"My dearest Jenny Wren,

If you will but be mine,

You shall dine on cherry pie,

And drink nice currant wine.

I'll dress you like a Goldfinch,

Or like a Peacock gay;

So if you'll have me, Jenny,

Let us appoint the day."

Jenny blushed behind her fan,

And thus declared her mind:

"Then let it be to-morrow, Bob,

I take your offer kind--

Cherry pie is very good!

So is currant wine!

But I will wear my brown gown,

And never dress too fine."

Robin rose up early

At the break of day;

He flew to Jenny Wren's house,

To sing a roundelay.

He met the Cock and Hen,

And bid the Cock declare,

This was his wedding-day

With Jenny Wren, the fair.

The Cock then blew his horn,

To let the neighbors know,

This was Robin's wedding-day,

And they might see the show.

And first came Parson Rook,

With his spectacles and band,

And one of Mother Hubbard's books

He held within his hand.

Then followed him the Lark,

For he could sweetly sing,

And he was to be clerk

At Cock Robin's wedding.

He sang of Robin's love

For little Jenny Wren;

And when he came unto the end,

Then he began again.

Then came the bride and bridegroom;

Quite plainly was she dressed,

And blushed so much, her cheeks were

As red as Robin's breast.

But Robin cheered her up;

"My pretty Jen," said he,

"We're going to be married

And happy we shall be."

The Goldfinch came on next,

To give away the bride;

The Linnet, being bride's maid,

Walked by Jenny's side;

And, as she was a-walking,

She said, "Upon my word,

I think that your Cock Robin

Is a very pretty bird."

The Bulfinch walked by Robin,

And thus to him did say,

"Pray, mark, friend Robin Redbreast,

That Goldfinch, dressed so gay;

What though her gay apparel

Becomes her very well,

Yet Jenny's modest dress and look

Must bear away the bell."

The Blackbird and the Thrush,

And charming Nightingale,

Whose sweet jug sweetly echoes

Through every grove and dale;

The Sparrow and Tom Tit,

And many more, were there:

All came to see the wedding

Of Jenny Wren, the fair.

"O then," says Parson Rook,

"Who gives this maid away?"

"I do," says the Goldfinch,

"And her fortune I will pay:

Here's a bag of grain of many sorts,

And other things beside;

Now happy be the bridegroom,

And happy be the bride!"

"And will you have her, Robin,

To be your wedded wife?"

"Yes, I will," says Robin,

"And love her all my life."

"And will you have him, Jenny,

Your husband now to be?"

"Yes, I will," says Jenny,

"And love him heartily."

Then on her finger fair

Cock Robin put the ring;

"You're married now," says Parson Rook,

While the Lark aloud did sing:

"Happy be the bridegroom,

And happy be the bride!

And may not man, nor bird, nor beast,

This happy pair divide."

The birds were asked to dine;

Not Jenny's friends alone,

But every pretty songster

That had Cock Robin known.

They had a cherry pie,

Beside some currant wine,

And every guest brought something,

That sumptuous they might dine.

Now they all sat or stood

To eat and to drink;

And every one said what

He happened to think:

They each took a bumper,

And drank to the pair:

Cock Robin, the bridegroom,

And Jenny Wren, the fair.

The dinner-things removed,

They all began to sing;

And soon they made the place

Near a mile round to ring.

The concert it was fine;

And every bird tried

Who best could sing for Robin

And Jenny Wren, the bride.

Then in came the Cuckoo and made a great rout;

He caught hold of Jenny and pulled her about.

Cock Robin was angry, and so was the Sparrow,

Who fetched in a hurry his bow and his arrow.

His aim then he took, but he took it not right;

His skill was not good, or he shot in a fright;

For the Cuckoo he missed, but Cock Robin killed!--

And all the birds mourned that his blood was so spilled.

Unknown

THE BABES IN THE WOOD

Now ponder well, you parents dear,

These words, which I shall write;

A doleful story you shall hear,

In time brought forth to light.

A gentleman of good account

In Norfolk dwelt of late,

Who did in honor far surmount

Most men of his estate.

Sore sick was he, and like to die,

No help his life could save;

His wife by him as sick did lie,

And both possessed one grave.

No love between these two was lost,

Each was to other kind;

In love they lived, in loved they died,

And left two babes behind:

The one a fine and pretty boy,

Not passing three years old;

The other a girl more young than he,

And framed in beauty's mold.

The father left his little son,

As plainly does appear,

When he to perfect age should come,

Three hundred pounds a year.

And to his little daughter Jane

Five hundred pounds in gold,

To be paid down on marriage-day,

Which might not be controlled:

But if the children chance to die,

Ere they to age should come,

Their uncle should possess their wealth;

For so the will did run.

"Now, brother," said the dying man,

"Look to my children dear;

Be good unto my boy and girl,

No friends else have they here:

To God and you I recommend

My children dear this day;

But little while be sure we have

Within this world to stay.

"You must be father and mother both,

And uncle all in one;

God knows what will become of them,

When I am dead and gone."

With that bespake their mother dear,

"O brother kind," quoth she,

"You are the man must bring our babes

To wealth or misery.

"And if you keep them carefully

Then God will you reward;

But if you otherwise should deal,

God will your deeds regard."

With lips as cold as any stone,

They kissed their children small:

"God bless you both, my children dear;"

With that the tears did fall.

These speeches then their brother spake

To this sick couple there,

"The keeping of your little ones,

Sweet sister, do not fear;

God never prosper me nor mine,

Nor aught else that I have,

If I do wrong your children dear,

When you are laid in grave."

The parents being dead and gone,

The children home he takes,

And brings them straight into his house,

Where much of them he makes.

He had not kept these pretty babes

A twelvemonth and a day,

But, for their wealth, he did devise

To make them both away.

He bargained with two ruffians strong,

Which were of furious mood,

That they should take these children young,

And slay them in a wood.

He told his wife an artful tale,

He would the children send

To be brought up in fair London,

With one that was his friend.

Away then went these pretty babes,

Rejoicing at that tide,

Rejoicing with a merry mind,

They should on cock-horse ride.

They prate and prattle pleasantly,

As they rode on the way,

To those that should their butchers be,

And work their lives' decay:

So that the pretty speech they had,

Made Murder's heart relent;

And they that undertook the deed,

Full sore did now repent.

Yet one of them more hard of heart,

Did vow to do his charge,

Because the wretch that hired him,

Had paid him very large.

The other won't agree thereto,

So here they fall to strife;

With one another they did fight,

About the children's life:

And he that was of mildest mood,

Did slay the other there,

Within an unfrequented wood;

The babes did quake for fear!

He took the children by the hand,

Tears standing in their eye,

And bade them straightway follow him,

And look they did not cry:

And two long miles he led them on,

While they for food complain:

"Stay here," quoth he, "I'll bring you bread,

When I come back again."

These pretty babes, with hand in hand,

Went wandering up and down,

But never more could see the man

Approaching from the town;

Their pretty lips with black-berries

Were all besmeared and dyed,

And, when they saw the darksome night,

They sat them down and cried.

Thus wandered these poor innocents,

Till death did end their grief;

In one another's arms they died,

As wanting due relief:

No burial this pretty pair

Of any man receives,

Till Robin-red-breast piously

Did cover them with leaves.

And now the heavy wrath of God

Upon their uncle fell;

Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house,

His conscience felt an hell:

His barns were fired, his goods consumed,

His lands were barren made,

His cattle died within the field,

And nothing with him stayed.

And in a voyage to Portugal

Two of his sons did die;

And, to conclude, himself was brought

To want and misery:

He pawned and mortgaged all his land

Ere seven years came about,

And now at length his wicked act

Did by this means come out:

The fellow, that did take in hand

These children for to kill,

Was for a robbery judged to die,

Such was God's blessed will:

Who did confess the very truth

As here hath been displayed:

Their uncle having died in jail,

Where he for debt was laid.

You that executors be made,

And overseers eke

Of children that be fatherless,

And infants mild and meek;

Take you example by this thing,

And yield to each his right,

Lest God with such like misery

Your wicked minds requite.

Unknown

GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP

The summer and autumn had been so wet,

That in winter the corn was growing yet:

'Twas a piteous sight to see, all around,

The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor

Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door;

For he had a plentiful last-year's store,

And all the neighborhood could tell

His granaries were furnished well.

