Veracity's the charm of youth.
You will not, I know, tell lies,
If you know what you are speaking.--
Truth is shy, and from us flies;
Unless diligently seeking
Into every word we pry,
Falsehood will her place supply.
Falsehood is not shy, not she,--
Ever ready to take place of
Truth, too oft we Falsehood see,
Or at least some latent trace of
Falsehood, in the incorrect
Words of those who Truth respect.
CHARITY
O why your good deeds with such pride do you scan,
And why that self-satisfied smile
At the shilling you gave to the poor working man,
That lifted you over the stile?
'Tis not much; all the bread that can with it be bought
Will scarce give a morsel to each
Of his eight hungry children;--reflection and thought
Should you more humility teach.
Vain glory's a worm which the very best action
Will taint, and its soundness eat thro';
But to give one's self airs for a small benefaction,
Is folly and vanity too.
The money perhaps by your father or mother
Was furnish'd you but with that view;
If so, you were only the steward of another,
And the praise you usurp is their due.
Perhaps every shilling you give in this way
Is paid back with two by your friends;
Then the bounty you so ostentatious display,
Has little and low selfish ends.
But if every penny you gave were your own,
And giving diminish'd your purse;
By a child's slender means think how little is done,
And how little for it you're the worse.
You eat, and you drink; when you rise in the morn,
You are cloth'd; you have health and content;
And you never have known, from the day you were born,
What hunger or nakedness meant.
The most which your bounty from you can subtract
Is an apple, a sweetmeat, a toy;
For so easy a virtue, so trifling an act,
You are paid with an innocent joy.
Give thy bread to the hungry, the thirsty thy cup;
Divide with th' afflicted thy lot:
This can only be practis'd by persons grown up,
Who've possessions which children have not.
Having two cloaks, give one (said our Lord) to the poor;
In such bounty as that lies the trial:
But a child that gives half of its infantile store
Has small praise, because small self-denial.
MY BIRTH-DAY
A dozen years since in this house what commotion,
What bustle, what stir, and what joyful ado;
Ev'ry soul in the family at my devotion,
When into the world I came twelve years ago.
I've been told by my friends (if they do not belie me)
My promise was such as no parent would scorn;
The wise and the aged who prophesied by me,
Augur'd nothing but good of me when I was born.
But vain are the hopes which are form'd by a parent,
Fallacious the marks which in infancy shine;
My frail constitution soon made it apparent,
I nourish'd within me the seeds of decline.
On a sick bed I lay, through the flesh my bones started,
My grief-wasted frame to a skeleton fell;
My physicians foreboding took leave and departed,
And they wish'd me dead now, who wished me well.
Life and soul were kept in by a mother's assistance,
Who struggled with faith, and prevail'd 'gainst despair;
Like an angel she watch'd o'er the lamp of existence,
And never would leave while a glimmer was there.
By her care I'm alive now--but what retribution
Can I for a life twice bestow'd thus confer?
Were I to be silent, each year's revolution
Proclaims--each new birth-day is owing to her.
The chance-rooted tree that by way-sides is planted,
Where no friendly hand will watch o'er its young shoots,
Has less blame if in autumn, when produce is wanted,
Enrich'd by small culture it put forth small fruits.
But that which with labour in hot-beds is reared,
Secur'd by nice art from the dews and the rains,
Unsound at the root may with justice be feared,
If it pay not with int'rest the tiller's hard pains.
THE BEASTS IN THE TOWER
Within the precincts of this yard,
Each in his narrow confines barr'd,
Dwells every beast that can be found
On Afric or on Indian ground.
How different was the life they led
In those wild haunts where they were bred,
To this tame servitude and fear,
Enslav'd by man, they suffer here!
In that uneasy close recess
Couches a sleeping Lioness;
The next den holds a Bear; the next
A Wolf, by hunger ever vext;
There, fiercer from the keeper's lashes,
His teeth the fell Hyena gnashes;
That creature on whose back abound
Black spots upon a yellow ground,
A Panther is, the fairest beast
That haunteth in the spacious East.