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day

To quiet the poor without delay;

He bade them to his great barn repair,

And they should have food for the winter there.

Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,

The poor folk flocked from far and near;

The great barn was full as it could hold

Of women and children, and young and old.

Then, when he saw it could hold no more,

Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;

And, while for mercy on Christ they call,

He set fire to the barn, and burnt them all.

"I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he;

"And the country is greatly obliged to me

For ridding it, in these times forlorn,

Of rats that only consume the corn."

So then to his palace returned he,

And he sat down to supper merrily,

And he slept that night like an innocent man;

But Bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning, as he entered the hall,

Where his picture hung against the wall,

A sweat like death all over him came,

For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.

As he looked, there came a man from his farm,--

He had a countenance white with alarm:

"My Lord, I opened your granaries this morn,

And the rats had eaten all your corn."

Another came running presently,

And he was pale as pale could be.

"Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly!" quoth he,

"Ten thousand rats are coming this way,--

The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"

"I'll go to my tower in the Rhine," replied he;

"'Tis the safest place in Germany,--

The walls are high, and the shores are steep,

And the tide is strong, and the water deep."

Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away,

And he crossed the Rhine without delay,

And reached his tower, and barred with care

All the windows, and doors, and loop-holes there.

He laid him down and closed his eyes,

But soon a scream made him arise;

He started, and saw two eyes of flame

On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.

He listened and looked,--it was only the cat;

But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that,

For she sat screaming, mad with fear,

At the army of rats that were drawing near.

For they have swum over the river so deep,

And they have climbed the shores so steep,

And now by thousands up they crawl

To the holes and the windows in the wall.

Down on his knees the Bishop fell,

And faster and faster his beads did he tell,

As louder and louder, drawing near,

The saw of their teeth without he could hear.

And in at the windows, and in at the door,

And through the walls by thousands they pour;

And down from the ceiling and up through the floor,

From the right and the left, from behind and before,

From within and without, from above and below,--

And all at once to the Bishop they go.

They have whetted their teeth against the stones,

And now they pick the Bishop's bones;

They gnawed the flesh from every limb,

For they were sent to do judgment on him!

Robert Southey [1774-1843]

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN

A Child's Story

I

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,

By famous Hanover city;

The river Weser, deep and wide,

Washes its wall on the southern side;

A pleasanter spot you never spied;

But, when begins my ditty,

Almost five hundred years ago,

To see the townsfolk suffer so

From vermin was a pity.

II

Rats!

They fought the dogs and killed the cats,

And bit the babies in the cradles,

And ate the cheeses out of the vats,

And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles,

Split open the kegs of salted sprats,

Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,

And even spoiled the women's chats

By drowning their speaking

With shrieking and squeaking

In fifty different sharps and flats.

III

At last the people in a body

To the Town Hall came flocking:

"'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy;

And as for our Corporation,--shocking

To think we buy gowns lined with ermine

For dolts that can't or won't determine

What's best to rid us of our vermin!

You hope, because you're old and obese,

To find in the furry civic robe ease?

Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking,

To find the remedy we're lacking,

Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!"

At this the Mayor and Corporation

Quaked with a mighty consternation.

IV

An hour they sat in council,--

At length the Mayor broke silence:

"For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell;

I wish I were a mile hence!

It's easy to bid one rack one's brain,--

I'm sure my poor head aches again,

I've scratched it so, and all in vain.

Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!"

Just as he said this, what should hap

At the chamber-door but a gentle tap?

"Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?"

(With the Corporation as he sat,

Looking little though wondrous fat;

Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister

Than a too-long-opened oyster,

Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous

For a plate of turtle green and glutinous)

"Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?

Anything like the sound of a rat

Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

V

"Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger:

And in did come the strangest figure!

His queer long coat from heel to head

Was half of yellow and half of red,

And he himself was tall and thin,

With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,

And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,

No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,

But lips where smiles went out and in;

There was no guessing his kith and kin:

And nobody could enough admire

The tall man and his quaint attire.

Quoth one: "It's as my great-grandsire,

Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone,

Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"

VI

He advanced to the council-table:

And, "Please your honors," said he, I'm able,

By means of a secret charm, to draw

All creatures living beneath the sun,

That creep or swim or fly or run,

After me so as you never saw!

And I chiefly use my charm

On creatures that do people harm,

The mole and toad and newt and viper;

And people call me the Pied Piper."

(And here they noticed round his neck

A scarf of red and yellow stripe,

To match with his coat of the self-same check,

And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;

And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying

As if impatient to be playing

Upon this pipe, as low it dangled

Over his vesture so old-fangled.)

"Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am,

In Tartary I freed the Cham,

Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;

I eased in Asia the Nizam

Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats;

And as for what your brain bewilders,--

If I can rid your town of rats,

Will you give me a thousand guilders?"

"One? fifty thousand!" was the exclamation

Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

VII

Into the street the Piper stepped,

Smiling first a little smile,

As if he knew what magic slept

In his quiet pipe the while;

Then, like a musical adept,

To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,

And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,

Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;

And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,

You heard as if an army muttered;

And the muttering grew to a grumbling;

And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;

And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.

Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,

Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,

Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,

Cocking tails and pricking whiskers;

Families by tens and dozens,

Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives,--

Followed the Piper for their lives.

From street to street he piped advancing,

And step for step they followed dancing,

Until they came to the river Weser,

Wherein all plunged and perished!

--Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar,

Swam across and lived to carry

(As he, the manuscript he cherished)

To Rat-land home his commentary,

Which was: "At the first shrill notes of the pipe,

I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,

And putting apples, wondrous ripe,

Into a cider-press's gripe,--

And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,

And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,

And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,

And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks;

And it seemed as if a voice

(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery

Is breathed) called out, 'Oh rats, rejoice!

The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!

So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,

Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!'

And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,

Already staved, like a great sun shone

Glorious scarce an inch before me,

Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!'--

I found the Weser rolling o'er me."

VIII

You should have heard the Hamelin people

Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple;

"Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles!

Poke out the nests and block up the holes!

Consult with carpenters and builders,

And leave in our town not even a trace

Of the rats!"--when suddenly, up the face

Of the Piper perked in the market-place,

With a "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"

IX

A thousand guilders! the Mayor looked blue;

So did the Corporation too.

For council-dinners made rare havoc

With Claret, Moselle, Via-de-Grave, Hock;

And half the money would replenish

Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.

To pay this sum to a wandering fellow

With a gypsy coat of red and yellow!

"Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink,

"Our business was done at the river's brink;

We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,

And what's dead can't come to life, I think.

So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink

From the duty of giving you something to drink,

And a matter of money to put in your poke;

But as for the guilders, what we spoke

Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.

Beside, our losses have made us thrifty;

A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"

X

The Piper's face fell, and he cried,

"No trifling! I can't wait! beside,

I've promised to visit by dinner time

Bagdat, and accept the prime

Of the Head Cook's pottage, all he's rich in,

For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen,

Of a nest of scorpions no survivor:

With him I proved no bargain-driver;

With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!

And folks who put me in a passion

May find me pipe after another fashion."

XI

"How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brook

Being worse treated than a Cook?

Insulted by a lazy ribald

With idle pipe and vesture piebald?

You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,

Blow your pipe there till you burst!"

XII

Once more he stepped into the street;

And to his lips again

Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;

And ere he blew three notes (such sweet

Soft notes as yet musician's cunning

Never gave the enraptured air)

There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling

Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling;

Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,

Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering;

And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,

Out came the children running:

All the little boys and girls,

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,

And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,

Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

XIII

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood

As if they were changed into blocks of wood,

Unable to move a step, or cry

To the children merrily skipping by,--

And could only follow with the eye

That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.

But how the Mayor was on the rack,

And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,

As the Piper turned from the High Street

To where the Weser rolled its waters

Right in the way of their sons and daughters!

However, he turned from south to west,

And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,

And after him the children pressed;

Great was the joy in every breast.

"He never can cross that mighty top!

He's forced to let the piping drop,

And we shall see our children stop!"

When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side,

A wondrous portal opened wide,

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;

And the Piper advanced and the children followed;

And when all were in, to the very last,

The door in the mountain-side shut fast.

Did I say, all? No! One was lame,

And could not dance the whole of the way;

And in after years, if you would blame

His sadness, he was used to say,--

"It's dull in our town since my playmates left!

I can't forget that I'm bereft

Of all the pleasant sights they see,

Which the Piper also promised me;

For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,

Joining the town and just at hand,

Where waters gushed, and fruit-trees grew,

And flowers put forth a fairer hue,

And everything was strange and new;

The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,

And their dogs outran our fallow deer,

And honey-bees had lost their stings,

And horses were born with eagles' wings;

And just as I became assured

My lame foot would be speedily cured,

The music stopped and I stood still,

And found myself outside the hill,

Left alone against my will,

To go now limping as before,

And never hear of that country more!

XIV

Alas, alas for Hamelin!

There came into many a burgher's pate

A text which says that heaven's gate

Opes to the rich at as easy rate

As the needle's eye takes a camel in!

The Mayor sent East, West, North and South,

To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,

Wherever it was men's lot to find him,

Silver and gold to his heart's content,

If he'd only return the way he went,

And bring the children behind him.

But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor,

And piper and dancers were gone forever,

They made a decree that lawyers never

Should think their records dated duly

If, after the day of the month and year,

These words did not as well appear,

"And so long after what happened here

On the Twenty-second of July,

Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:"

And the better in memory to fix

The place of the children's last retreat,

They called it, the Pied Piper's Street--

Where any one playing on pipe or tabor

Was sure for the future to lose his labor.

Nor suffered they hostlery or tavern

To shock with mirth a street so solemn;

But opposite the place of the cavern

They wrote the story on a column,

And on the great church-window painted

The same, to make the world acquainted

How their children were stolen away,

And there it stands to this very day.

And I must not omit to say

That in Transylvania there's a tribe

Of alien people who ascribe

The outlandish ways and dress

On which their neighbors lay such stress,

To their fathers and mothers having risen

Out of some subterraneous prison

Into which they were trepanned

Long time ago in a mighty band

Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,

But how or why, they don't understand.

XV

So, Willy, let me and you be wipers

Of scores out with all men--especially pipers!

And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,

If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

THE GLAD EVANGEL

A CAROL

He came all so still

Where His mother was,

As dew in April

That falleth on the grass.

He came all so still

Where His mother lay,

As dew in April

That falleth on the spray.

He came all so still

To His mother's bower,

As dew in April

That falleth on the flower.

Mother and maiden

Was never none but she!

Well might such a lady

God's mother be.

Unknown

"GOD REST YOU MERRY, GENTLEMEN"

God rest you merry, gentlemen,

Let nothing you dismay,

For Jesus Christ, our Saviour,

Was born upon this day,

To save us all from Satan's power

When we were gone astray.

O tidings of comfort and joy!

For Jesus Christ, our Saviour,

Was born on Christmas Day.

In Bethlehem, in Jewry,

This blessed babe was born,

And laid within a manger,

Upon this blessed morn;

The which His mother, Mary,

Nothing did take in scorn.

From God our Heavenly Father,

A blessed angel came;

And unto certain shepherds

Brought tidings of the same:

How that in Bethlehem was born

The Son of God by name.

"Fear not," then said the angel,

"Let nothing you affright,

This day is born a Saviour

Of virtue, power, and might,

So frequently to vanquish all

The friends of Satan quite."

The shepherds at these tidings

Rejoiced much in mind,

And left their flocks a-feeding

In tempest, storm, and wind,

And went to Bethlehem straightway,

This blessed babe to find.

But when to Bethlehem they came,

Whereat this infant lay,

They found Him in a manger,

Where oxen feed on hay,

His mother Mary kneeling,

Unto the Lord did pray.

Now to the Lord sing praises,

All you within this place,

And with true love and brotherhood

Each other now embrace;

This holy tide of Christmas

All others doth deface.

O tidings of comfort and joy!

For Jesus Christ, our Saviour,

Was born in Christmas Day.

Unknown

"O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM"

O little town of Bethlehem,

How still we see thee lie!

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep

The silent stars go by;

Yet in thy dark streets shineth

The everlasting Light;

The hopes and fears of all the years

Are met in thee to-night.

For Christ is born of Mary,

And, gathered all above,

While mortals sleep, the angels keep

Their watch of wondering love.

O morning stars, together

Proclaim the holy birth!

And praises sing to God the King,

And peace to men on earth.

How silently, how silently,

The wondrous gift is given!

So God imparts to human hearts

The blessings of His heaven.

No ear may hear His coming,

But in this world of sin,

Where meek souls will receive Him still,

The dear Christ enters in.

O holy Child of Bethlehem!

Descend to us, we pray;

Cast out our sin, and enter in,

Be born in us to-day.

We hear the Christmas angels

The great glad tidings tell;

Oh come to us, abide with us,

Our Lord Emmanuel!

Phillips Brooks [1835-1893]

A CHRISTMAS HYMN

Old Style: 1837

It was the calm and silent night!

Seven hundred years and fifty-three

Had Rome been growing up to might,

And now was Queen of land and sea.

No sound was heard of clashing wars;

Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain;

Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars,

Held undisturbed their ancient reign,

In the solemn midnight

Centuries ago.

'Twas in the calm and silent night!

The senator of haughty Rome

Impatient urged his chariot's flight,

From lordly revel rolling home.

Triumphal arches gleaming swell

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;

What recked the Roman what befell

A paltry province far away,

In the solemn midnight

Centuries ago!

Within that province far away

Went plodding home a weary boor:

A streak of light before him lay,

Fall'n through a half-shut stable door

Across his path. He passed--for naught

Told what was going on within;

How keen the stars! his only thought;

The air how calm and cold and thin,

In the solemn midnight

Centuries ago!

O strange indifference!--low and high

Drowsed over common joys and cares:

The earth was still--but knew not why;

The world was listening--unawares.

How calm a moment may precede

One that shall thrill the world for ever!

To that still moment none would heed,

Man's doom was linked, no more to sever,

In the solemn midnight

Centuries ago.

It is the calm and solemn night!

A thousand bells ring out, and throw

Their joyous peals abroad, and smite

The darkness, charmed and holy now.

The night that erst no name had worn,

To it a happy name is given;

For in that stable lay new-born

The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven,

In the solemn midnight

Centuries ago.

Alfred Domett [1811-1887]

"WHILE SHEPHERDS WATCHED THEIR FLOCKS BY NIGHT"

While shepherds watched their flocks by night,

All seated on the ground,

The angel of the Lord came down,

And glory shone around.

"Fear not," said he, for mighty dread

Had seized their troubled mind;

"Glad tidings of great joy I bring

To you and all mankind.

"To you, in David's town, this day

Is born, of David's line,

The Saviour, who is Christ the Lord,

And this shall be the sign:

"The heavenly babe you there shall find

To human view displayed,

All meanly wrapped in swaddling bands,

And in a manger laid."

Thus spake the seraph; and forthwith

Appeared a shining throng

Of angels, praising God, who thus

Addressed their joyful song:

"All glory be to God on high,

And to the earth be peace;

Good will henceforth from Heaven to men

Begin and never cease."

Nahum Tate [1652-1715]

CHRISTMAS CAROLS

It came upon the midnight clear,

That glorious song of old,

From angels bending near the earth

To touch their harps of gold:

"Peace on the earth, good will to men

From heaven's all-gracious King"--

The world in solemn stillness lay

To hear the angels sing.

Still through the cloven skies they come

With peaceful wings unfurled,

And still their heavenly music floats

O'er all the weary world;

Above its sad and lowly plains

They bend on hovering wing,

And ever o'er its Babel-sounds

The blessed angels sing.

But with the woes of sin and strife

The world has suffered long;

Beneath the angel-strain have rolled

Two thousand years of wrong;

And man, at war with man, hears not

The love-song which they bring;--

Oh, hush the noise, ye men of strife,

And hear the angels sing!

And ye, beneath life's crushing load,

Whose forms are bending low,

Who toil along the climbing way

With painful steps and slow,

Look now! for glad and golden hours

Come swiftly on the wing;--

Oh, rest beside the weary road

And hear the angels sing!

For lo! the days are hastening on

By prophet bards foretold,

When with the ever circling years

Comes round the age of gold;

When Peace shall over all the earth

Its ancient splendors fling,

And the whole world give back the song

Which now the angels sing.

Edmund Hamilton Sears [1810-1876]

THE ANGELS

From "Flowers of Sion"

Run, shepherds, run where Bethlehem blest appears.