He underneath a fair outside
Does cruelty and treach'ry hide.
That cat-like beast that to and fro
Restless as fire does ever go,
As if his courage did resent
His limbs in such confinement pent,
That should their prey in forests take,
And make the Indian jungles quake,
A Tiger is. Observe how sleek
And glossy smooth his coat: no streak
On sattin ever match'd the pride
Of that which marks his furry hide.
How strong his muscles! he with ease
Upon the tallest man could seize,
In his large mouth away could bear him,
And into thousand pieces tear him:
Yet cabin'd so securely here,
The smallest infant need not fear.
That lordly creature next to him
A Lion is. Survey each limb.
Observe the texture of his claws,
The massy thickness of those jaws;
His mane that sweeps the ground in length,
Like Samson's locks, betok'ning strength.
In force and swiftness he excels
Each beast that in the forest dwells;
The savage tribes him king confess
Throughout the howling wilderness.
Woe to the hapless neighbourhood,
When he is press'd by want of food!
Of man, or child, of bull, or horse,
He makes his prey; such is his force.
A waste behind him he creates,
Whole villages depopulates.
Yet here within appointed lines
How small a grate his rage confines!
This place methinks resembleth well
The world itself in which we dwell.
Perils and snares on every ground
Like these wild beasts beset us round.
But Providence their rage restrains,
Our heavenly Keeper sets them chains;
His goodness saveth every hour
His darlings from the Lion's power.
THE CONFIDANT
Anna was always full of thought
As if she'd many sorrows known,
Yet mostly her full heart was fraught
With troubles that were not her own;
For the whole school to Anna us'd to tell
Whatever small misfortunes unto them befell.
And being so by all belov'd,
That all into her bosom pour'd
Their dearest secrets, she was mov'd
To pity all--her heart a hoard,
Or storehouse, by this means became for all
The sorrows can to girls of tender age befall.
Though individually not much
Distress throughout the school prevail'd,
Yet as she shar'd it all, 'twas such
A weight of woe that her assail'd,
She lost her colour, loath'd her food, and grew
So dull, that all their confidence from her withdrew.
Released from her daily care,
No longer list'ning to complaint,
She seems to breathe a different air,
And health once more her cheek does paint.
Still Anna loves her friends, but will not hear
Again their list of grievances which cost so dear.
THOUGHTLESS CRUELTY
There, Robert, you have kill'd that fly--
And should you thousand ages try
The life you've taken to supply,
You could not do it.
You surely must have been devoid
Of thought and sense, to have destroy'd
A thing which no way you annoy'd--
You'll one day rue it.
'Twas but a fly perhaps you'll say,
That's born in April, dies in May;
That does but just learn to display
His wings one minute,
And in the next is vanish'd quite.
A bird devours it in his flight--
Or come a cold blast in the night,
There's no breath in it.
The bird but seeks his proper food--
And Providence, whose power endu'd
That fly with life, when it thinks good,
May justly take it.
But you have no excuses for't--
A life by Nature made so short,
Less reason is that you for sport
Should shorter make it.
A fly a little thing you rate--
But, Robert, do not estimate
A creature's pain by small or great;
The greatest being
Can have but fibres, nerves, and flesh,
And these the smallest ones possess,
Although their frame and structure less
Escape our seeing.
EYES
Lucy, what do you espy
In the cast in Jenny's eye
That should you to laughter move?
I far other feelings prove.
When on me she does advance
Her good-natur'd countenance,
And those eyes which in their way
Saying much, so much would say,
They to me no blemish seem,
Or as none I them esteem;
I their imperfection prize
Above other clearer eyes.
Eyes do not as jewels go
By the brightness and the show,
But the meanings which surround them,
And the sweetness shines around them.
Isabel's are black as jet,
But she cannot that forget,
And the pains she takes to show them
Robs them of the praise we owe them.