We bring the best of news; be not dismayed:

A Saviour there is born more old than years,

Amidst heaven's rolling heights this earth who stayed.

In a poor cottage inned, a virgin maid,

A weakling did him bear, who all upbears;

There is he poorly swaddled, in manger laid,

To whom too narrow swaddlings are our spheres:

Run, shepherds, run, and solemnize his birth.

This is that night--no, day, grown great with bliss,

In which the power of Satan broken is:

In heaven be glory, peace unto the earth!

Thus singing, through the air the angels swarm,

And cope of stars re-echoed the same.

William Drummond [1585-1649]

THE BURNING BABE

As I in hoary winter's night

Stood shivering in the snow,

Surprised I was with sudden heat

Which made my heart to glow;

And lifting up a fearful eye

To view what fire was near,

A pretty babe all burning bright

Did in the air appear;

Who, scorched with excessive heat,

Such floods of tears did shed,

As though His floods should quench His flames,

Which with His tears were bred:

"Alas!" quoth He, "but newly born

In fiery heats I fry,

Yet none approach to warm their hearts

Or feel my fire but I!

"My faultless breast the furnace is;

The fuel, wounding thorns;

Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke;

The ashes, shames and scorns;

The fuel Justice layeth on,

And Mercy blows the coals,

The metal in this furnace wrought

Are men's defiled souls:

For which, as now on fire I am

To work them to their good,

So will I melt into a bath,

To wash them in my blood."

With this He vanished out of sight

And swiftly shrunk away,

And straight I called unto mind

That it was Christmas Day.

Robert Southwell [1561?-1595]

TRYSTE NOEL

The Ox he openeth wide the Doore,

And from the Snowe he calls her inne,

And he hath seen her Smile therefor,

Our Ladye without Sinne.

Now soone from Sleep

A Starre shall leap,

And soone arrive both King and Hinde:

Amen, Amen:

But O, the Place co'd I but finde!

The Ox hath hushed his voyce and bent

Trewe eyes of Pitty ore the Mow,

And on his lovelie Neck, forspent,

The Blessed layes her Browe.

Around her feet

Full Warme and Sweete

His bowerie Breath doth meeklie dwell:

Amen, Amen:

But sore am I with Vaine Travel!

The Ox is host in Judah stall

And Host of more than onelie one,

For close she gathereth withal

Our Lorde her littel Sonne.

Glad Hinde and King

Their Gyfte may bring,

But wo'd to-night my Teares were there,

Amen, Amen:

Between her Bosom and His hayre!

Louise Imogen Guiney [1861-1920]

CHRISTMAS CAROL

As Joseph was a-waukin',

He heard an angel sing,

"This night shall be the birthnight

Of Christ our heavenly King.

"His birth-bed shall be neither

In housen nor in hall,

Nor in the place of paradise,

But in the oxen's stall.

"He neither shall be rocked

In silver nor in gold,

But in the wooden manger

That lieth in the mould.

"He neither shall be washen

With white wine nor with red,

But with the fair spring water

That on you shall be shed.

"He neither shall be clothed

In purple nor in pall,

But in the fair, white linen

That usen babies all."

As Joseph was a-waukin',

Thus did the angel sing,

And Mary's son at midnight

Was born to be our King.

Then be you glad, good people,

At this time of the year;

And light you up your candles,

For His star it shineth clear.

Unknown

"BRIGHTEST AND BEST OF THE SONS OF THE MORNING"

Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning!

Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid!

Star of the East, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!

Cold on His cradle the dewdrops are shining,

Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall;

Angels adore Him in slumber reclining,

Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all!

Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion,

Odors of Edom and offerings divine?

Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean,

Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine?

Vainly we offer each ample oblation;

Vainly with gifts would His favor secure:

Richer by far is the heart's adoration;

Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.

Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning!

Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid!

Star of the East, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!

Reginald Heber [1783-1826]

CHRISTMAS BELLS

I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old, familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet

The words repeat

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,

The belfries of all Christendom

Had rolled along

The unbroken song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,

The world revolved from night to day,

A voice, a chime,

A chant sublime

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth

The cannon thundered in the South,

And with the sound

The carols drowned

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent

The hearth-stones of a continent,

And made forlorn

The households born

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;

"There is no peace on earth," I said,

"For hate is strong,

And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep!

The Wrong shall fail,

The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

The Christ-child lay on Mary's lap,

His hair was like a light.

(O weary, weary were the world,

But here is all aright.)

The Christ-child lay on Mary's breast,

His hair was like a star.

(O stern and cunning are the kings,

But here the true hearts are.)

The Christ-child lay on Mary's heart,

His hair was like a fire.

(O weary, weary is the world,

But here the world's desire.)

The Christ-child stood at Mary's knee,

His hair was like a crown,

And all the flowers looked up at Him,

And all the stars looked down.

Gilbert Keith Chesterton [1874-1936]

THE HOUSE OF CHRISTMAS

There fared a mother driven forth

Out of an inn to roam;

In the place where she was homeless

All men are at home.

The crazy stable close at hand,

With shaking timber and shifting sand,

Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand

Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,

And strangers under the sun,

And they lay their heads in a foreign land

Whenever the day is done.

Here we have battle and blazing eyes,

And chance and honor and high surprise,

But our homes are under miraculous skies

Where the yule tale was begun.

A Child in a foul stable,

Where the beasts feed and foam,

Only where He was homeless

Are you and I at home;

We have hands that fashion and heads that know,

But our hearts we lost--how long ago!

In a place no chart nor ship can show

Under the sky's dome.

This world is wild as an old wives' tale,

And strange the plain things are,

The earth is enough and the air is enough

For our wonder and our war;

But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings

And our peace is put in impossible things

Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings

Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening

Home shall men come,

To an older place than Eden

And a taller town than Rome.

To the end of the way of the wandering star,

To the things that cannot be and that are,

To the place where God was homeless

And all men are at home.

Gilbert Keith Chesterton [1874-1936]

THE FEAST OF THE SNOW

There is heard a hymn when the panes are dim,

And never before or again,

When the nights are strong with a darkness long,

And the dark is alive with rain.

Never we know but in sleet and snow

The place where the great fires are,

That the midst of earth is a raging mirth,

And the heart of the earth a star.

And at night we win to the ancient inn,

Where the Child in the frost is furled,

We follow the feet where all souls meet,

At the inn at the end of the world.

The gods lie dead where the leaves lie red,

For the flame of the sun is flown;

The gods lie cold where the leaves are gold,

And a Child comes forth alone.

Gilbert Keith Chesterton [1874-1936]

MARY'S BABY

Joseph, mild and noble, bent above the straw:

A pale girl, a frail girl, suffering he saw;

"O my Love, my Mary, my bride, I pity thee!"

"Nay, Dear," said Mary, "all is well with me!"

"Baby, my baby, O my babe," she sang.

Suddenly the golden night all with music rang.

Angels leading shepherds, shepherds leading sheep:

The silence of worship broke the mother's sleep.

All the meek and lowly of all the world were there;

Smiling, she showed them that her Child was fair,

"Baby, my baby," kissing Him she said.

Suddenly a flaming star through the heavens sped.

Three old men and weary knelt them side by side,

The world's wealth forswearing, majesty and pride;

Worldly might and wisdom before the Babe bent low:

Weeping, maid Mary said, "I love Him so!"

"Baby, my baby," and the Baby slept.

Suddenly on Calvary all the olives wept.

Shaemas OSheel [1886-

GATES AND DOORS

A Ballad of Christmas Eve

There was a gentle hostler

(And blessed be his name!)

He opened up the stable

The night Our Lady came.

Our Lady and St. Joseph,

He gave them food and bed,

And Jesus Christ has given him

A glory round his head.

So let the gate swing open

However poor the yard,

Lest weary People visit you

And find their Passage barred.

Unlatch the door at midnight

And let your lantern's glow

Shine out to guide the traveler's feet

To you across the snow.

There was a courteous hostler

(He is in Heaven to-night)

He held Our Lady's bridle

And helped her to alight.

He spread clean straw before her

Whereon she might lie down,

And Jesus Christ has given him

An everlasting crown.

Unlock the door this evening

And let your gate swing wide,

Let all who ask for shelter

Come speedily inside.

What if your yard be narrow?

What if your house be small?

There is a Guest is coming

Will glorify it all.

There was a joyous hostler

Who knelt on Christmas morn

Beside the radiant manger

Wherein his Lord was born.