Ann's, though blue, affected fall;
Kate's are bright, but fierce withal;
And the sparklers of her sister
From ill-humour lose their lustre.
Only Jenny's eyes we see,
By their very plainness, free
From the vices which do smother
All the beauties of the other.
PENNY PIECES
"I keep it, dear Papa, within my glove."
"You do--what sum then usually, my love,
Is there deposited? I make no doubt,
Some Penny Pieces you are not without."
"O no, Papa, they'd soil my glove, and be
Quite odious things to carry. O no--see,
This little bit of gold is surely all
That I shall want; for I shall only call
For a small purchase I shall make, Papa,
And a mere trifle I'm to buy Mamma,
Just to make out the change: so there's no need
To carry Penny Pieces, Sir, indeed."
"O now I know then why a blind man said
Unto a dog which this blind beggar led,--
'Where'er you see some fine young ladies, Tray,
Be sure you lead me quite another way.
The poor man's friend fair ladies us'd to be;
But now I find no tale of misery
Will ever from their pockets draw a penny.'--
The blind man did not see _they wear not any_."
THE RAINBOW
After the tempest in the sky
How sweet yon Rainbow to the eye!
Come, my Matilda, now while some
Few drops of rain are yet to come,
In this honeysuckle bower
Safely shelter'd from the shower,
We may count the colours o'er.--
Seven there are, there are no more;
Each in each so finely blended,
Where they begin, or where are ended,
The finest eye can scarcely see.
A fixed thing it seems to be;
But, while we speak, see how it glides
Away, and now observe it hides
Half of its perfect arch--now we
Scarce any part of it can see.
What is colour? If I were
A natural philosopher,
I would tell you what does make
This meteor every colour take:
But an unlearned eye may view
Nature's rare sights, and love them too.
Whenever I a Rainbow see,
Each precious tint is dear to me;
For every colour find I there,
Which flowers, which fields, which ladies wear;
My favourite green, the grass's hue,
And the fine deep violet-blue,
And the pretty pale blue-bell,
And the rose I love so well,
All the wondrous variations
Of the tulip, pinks, carnations,
This woodbine here both flower and leaf;--
'Tis a truth that's past belief,
That every flower and every tree,
And every living thing we see,
Every face which we espy,
Every cheek and every eye,
In all their tints, in every shade,
Are from the Rainbow's colours made.
THE FORCE OF HABIT
A little child, who had desired
To go and see the Park guns fired,
Was taken by his maid that way
Upon the next rejoicing day.
Soon as the unexpected stroke
Upon his tender organs broke,
Confus'd and stunn'd at the report,
He to her arms fled for support,
And begg'd to be convey'd at once
Out of the noise of those great guns,
Those naughty guns, whose only sound
Would kill (he said) without a wound:
So much of horror and offence
The shock had giv'n his infant sense.
Yet this was He in after days
Who fill'd the world with martial praise,
When from the English quarter-deck
His steady courage sway'd the wreck
Of hostile fleets, disturb'd no more
By all that vast conflicting roar,
That sky and sea did seem to tear,
When vessels whole blew up in air,
Than at the smallest breath that heaves,
When Zephyr hardly stirs the leaves.
CLOCK STRIKING
Did I hear the church-clock a few minutes ago,
I was ask'd, and I answer'd, I hardly did know,
But I thought that I heard it strike three.
Said my friend then, "The blessings we always possess
We know not the want of, and prize them the less;
The church-clock was no new sound to thee.
"A young woman, afflicted with deafness a year,
By that sound you scarce heard, first perceiv'd she could _hear;_
I was near her, and saw the girl start
With such exquisite wonder, such feelings of pride,
A happiness almost to terror allied,
She shew'd the sound went to her heart."
WHY NOT DO IT, SIR, TO-DAY?
"Why so I will, you noisy bird,
This very day I'll advertise you,
Perhaps some busy ones may prize you.
A fine-tongu'd parrot as was ever heard,
I'll word it thus--set forth all charms about you,
And say no family should be without you."
Thus far a gentleman address'd a bird,
Then to his friend: "An old procrastinator,
Sir, I am: do you wonder that I hate her?
Though she but seven words can say,
Twenty and twenty times a day
She interferes with all my dreams,
My projects, plans, and airy schemes,
Mocking my foible to my sorrow:
I'll advertise this bird to-morrow."
To this the bird seven words did say:
"Why not do it, Sir, to-day?"
HOME DELIGHTS
To operas and balls my cousins take me,
And fond of plays my new-made friend would make me.
In summer season, when the days are fair,
In my godmother's coach I take the air.
My uncle has a stately pleasure barge,
Gilded and gay, adorn'd with wondrous charge;
The mast is polish'd, and the sails are fine,
The awnings of white silk like silver shine;
The seats of crimson sattin, where the rowers
Keep time to music with their painted oars;
In this on holydays we oft resort
To Richmond, Twickenham, or to Hampton Court.
By turns we play, we sing--one baits the hook,
Another angles--some more idle look
At the small fry that sport beneath the tides,
Or at the swan that on the surface glides.
My married sister says there is no feast
Equal to sight of foreign bird or beast.
With her in search of these I often roam:
My kinder parents make me blest at home.
Tir'd of excursions, visitings, and sights,
No joys are pleasing to these home delights.
THE COFFEE SLIPS
Whene'er I fragrant coffee drink,
I on the generous Frenchman think,
Whose noble perseverance bore
The tree to Martinico's shore.
While yet her colony was new,
Her island products but a few,
Two shoots from off a coffee-tree
He carried with him o'er the sea.
Each little tender coffee slip
He waters daily in the ship,
And as he tends his embryo trees,
Feels he is raising midst the seas
Coffee groves, whose ample shade
Shall screen the dark Creolian maid.
But soon, alas! his darling pleasure
In watching this his precious treasure
Is like to fade,--for water fails
On board the ship in which he sails.
Now all the reservoirs are shut,
The crew on short allowance put;
So small a drop is each man's share,
Few leavings you may think there are
To water these poor coffee plants;--
But he supplies their gasping wants,
Ev'n from his own dry parched lips
He spares it for his coffee slips.
Water he gives his nurslings first,
Ere he allays his own deep thirst;
Lest, if he first the water sip,
He bear too far his eager lip.
He sees them droop for want of more;--
Yet when they reached the destin'd shore,
With pride th' heroic gardener sees
A living sap still in his trees.
The islanders his praise resound;
Coffee plantations rise around;
And Martinico loads her ships
With produce from those dear-sav'd slips.[1]
[Footnote 1: The name of this man was Desclieux, and the story is to
be found in the Abbé Raynal's History of the Settlements and Trade of
the Europeans in the East and West Indies, book XIII.]
THE DESSERT
With the apples and the plums
Little Carolina comes,
At the time of the dessert she
Comes and drops her new last curt'sy;
Graceful curt'sy, practis'd o'er
In the nursery before.
What shall we compare her to?
The dessert itself will do.
Like preserves she's kept with care,
Like blanch'd almonds she is fair,
Soft as down on peach her hair,
And so soft, so smooth is each
Pretty cheek as that same peach,
Yet more like in hue to cherries;
Then her lips, the sweet strawberries,
Caroline herself shall try them
If they are not like when nigh them;
Her bright eyes are black as sloes,
But I think we've none of those
Common fruit here--and her chin
From a round point does begin,
Like the small end of a pear;
Whiter drapery she does wear
Than the frost on cake; and sweeter
Than the cake itself, and neater,
Though bedeck'd with emblems fine,
Is our little Caroline.
TO A YOUNG LADY, ON BEING TOO FOND OF MUSIC
Why is your mind thus all day long
Upon your music set;
Till reason's swallow'd in a song,
Or idle canzonet?