His heart was full of laughter,

His soul was full of bliss

When Jesus, on His Mother's lap,

Gave him His hand to kiss.

Unbar your heart this evening

And keep no stranger out,

Take from your soul's great portal

The barrier of doubt.

To humble folk and weary

Give hearty welcoming,

Your breast shall be to-morrow

The cradle of a King.

Joyce Kilmer [1886-1918]

THE THREE KINGS

Three Kings came riding from far away,

Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;

Three Wise Men out of the East were they,

And they travelled by night and they slept by day,

For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large and clear,

That all the other stars of the sky

Became a white mist in the atmosphere;

And by this they knew that the coming was near

Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,

Three caskets of gold with golden keys;

Their robes were of crimson silk, with rows

Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,

Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.

And so the Three Kings rode into the West,

Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell,

And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast,

And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,

With the people they met at some wayside well.

"Of the child that is born," said Baltasar,

"Good people, I pray you, tell us the news,

For we in the East have seen his star,

And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,

To find and worship the King of the Jews."

And the people answered, "You ask in vain;

We know of no king but Herod the Great!"

They thought the Wise Men were men insane,

As they spurred their horses across the plain

Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem,

Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,

Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;

And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem,

And bring me tidings of this new king."

So they rode away, and the star stood still,

The only one in the gray of morn;

Yes, it stopped,--it stood still of its own free will,

Right over Bethlehem on the hill,

The city of David, where Christ was born.

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,

Through the silent street, till their horses turned

And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;

But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred,

And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay,

In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,

The little child in the manger lay,

The Child that would be King one day

Of a kingdom not human, but divine.

His mother, Mary of Nazareth,

Sat watching beside his place of rest,

Watching the even flow of his breath,

For the joy of life and the terror of death

Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet:

The gold was their tribute to a King;

The frankincense, with its odor sweet,

Was for the Priest, the Paraclete;

The myrrh for the body's burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head,

And sat as still as a statue of stone;

Her heart was troubled yet comforted,

Remembering what the Angel had said

Of an endless reign and of David's throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,

With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;

But they went not back to Herod the Great,

For they knew his malice and feared his hate,

And returned to their homes by another way.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

LULLABY IN BETHLEHEM

There hath come an host to see Thee,

Baby dear,

Bearded men with eyes of flame

And lips of fear,

For the heavens, they say, have broken

Into blinding gulfs of glory,

And the Lord, they say, hath spoken

In a little wondrous story,

Baby dear.

There have come three kings to greet Thee,

Baby dear,

Crowned with gold, and clad in purple,

They draw near.

They have brought rare silks to bind Thee,

At Thy feet, behold, they spread them,

From their thrones they sprang to find Thee,

And a blazing star hath led them,

Baby dear.

I have neither jade nor jasper,

Baby dear,

Thou art all my hope and glory,

And my fear,

Yet for all the gems that strew Thee,

And the costly gowns that fold Thee,

Yea, though all the world should woo Thee,

Thou art mine--and fast I hold Thee,

Baby dear.

Henry Howarth Bashford [1880-

A CHILD'S SONG OF CHRISTMAS

My counterpane is soft as silk,

My blankets white as creamy milk.

The hay was soft to Him, I know,

Our little Lord of long ago.

Above the roofs the pigeons fly

In silver wheels across the sky.

The stable-doves they cooed to them,

Mary and Christ in Bethlehem.

Bright shines the sun across the drifts,

And bright upon my Christmas gifts.

They brought Him incense, myrrh, and gold,

Our little Lord who lived of old.

Oh, soft and clear our mother sings

Of Christmas joys and Christmas things.

God's holy angels sang to them,

Mary and Christ in Bethlehem.

Our hearts they hold all Christmas dear,

And earth seems sweet and heaven seems near,

Oh, heaven was in His sight, I know,

That little Child of long ago.

Marjorie L. C. Pickthall [1883-1922]

JEST 'FORE CHRISTMAS

Father calls me William, sister calls me Will,

Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill!

Mighty glad I ain't a girl--ruther be a boy,

Without them sashes, curls, an' things that's worn by Fauntleroy!

Love to chawnk green apples an' go swimmin' in the lake--

Hate to take the castor-ile they give for belly-ache!

'Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain't no flies on me,

But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!

Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat;

First thing she knows she doesn't know where she is at!

Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide,

'Long comes the grocery cart an' we all hook a ride!

But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross,

He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss,

An' then I laff an' holler, "Oh, ye never teched me!"

But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!

Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man,

I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother, Dan,

As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon's Isle,

Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile!

But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West show,

Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd know

That Buff'lo Bill and cow-boys is good enough for me!

Excep' jest 'fore Christmas, when I'm good as I kin be!

And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an' still,

His eyes they keep a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?"

The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's become

Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum!

But I am so perlite an' 'tend so earnestly to biz,

That mother says to father: "How improved our Willie is!"

But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me

When jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be!

For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes an' toys,

Was made, they say, for proper kids an' not for naughty boys;

So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's an' q's,

An' don't bust out yer pantaloons, an' don't wear out yer shoes;

Say "Yessum" to the ladies, an' "Yessur" to the men,

An' when they's company, don't pass yer plate for pie again;

But, thinking of the things yer'd like to see upon that tree,

Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be!

Eugene Field [1850-1895]

A VTSTT FROM ST. NICHOLAS

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes--how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

Clement Clarke Moore [1779-1863]

CEREMONIES FOR CHRISTMAS

Come, bring with a noise,

My merry, merry boys,

The Christmas log to the firing;

While my good dame, she

Bids ye all be free;

And drink to your hearts' desiring.

With the last year's brand

Light the new block, and

For good success in his spending,

On your psaltries play,

That sweet luck may

Come while the log is a-tending.

Drink now the strong beer,

Cut the white loaf here,

The while the meat is a-shredding;

For the rare mince-pie

And the plums stand by

To fill the paste that's a-kneading.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY

This is the month, and this the happy morn

Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King,

Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,

Our great redemption from above did bring;

For so the holy sages once did sing

That he our deadly forfeit should release,

And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,

And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty

Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-ta

To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,

He laid aside; and, here with us to be,

Forsook the courts of everlasting day,

And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein

Afford a present to the Infant God?

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain

To welcome him to this his new abode,

Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod,

Hath took no print of the approaching light,

And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

See how from far, upon the eastern road,

The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet!

O run, prevent them with thy humble ode

And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;

Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet,

And join thy voice unto the angel choir

From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.

THE HYMN

It was the winter wild

While the heaven-born Child

All meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies;

Nature in awe to Him

Had doffed her gaudy trim,

With her great Master so to sympathize:

It was no season then for her

To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.

Only with speeches fair

She woos the gentle air

To hide her guilty front with innocent snow;

And on her naked shame,

Pollute with sinful blame,

The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;

Confounded, that her Maker's eyes

Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

But he, her fears to cease,

Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;

She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding

Down through the turning sphere,

His ready harbinger,

With turtle wing and amorous clouds dividing;

And waving wide her myrtle wand,

She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

No war, or battle's sound

Was heard the world around:

The idle spear and shield were high uphung;

The hooked chariot stood

Unstained with hostile blood;

The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;

And kings sat still with awful eye,

As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by.

But peaceful was the night

Wherein the Prince of Light

His reign of peace upon the earth began:

The winds, with wonder whist,

Smoothly the waters kissed,

Whispering new joys to the mild ocean--

Who now hath quite forgot to rave,

While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

The stars, with deep amaze,

Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,

Bending one way their precious influence;

And will not take their flight

For all the morning light,

Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;

But in their glimmering orbs did glow

Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

And though the shady gloom

Had given day her room,

The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,

And hid his head for shame,

As his inferior flame

The new-enlightened world no more should need;

He saw a greater Sun appear

Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear.

The shepherds on the lawn

Or ere the point of dawn

Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;

Full little thought they then

That the mighty Pan

Was kindly come to live with them below;

Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,

Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

When such music sweet

Their hearts and ears did greet

As never was by mortal finger strook--

Divinely-warbled voice

Answering the stringed noise,

As all their souls in blissful rapture took:

The air, such pleasure loth to lose,

With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

Nature, that heard such sound

Beneath the hollow round

Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling,

Now was almost won

To think her part was done,

And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;

She knew such harmony alone

Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union.