I grant you, Melesinda, when
Your instrument was new,
I was well pleas'd to see you then
Its charms assiduous woo.
The rudiments of any art
Or mast'ry that we try,
Are only on the learner's part
Got by hard industry.
But you are past your first essays;
Whene'er you play, your touch,
Skilful, and light, ensures you praise:
All beyond that's too much.
Music's sweet uses are, to smooth
Each rough and angry passion;
To elevate at once, and soothe:
A heavenly recreation.
But we misconstrue, and defeat
The end of any good;
When what should be our casual treat,
We make our constant food.
While, to th' exclusion of the rest,
This single art you ply,
Your nobler studies are supprest,
Your books neglected lie.
Could you in what you so affect
The utmost summit reach;
Beyond what fondest friends expect,
Or skilful'st masters teach:
The skill you learn'd would not repay
The time and pains it cost,
Youth's precious season thrown away,
And reading-leisure lost.
A benefit to books we owe,
Music can ne'er dispense;
The one does only _sound_ bestow,
The other gives us _sense_.
TIME SPENT IN DRESS
In many a lecture, many a book,
You all have heard, you all have read,
That time is precious. Of its use
Much has been written, much been said.
The accomplishments which gladden life,
As music, drawing, dancing, are
Encroachers on our precious time;
Their praise or dispraise I forbear.
They should be practis'd or forborne,
As parents wish, or friends desire:
What rests alone in their own will
Is all I of the young require.
There's not a more productive source
Of waste of time to the young mind
Than dress; as it regards our hours
My view of it is now confin'd.
Without some calculation, youth
May live to age and never guess,
That no one study they pursue
Takes half the time they give to dress.
Write in your memorandum-book
The time you at your toilette spend;
Then every moment which you pass,
Talking of dress with a young friend:
And ever when your silent thoughts
Have on this subject been intent,
Set down as nearly as you can
How long on dress your thoughts were bent.
If faithfully you should perform
This task, 'twould teach you to repair
Lost hours, by giving unto dress
Not more of time than its due share.
THE FAIRY
Said Ann to Matilda, "I wish that we knew
If what we've been reading of fairies be true.
Do you think that the poet himself had a sight of
The fairies he here does so prettily write of?
O what a sweet sight if he really had seen
The graceful Titania, the Fairy-land Queen!
If I had such dreams, I would sleep a whole year;
I would not wish to wake while a fairy was near.--
Now I'll fancy that I in my sleep have been seeing
A fine little delicate lady-like being,
Whose steps and whose motions so light were and airy,
I knew at one glance that she must be a fairy.
Her eyes they were blue, and her fine curling hair
Of the lightest of browns, her complexion more fair
Than I e'er saw a woman's; and then for her height,
I verily think that she measur'd not quite
Two feet, yet so justly proportion'd withal,
I was almost persuaded to think she was tall.
Her voice was the little thin note of a sprite--
There--d'ye think I have made out a fairy aright?
You'll confess, I believe, I've not done it amiss."
"Pardon me," said Matilda, "I find in all this
Fine description, you've only your young sister Mary
Been taking a copy of here for a fairy."
CONQUEST OF PREJUDICE
Unto a Yorkshire school was sent
A Negro youth to learn to write,
And the first day young Juba went
All gaz'd on him as a rare sight.
But soon with alter'd looks askance
They view his sable face and form,
When they perceive the scornful glance
Of the head boy, young Henry Orme.
He in the school was first in fame:
Said he, "It does to me appear
To be a great disgrace and shame
A black should be admitted here."
His words were quickly whisper'd round,
And every boy now looks offended;
The master saw the change, and found
That Orme a mutiny intended.
Said he to Orme, "This African
It seems is not by you approv'd;
I'll find a way, young Englishman,
To have this prejudice remov'd.
"Nearer acquaintance possibly
May make you tolerate his hue;
At least 'tis my intent to try
What a short month may chance to do."