At last surrounds their sight

A globe of circular light

That with long beams the shamefaced night arrayed;

The helmed Cherubim

And sworded Seraphim

Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed,

Harping in loud and solemn choir

With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.

Such music (as 'tis said)

Before was never made

But when of old the sons of morning sung,

While the Creator great

His constellations set

And the well-balanced world on hinges hung;

And cast the dark foundations deep,

And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.

Ring out, ye crystal spheres!

Once bless our human ears,

If ye have power to touch our senses so;

And let your silver chime

Move in melodious time;

And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow;

And with your ninefold harmony

Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.

For if such holy song

Enwrap our fancy long,

Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold;

And speckled vanity

Will sicken soon and die,

And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould;

And Hell itself will pass away,

And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.

Yea, Truth and Justice then

Will down return to men,

Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,

Mercy will sit between

Throned in celestial sheen,

With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;

And Heaven, as at some festival,

Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.

But wisest Fate says No;

This must not yet be so;

The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy

That on the bitter cross

Must redeem our loss;

So both himself and us to glorify:

Yet first, to those ychained in sleep

The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;

With such a horrid clang

As on Mount Sinai rang

While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:

The aged Earth aghast

With terror of that blast

Shall from the surface to the centre shake,

When, at the world's last session,

The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.

And then at last our bliss

Full and perfect is,

But now begins; for from this happy day

The old Dragon under ground,

In straiter limits bound,

Not half so far casts his usurped sway;

And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,

Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

The oracles are dumb;

No voice or hideous hum

Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.

Apollo from his shrine

Can no more divine,

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving:

No nightly trance or breathed spell

Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

The lonely mountains o'er

And the resounding shore

A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;

From haunted spring and dale

Edged with poplar pale

The parting Genius is with sighing sent;

With flower-inwoven tresses torn

The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

In consecrated earth

And on the holy hearth

The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint;

In urns, and altars round

A drear and dying sound

Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;

And the chill marble seems to sweat,

While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat.

Peor and Baalim

Forsake their temples dim,

With that twice-battered god of Palestine;

And mooned Ashtaroth

Heaven's queen and mother both,

Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;

The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn:

In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

And sullen Moloch, fled,

Hath left in shadows dread

His burning idol all of blackest hue;

In vain with cymbals' ring

They call the grisly king,

In dismal dance about the furnace blue;

The brutish gods of Nile as fast,

Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

Nor is Osiris seen

In Memphian grove, or green,

Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud:

Nor can he be at rest

Within his sacred chest;

Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;

In vain with timbrelled anthems dark

The sable stoled sorcerers bear his worshiped ark.

He feels from Juda's land

The dreaded Infant's hand;

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyen;

Nor all the gods beside

Longer dare abide

Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:

Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,

Can in His swaddling bands control the damned crew.

So, when the sun in bed

Curtained with cloudy red

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,

The flocking shadows pale

Troop to the infernal jail,

Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave:

And the yellow-skirted fays

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

But see! the Virgin blest

Hath laid her Babe to rest;

Time is, our tedious song should here have ending:

Heaven's youngest teemed star

Hath fixed her polished car,

Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending:

And all about the courtly stable

Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable.

John Milton [1608-1674]

FAIRYLAND

THE FAIRY BOOK

In summer, when the grass is thick, if mother has the time,

She shows me with her pencil how a poet makes a rhyme,

And often she is sweet enough to choose a leafy nook,

Where I cuddle up so closely when she reads the Fairybook.

In winter, when the corn's asleep, and birds are not in song,

And crocuses and violets have been away too long,

Dear mother puts her thimble by in answer to my look,

And I cuddle up so closely when she reads the Fairybook.

And mother tells the servants that of course they must contrive

To manage all the household things from four till half-past five,

For we really cannot suffer interruption from the cook,

When we cuddle close together with the happy Fairybook.

Norman Gale [1862-

FAIRY SONGS

I

From "A Midsummer-Night's Dream"

Over hill, over dale,

Through bush, through brier,

Over park, over pale,

Through flood, through fire,

I do wander everywhere,

Swifter than the moon's sphere;

And I serve the fairy queen,

To dew her orbs upon the green:

The cowslips tall her pensioners be;

In their gold coats spots you see;

Those be rubies, fairy favors,

In those freckles live their savors:

I must go seek some dew-drops here,

And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.

II

From "A Midsummer-Night's Dream"

You spotted snakes with double tongue,

Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;

Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;

Come not near our fairy queen.

Philomel, with melody,

Sing in our sweet lullaby;

Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!

Never harm,

Nor spell nor charm,

Come our lovely lady nigh;

So, good night, with lullaby.

Weaving spiders, come not here;

Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence!

Beetles black, approach not near;

Worm nor snail, do no offence.

Philomel, with melody,

Sing in our sweet lullaby;

Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!

Never harm,

Nor spell nor charm,

Come our lovely lady nigh;

So, good-night, with lullaby.

III

From "The Tempest"

Come unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands:

Court'sied when you have, and kissed,--

The wild waves whist,--

Foot it featly here and there;

And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.

Hark, hark!

Bow, wow,

The watch-dogs bark:

Bow, wow.

Hark, hark! I hear

The strain of strutting chanticleer

Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!

IV

From "The Tempest"

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:

In a cowslip's bell I lie;

There I couch when owls do cry.

On the bat's back I do fly

After summer merrily:

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

QUEEN MAB

From "The Satyr"

This is Mab, the Mistress-Fairy,

That doth nightly rob the dairy

And can hurt or help the churning,

As she please without discerning.

She that pinches country wenches

If they rub not clean their benches,

And with sharper nails remembers

When they rake not up their embers:

But if so they chance to feast her,

In a shoe she drops a tester.

This is she that empties cradles,

Takes out children, puts in ladles:

Trains forth old wives in their slumber

With a sieve the holes to number;

And then leads them from her burrows,

Home through ponds and water-furrows.

She can start our Franklins' daughters,

In their sleep, with shrieks and laughters:

And on sweet Saint Anna's night

Feed them with a promised sight,

Some of husbands, some of lovers,

Which an empty dream discovers.

Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]

THE ELF AND THE DORMOUSE

Under a toadstool crept a wee Elf,

Out of the rain, to shelter himself.

Under the toadstool sound asleep,

Sat a big Dormouse all in a heap.

Trembled the wee Elf, frightened, and yet

Fearing to fly away lest he get wet.

To the next shelter--maybe a mile!

Sudden the wee Elf smiled a wee smile,

Tugged till the toadstool toppled in two.

Holding it over him, gayly he flew.

Soon he was safe home, dry as could be.

Soon woke the Dormouse--"Good gracious me!

"Where is my toadstool?" loud he lamented.

--And that's how umbrellas first were invented.

Oliver Herford [1863-1935]

"OH! WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE THEIR HEADS?"

Oh! where do fairies hide their heads,

When snow lies on the hills,

When frost has spoiled their mossy beds,

And crystallized their rills?

Beneath the moon they cannot trip

In circles o'er the plain;

And draughts of dew they cannot sip,

Till green leaves come again.

Perhaps, in small, blue diving-bells

They plunge beneath the waves,

Inhabiting the wreathed shells

That lie in coral caves.

Perhaps, in red Vesuvius

Carousals they maintain;

And cheer their little spirits thus,

Till green leaves come again.

When they return, there will be mirth

And music in the air.

And fairy wings upon the earth,

And mischief everywhere.

The maids, to keep the elves aloof,

Will bar the doors in vain;

No key-hole will he fairy-proof

When green leaves come again.

Thomas Haynes Bayly [1797-1839]

FAIRY SONG

From "Amyntas"

We the Fairies, blithe and antic,

Of dimensions not gigantic,

Though the moonshine mostly keep us,

Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.

Stolen sweets are always sweeter,

Stolen kisses much completer,

Stolen looks are nice in chapels,

Stolen, stolen be your apples.

When to bed the world is bobbing,

Then's the time for orchard-robbing;

Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling

Were it not for stealing, stealing.

Translated by Leigh Hunt from the Latin of Thomas Randolph

[1605-1635]

DREAM SONG

I come from woods enchaunted,

Starlit and pixey-haunted,

Where 'twixt the bracken and the trees

The goblins lie and take their ease

By winter moods undaunted.

There down the golden gravel

The laughing rivers travel;

Elves wake at nights and whisper low

Between the bracken and the snow

Their dreamings to unravel.