Young Orme and Juba then he led
Into a room, in which there were
For each of the two boys a bed,
A table, and a wicker chair.
He lock'd them in, secur'd the key,
That all access to them was stopt;
They from without can nothing see;
Their food is through a sky-light dropt.
A month in this lone chamber Orme
Is sentenc'd during all that time
To view no other face or form
Than Juba's parch'd by Afric clime.
One word they neither of them spoke
The first three days of the first week;
On the fourth day the ice was broke;
Orme was the first that deign'd to speak.
The dreary silence o'er, both glad
To hear of human voice the sound,
The Negro and the English lad
Comfort in mutual converse found.
Of ships and seas, and foreign coast,
Juba can speak, for he has been
A voyager: and Orme can boast
He London's famous town has seen.
In eager talk they pass the day,
And borrow hours ev'n from the night;
So pleasantly time past away,
That they have lost their reckoning quite.
And when their master set them free,
They thought a week was sure remitted,
And thank'd him that their liberty
Had been before the time permitted.
Now Orme and Juba are good friends;
The school, by Orme's example won,
Contend who most shall make amends
For former slights to Afric's son.
THE GREAT GRANDFATHER
My father's grandfather lives still,
His age is fourscore years and ten;
He looks a monument of time,
The agedest of aged men.
Though years lie on him like a load,
A happier man you will not see
Than he, whenever he can get
His great grand-children on his knee.
When we our parents have displeas'd,
He stands between us as a screen;
By him our good deeds in the sun,
Our bad ones in the shade are seen.
His love's a line that's long drawn out,
Yet lasteth firm unto the end;
His heart is oak, yet unto us
It like the gentlest reed can bend.
A fighting soldier he has been--
Yet by his manners you would guess,
That he his whole long life had spent
In scenes of country quietness.
His talk is all of things long past,
For modern facts no pleasure yield--
Of the fam'd year of forty-five,
Of William, and Culloden's field.
The deeds of this eventful age,
Which princes from their thrones have hurl'd,
Can no more interest wake in him
Than stories of another world.
When I his length of days revolve,
How like a strong tree he hath stood,
It brings into my mind almost
Those patriarchs old before the flood.
THE SPARTAN BOY
When I the memory repeat
Of the heroic actions great,
Which, in contempt of pain and death,
Were done by men who drew their breath
In ages past, I find no deed
That can in fortitude exceed
The noble Boy, in Sparta bred,
Who in the temple minist'red.
By the sacrifice he stands,
The lighted incense in his hands.
Through the smoking censer's lid
Dropp'd a burning coal, which slid
Into his sleeve, and passed in
Between the folds ev'n to the skin.
Dire was the pain which then he prov'd;
But not for this his sleeve he mov'd,
Or would the scorching ember shake
Out from the folds, lest it should make
Any confusion, or excite
Disturbance at the sacred rite.
But close he kept the burning coal,
Till it eat itself a hole
In his flesh. The slanders by
Saw no sign, and heard no cry,
Of his pangs had no discerning,
Till they smell'd the flesh aburning
All this he did in noble scorn,
And for he was a Spartan born.
Young student, who this story readest,
And with the same thy thoughts now feedest,
Thy weaker nerves might thee forbid
To do the thing the Spartan did;
Thy feebler heart could not sustain
Such dire extremity of pain.
But in this story thou mayst see,
What may useful prove to thee.
By his example thou wilt find,
That to the ingenuous mind
Shame can greater anguish bring
Than the body's suffering;
That pain is not the worst of ills,
Not when it the body kills;
That in fair religion's cause,
For thy country, or the laws,
When occasion due shall offer
'Tis reproachful _not to suffer._
If thou shouldst a soldier be,
And a wound should trouble thee,
If without the soldier's fame
Thou to chance shouldst owe a maim,
Do not for a little pain
On thy manhood bring a stain;
But to keep thy spirits whole,
Think on the Spartan and the _coal._
QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM
(_Text of 1818_)
On a bank with roses shaded,
Whose sweet scent the violets aided,
Violets whose breath alone
Yields but feeble smell or none,
(Sweeter bed Jove ne'er repos'd on
When his eyes Olympus closed on,)
While o'er head six slaves did hold
Canopy of cloth o' gold,
And two more did music keep,
Which might Juno lull to sleep,
Oriana who was queen
To the mighty Tamerlane,
That was lord of all the land
Between Thrace and Samarchand,
While the noon-tide fervor beam'd,
Mused herself to sleep, and _dream'd_.
Thus far, in magnific strain,
A young poet sooth'd his vein,
But he had nor prose nor numbers
To express a princess' slumbers.--
Youthful Richard had strange fancies,
Was deep versed in old romances,
And could talk whole hours upon
The great Cham and Prester John,--
Tell the field in which the Sophi
From the Tartar won a trophy--
What he read with such delight of,
Thought he could as eas'ly write of--
But his over-young invention
Kept not pace with brave intention.
Twenty suns did rise and set,
And he could no further get;
But, unable to proceed,
Made a virtue out of need,
And, his labours wiselier deem'd of,
Did omit _what the queen dream'd of._
ON A PICTURE OF THE FINDING OF MOSES BY PHARAOH'S DAUGHTER
This Picture does the story express
Of Moses in the Bulrushes.
How livelily the painter's hand
By colours makes us understand!
Moses that little infant is.
This figure is his sister. This
Fine stately lady is no less
A personage than a princess,
Daughter of Pharaoh, Egypt's king;
Whom Providence did hither bring
This little Hebrew child to save.
See how near the perilous wave
He lies exposed in the ark,
His rushy cradle, his frail bark!
Pharaoh, king of Egypt land,
In his greatness gave command
To his slaves, they should destroy
Every new-born Hebrew boy.
This Moses was an Hebrew's son.
When he was born, his birth to none
His mother told, to none reveal'd,
But kept her goodly child conceal'd.
Three months she hid him; then she wrought
With Bulrushes this ark, and brought
Him in it to this river's side,
Carefully looking far and wide
To see that no Egyptian eye
Her ark-hid treasure should espy.
Among the river-flags she lays
The child. Near him his sister stays.
We may imagine her affright,
When the king's daughter is in sight.
Soon the princess will perceive
The ark among the flags, and give
Command to her attendant maid
That its contents shall be display'd.
Within the ark the child is found,
And now he utters mournful sound.
Behold he weeps, as if he were
Afraid of cruel Egypt's heir!
She speaks, she says, "This little one
I will protect, though he the son
Be of an Hebrew." Every word
She speaks is by the sister heard.
And now observe, this is the part
The painter chose to show his art.
Look at the sister's eager eye,
As here she seems advancing nigh.
Lowly she bends, says, "Shall I go
And call a nurse to thee? I know
A Hebrew woman liveth near,
Great lady, shall I bring her here?"
See! Pharaoh's daughter answers, "Go."--
No more the painter's art can show.
He cannot make his figures move.--
On the light wings of swiftest love
The girl will fly to bring the mother
To be the nurse, she'll bring no other.
To her will Pharaoh's daughter say,
"Take this child from me away:
For wages nurse him. To my home
At proper age this child may come.
When to our palace he is brought,
Wise masters shall for him be sought
To train him up, befitting one
I would protect as my own son.
And Moses be a name unto him,
Because I from the waters drew him."
DAVID
It is not always to the strong
Victorious battle shall belong.
This found Goliath huge and tall:
Mightiest giant of them all,
Who in the proud Philistian host
Defied Israel with boast.
With loud voice Goliath said:
"Hear, armed Israel, gathered,
And in array against us set:
Ye shall alone by me be met.
For am not I a Philistine?
What strength may be compar'd to mine?
"Chuse ye a man of greatest might:
And if he conquer me in fight,
Then we will all servants be,
King of Israel, unto thee.