Twisted and lank and hairy,

With wanton eyes and wary,

They stretch and chuckle in the wind,

For one has found a mermaid kind,

And one has kissed a fairy.

They know no melancholy,

But fashion crowns of holly,

And gather sleep within the brake

To deck a kingdom when they wake,

And bless the dreamer's folly.

Ah! would that I might follow

The servants of Apollo!

But it is sweet to heap the hours

With quiet dreams and poppy-flowers,

Down in the pixies' hollow.

Richard Middleton [1882-1911]

FAIRY SONG

Shed no tear! O, shed no tear!

The flower will bloom another year.

Weep no more! O, weep no more!

Young buds sleep in the root's white core.

Dry your eyes! O, dry your eyes!

For I was taught in Paradise

To ease my breast of melodies,--

Shed no tear.

Overhead! look overhead!

'Mong the blossoms white and red,--

Look up, look up! I flutter now

On this flush pomegranate bough.

See me! 'tis this silvery bill

Ever cures the good man's ill,--

Shed no tear! O, shed no tear!

The flower will bloom another year.

Adieu, adieu--I fly--adieu!

I vanish in the heaven's blue,--

Adieu, adieu!

John Keats [1795-1821]

QUEEN MAB

A little fairy comes at night,

Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown,

With silver spots upon her wings,

And from the moon she flutters down.

She has a little silver wand,

And when a good child goes to bed

She waves her hand from right to left,

And makes a circle round its head.

And then it dreams of pleasant things,

Of fountains filled with fairy fish,

And trees that bear delicious fruit,

And bow their branches at a wish:

Of arbors filled with dainty scents

From lovely flowers that never fade;

Bright flies that glitter in the sun,

And glow-worms shining in the shade:

And talking birds with gifted tongues,

For singing songs and telling tales,

And pretty dwarfs to show the way

Through fairy hills and fairy dales.

But when a bad child goes to bed,

From left to right she weaves her rings,

And then it dreams all through the night

Of only ugly horrid things!

Then lions come with glaring eyes,

And tigers growl, a dreadful noise,

And ogres draw their cruel knives,

To shed the blood of girls and boys.

Then stormy waves rush on to drown,

Or raging flames come scorching round,

Fierce dragons hover in the air,

And serpents crawl along the ground.

Then wicked children wake and weep,

And wish the long black gloom away;

But good ones love the dark, and find

The night as pleasant as the day.

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON-LOW

A Midsummer Legend

"And where have you been, my Mary,

And where have you been from me?"

"I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low,

The midsummer night to see!"

"And what did you see, my Mary,

All up on the Caldon-Low?"

"I saw the glad sunshine come down,

And I saw the merry winds blow."

"And what did you hear, my Mary,

All up on the Caldon-Hill?"

"I heard the drops of the water made,

And the ears of the green corn fill."

"Oh, tell me all, my Mary--

All--all that ever you know;

For you must have seen the fairies

Last night on the Caldon-Low!"

"Then take me on your knee, mother,

And listen, mother of mine:

A hundred fairies danced last night,

And the harpers they were nine.

"And their harp-strings rang so merrily

To their dancing feet so small;

But, oh! the words of their talking

Were merrier far than all!"

"And what were the words, my Mary,

That you did hear them say?"

"I'll tell you all, my mother,

But let me have my way.

"Some of them played with the water,

And rolled it down the hill;

'And this,' they said, 'shall speedily turn

The poor old miller's mill.

"'For there has been no water

Ever since the first of May;

And a busy man will the miller be

At the dawning of the day!

"'Oh! the miller, how he will laugh,

When he sees the mill-dam rise!

The jolly old miller, how he will laugh,

Till the tears fill both his eyes!'

"And some they seized the little winds,

That sounded over the hill,

And each put a horn into his mouth,

And blew both loud and shrill:

"'And there,' said they, 'the merry winds go

Away from every horn;

And they shall clear the mildew dank

From the blind old widow's corn:

"'Oh, the poor blind widow--

Though she has been blind so long,

She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone,

And the corn stands tall and strong!'

"And some they brought the brown linseed

And flung it down the Low:

'And this,' said they, 'by the sunrise

In the weaver's croft shall grow!

"'Oh, the poor lame weaver!

How will he laugh outright

When he sees his dwindling flax-field

All full of flowers by night!'

"And then outspoke a brownie,

With a long beard on his chin:

'I have spun up all the tow,' said he,

'And I want some more to spin.

"'I've spun a piece of hempen cloth

And I want to spin another--

A little sheet for Mary's bed,

And an apron for her mother!'

"With that I could not help but laugh,

And I laughed out loud and free;

And then on the top of the Caldon-Low

There was no one left but me.

"And all on the top of the Caldon-Low

The mists were cold and gray,

And nothing I saw but the mossy stones

That round about me lay.

"But, coming down from the hill-top,

I heard, afar below,

How busy the jolly miller was,

And how merry the wheel did go!

"And I peeped into the widow's field,

And, sure enough, was seen

The yellow ears of the mildewed corn

All standing stout and green.

"And down the weaver's croft I stole,

To see if the flax were sprung;

And I met the weaver at his gate

With the good news on his tongue!

"Now, this is all I heard, mother,

And all that I did see;

So, prithee, make my bed, mother,

For I'm tired as I can be!"

Mary Howitt [1799-1888]

THE FAIRIES

Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We daren't go a-hunting

For fear of little men;

Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky shore

Some make their home,

They live on crispy pancakes

Of yellow tide-foam;

Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain lake,

With frogs for their watch-dogs,

All night awake.

High on the hill-top

The old King sits;

He is now so old and gray

He's nigh lost his wits.

With a bridge of white mist

Columbkill he crosses,

On his stately journeys

From Slieveleague to Rosses;

Or going up with music

On cold starry nights

To sup with the Queen

Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget

For seven years long;

When she came down again

Her friends were all gone.

They took her lightly back,

Between the night and morrow,

They thought that she was fast asleep,

But she was dead with sorrow.

They have kept her ever since

Deep within the lake,

On a bed of flag-leaves,

Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,

Through the mosses bare,

They have planted thorn-trees

For pleasure here and there.

If any man so daring

As dig them up in spite,

He shall find their sharpest thorns

In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We daren't go a-hunting

For fear of little men;

Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather!

William Allingham [1824-1889]

THE FAIRY THRALL

On gossamer nights when the moon is low,

And stars in the mist are hiding,

Over the hill where the foxgloves grow

You may see the fairies riding.

Kling! Klang! Kling!

Their stirrups and their bridles ring,

And their horns are loud and their bugles blow,

When the moon is low.

They sweep through the night like a whistling wind,

They pass and have left no traces;

But one of them lingers far behind

The flight of the fairy faces.

She makes no moan,

She sorrows in the dark alone,

She wails for the love of human kind,

Like a whistling wind.

"Ah! why did I roam where the elfins ride,

Their glimmering steps to follow?

They bore me far from my loved one's side,

To wander o'er hill and hollow.

Kling! Klang! Kling!

Their stirrups and their bridles ring,

But my heart is cold in the cold night-tide,

Where the elfins ride."

Mary C. G. Byron [1861-

FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES

Farewell, rewards and fairies!

Good housewives now may say,

For now foul sluts in dairies

Do fare as well as they.

And though they sweep their hearths no less

Than maids were wont to do,

Yet who of late, for cleanliness,

Finds sixpence in her shoe?

Lament, lament, old abbeys,

The fairies' lost command!

They did but change priests' babies,

But some have changed your land;

And all your children sprung from thence,

Are now grown Puritanes;

Who live as changelings ever since,

For love of your demains.

At morning and at evening both

You merry were and glad;

So little care of sleep or sloth

These pretty ladies had;

When Tom came home from labor,

Or Ciss to milking rose,

Then merrily merrily went their tabor

And nimbly went their toes.

Witness those rings and roundelays

Of theirs, which yet remain,

Were footed in Queen Mary's days

On many a grassy plain;

But since of late, Elizabeth,

And later, James came in,

They never danced on any heath

As when the time hath been.

By which we note the fairies

Were of the old profession;

Their songs were Ave-Maries,

Their dances were procession.

But now, alas! they all are dead,

Or gone beyond the seas;

Or farther for religion fled;

Or else they take their ease.