But if I prove the victor, then
Shall Saul and all his armed men
Bend low beneath Philistian yoke."
Day by day these words he spoke,
Singly traversing the ground.
But not an Israelite was found
To combat man to man with him,
Who such prodigious force of limb
Display'd. Like to a weaver's beam
The pond'rous spear he held did seem.
In height six cubits he did pass,
And he was arm'd all o'er in brass.
Him we will leave awhile--and speak
Of one, the soft down on whose cheek
Of tender youth the tokens bare.
Ruddy he was and very fair.
David, the son of Jesse he,
Small-siz'd, yet beautiful to see.
Three brothers had he in the band
Of warriors under Saul's command;
Himself at home did private keep
In Bethlem's plains his father's sheep.
Jesse said to this his son:
"David, to thy brothers run,
Where in the camp they now abide,
And learn what of them may betide.
These presents for their captains take,
And of their fare inquiries make."
With joy the youth his sire obey'd.--
David was no whit dismay'd
When he arrived at the place
Where he beheld the strength and face
Of dread Goliath, and could hear
The challenge. Of the people near
Unmov'd he ask'd, what should be done
To him who slew that boasting one,
Whose words such mischiefs did forebode
To th' armies of the living God?
"The king," they unto David say,
"Most amply will that man repay,
He and his father's house shall be
Evermore in Israel free.
With mighty wealth Saul will endow
That man: and he has made a vow;
Whoever takes Goliath's life,
Shall have Saul's daughter for his wife."
His eldest brother, who had heard
His question, was to anger stirr'd
Against the youth: for (as he thought)
Things out of his young reach he sought.
Said he, "What mov'd thee to come here,
To question warlike men? say, where
And in whose care are those few sheep,
That in the wilderness you keep?
I know thy thoughts, how proud thou art:
In the naughtiness of thy heart,
Hoping a battle thou mayst see,
Thou comest hither down to me."
Then answer'd Jesse's youngest son
In these words: "What have I done?
Is there not cause?" Some there which heard,
And at the manner of his word
Admir'd, report this to the king.
By his command they David bring
Into his presence. Fearless then,
Before the king and his chief men,
He shews his confident design
To combat with the Philistine.
Saul with wonder heard the youth,
And thus address'd him: "Of a truth,
No pow'r thy untried sinew hath
To cope with this great man of Gath."
Lowly David bow'd his head,
And with firm voice the stripling said:
"Thy servant kept his father's sheep.--
Rushing from a mountain steep
There came a lion, and a bear,
The firstlings of my flock to tear.
Thy servant hath that lion kill'd,
And kill'd that bear, when from the field
Two young lambs by force they seiz'd.
The Lord was mercifully pleas'd
Me to deliver from the paw
Of the fierce bear, and cruel jaw
Of the strong lion. I shall slay
Th' unrighteous Philistine this day,
If God deliver him also
To me." He ceas'd. The king said, "Go:
Thy God, the God of Israel, be
In the battle still with thee."
David departs, unarmed, save
A staff in hand he chanc'd to have.
Nothing to the fight he took,
Save five smooth stones from out a brook;
These in his shepherd's scrip he plac'd,
That was fasten'd round his waist.
With staff and sling alone he meets
The armed giant, who him greets
With nought but scorn. Looking askance
On the fair ruddy countenance
Of his young enemy--"Am I
A dog, that thou com'st here to try
Thy strength upon me with a staff--?"
Goliath said with scornful laugh.
"Thou com'st with sword, with spear, with shield,
Yet thou to me this day must yield.
The Lord of Hosts is on my side,
Whose armies boastful thou'st defied.
All nations of the earth shall hear
He saveth not with shield and spear."
Thus David spake, and nigher went,
Then chusing from his scrip, he sent
Out of his slender sling a stone.--
The giant utter'd fearful moan.
The stone though small had pierced deep
Into his forehead, endless sleep
Giving Goliath--and thus died
Of Philistines the strength and pride.