A tell-tale in their company

They never could endure;

And whoso kept not secretly

Their mirth, was punished sure;

It was a just and Christian deed

To pinch such black and blue:

Oh, how the Commonwealth doth need

Such justices as you!

Richard Corbet [1582-1635]

THE FAIRY FOLK

Come cuddle close in daddy's coat

Beside the fire so bright,

And hear about the fairy folk

That wander in the night.

For when the stars are shining clear

And all the world is still,

They float across the silver moon

From hill to cloudy hill.

Their caps of red, their cloaks of green,

Are hung with silver bells,

And when they're shaken with the wind

Their merry ringing swells.

And riding on the crimson moth,

With black spots on her wings,

They guide them down the purple sky

With golden bridle rings.

They love to visit girls and boys

To see how sweet they sleep,

To stand beside their cosy cots

And at their faces peep.

For in the whole of fairy-land

They have no finer sight

Than little children sleeping sound

With faces rosy bright.

On tip-toe crowding round their heads,

When bright the moonlight beams,

They whisper little tender words

That fill their minds with dreams;

And when they see a sunny smile,

With lightest finger tips

They lay a hundred kisses sweet

Upon the ruddy lips.

And then the little spotted moths

Spread out their crimson wings,

And bear away the fairy crowd

With shaking bridle rings.

Come, bairnies, hide in daddy's coat,

Beside the fire so bright--

Perhaps the little fairy folk

Will visit you to-night.

Robert Bird [1867-

THE FAIRY BOOK

When Mother takes the Fairy Book

And we curl up to hear,

'Tis "All aboard for Fairyland!"

Which seems to be so near.

For soon we reach the pleasant place

Of Once Upon a Time,

Where birdies sing the hour of day,

And flowers talk in rhyme;

Where Bobby is a velvet Prince,

And where I am a Queen;

Where one can talk with animals,

And walk about unseen;

Where Little People live in nuts,

And ride on butterflies,

And wonders kindly come to pass

Before your very eyes;

Where candy grows on every bush,

And playthings on the trees,

And visitors pick basketfuls

As often as they please.

It is the nicest time of day--

Though Bedtime is so near,--

When Mother takes the Fairy Book

And we curl up to hear.

Abbie Farwell Brown [1875-1927]

THE VISITOR

The white goat Amaryllis,

She wandered at her will

At time of daffodillies

Afar and up the hill:

We hunted and we holloa'd

And back she came at dawn,

But what d'you think had followed?--

A little, pagan Faun!

His face was like a berry.

His ears were high and pricked:

Tip-tap--his hoofs came merry

As up the path he clicked;

A junket for his winning

We set in dairy delf;

He eat it--peart and grinning

As Christian as yourself!

He stayed about the steading

A fortnight, say, or more;

A blanket for his bedding

We spread beside the door;

And when the cocks crowed clearly

Before the dawn was ripe,

He'd call the milkmaids cheerly

Upon a reedy pipe!

That fortnight of his staying

The work went smooth as silk:

The hens were all in laying,

The cows were all in milk;

And then--and then one morning

The maids woke up at day

Without his oaten warning,--

And found he'd gone away.

He left no trace behind him;

But still the milkmaids deem

That they, perhaps, may find him

With butter and with cream:

Beside the door they set them

In bowl and golden pat,

But no one comes to get them--

Unless, maybe, the cat.

The white goat Amaryllis,

She wanders at her will

At time of daffodillies,

Away up Woolcombe hill;

She stays until the morrow,

Then back she comes at dawn;

But never--to our sorrow--

The little, pagan Faun.

Patrick R. Chalmers [18

THE LITTLE ELF

I met a little Elf-man, once,

Down where the lilies blow.

I asked him why he was so small,

And why he didn't grow.

He slightly frowned, and with his eye

He looked me through and through.

"I'm quite as big for me," said he,

"As you are big for you."

John Kendrick Bangs [1862-1922]

THE SATYRS AND THE MOON

Within the wood behind the hill

The moon got tangled in the trees.

Her splendor made the branches thrill

And thrilled the breeze.

The satyrs in the grotto bent

Their heads to see the wondrous sight.

"It is a god in banishment

That stirs the night."

The little satyr looked and guessed:

"It is an apple that one sees,

Brought from that garden of the West--

Hesperides."

"It is a cyclops' glaring eye."

"A temple dome from Babylon."

"A Titan's cup of ivory."

"A little sun."

The tiny satyr jumped for joy,

And kicked hoofs in utmost glee.

"It is a wondrous silver toy--

Bring it to me!"

A great wind whistled through the blue

And caught the moon and tossed it high;

A bubble of pale fire it flew

Across the sky.

The satyrs gasped and looked and smiled,

And wagged their heads from side to side,

Except their shaggy little child,

Who cried and cried.

Herbert S. Gorman [1893-

THE CHILDREN

THE CHILDREN

When the lessons and tasks are all ended,

And the school for the day is dismissed,

The little ones gather around me,

To bid me good night and be kissed;

Oh, the little white arms that encircle

My neck in their tender embrace!

Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven,

Shedding sunshine of love on my face!

And when they are gone, I sit dreaming

Of my childhood too lovely to last,--

Of joy that my heart will remember,

While it wakes to the pulse of the past,

Ere the world and its wickedness made me

A partner of sorrow and sin,

When the glory of God was about me,

And the glory of gladness within.

All my heart grows as weak as a woman's,

And the fountain of feeling will flow,

When I think of the paths steep and stony,

Where the feet of the dear ones must go,--

Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,

Of the tempest of fate blowing wild;--

Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy

As the innocent heart of a child!

They are idols of hearts and of households;

They are angels of God in disguise;

His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,

His glory still shines in their eyes;

Those truants from home and from heaven,--

They have made me more manly and mild;

And I know now how Jesus could liken

The kingdom of God to a child.

I ask not a life for the dear ones,

All radiant, as others have done,

But that life may have just enough shadow

To temper the glare of the sun;

I would pray God to guard them from evil,

But my prayer would bound back to myself;--

Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner,

But a sinner must pray for himself.

The twig is so easily bended,

I have banished the rule and the rod

I have taught them the goodness of knowledge,

They have taught me the goodness of God:

My heart is the dungeon of darkness

Where I shut them for breaking a rule;

My frown is sufficient correction;

My love is the law of the school.

I shall leave the old house in the autumn,

To traverse its threshold no more;

Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear ones

That meet me each morn at the door!

I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses,

And the gush of their innocent glee,

The group on the green, and the flowers

That are brought every morning for me.

I shall miss them at morn and at even,

Their song in the school and the street;

I shall miss the low hum of their voices,

And the tread of their delicate feet.

When the lessons of life are all ended,

And death says: "The school is dismissed!"

May the little ones gather around me,

To bid me good night and be kissed!

Charles Monroe Dickinson [1842-1924]

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR

Between the dark and the daylight,

When the night is beginning to lower,

Comes a pause in the day's occupations,

That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me

The patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened,

And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,

Descending the broad hall stair,

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,

And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:

Yet I know by their merry eyes

They are plotting and planning together

To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,

A sudden raid from the hall!

By three doors left unguarded

They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret

O'er the arms and back of my chair;

If I try to escape, they surround me;

They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,

Their arms about me entwine,

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen

In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,

Because you have scaled the wall,

Such an old mustache as I am

Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,

And will not let you depart,

But put you down into the dungeon

In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,

Yes, forever and a day,

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,

And moulder in dust away.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

LAUS INFANTIUM

In praise of little children I will say

God first made man, then found a better way

For woman, but his third way was the best.

Of all created things, the loveliest

And most divine are children. Nothing here

Can be to us more gracious or more dear.

And though, when God saw all his works were good,

There was no rosy flower of babyhood,

'Twas said of children in a later day

That none could enter Heaven save such as they.

The earth, which feels the flowering of a thorn,

Was glad, O little child, when you were born;

The earth, which thrills when skylarks scale the blue,

Soared up itself to God's own Heaven in you;

And Heaven, which loves to lean down and to glass

Its beauty in each dewdrop on the grass,--

Heaven laughed to find your face so pure and fair,

And left, O little child, its reflex there.

William Canton [1845-

THE DESIRE

Give me no mansions ivory white

Nor palaces of pearl and gold;

Give me a child for all delight,

Just four years old.

Give me no wings of rosy shine

Nor snowy raiment, fold on fold,

Give me a little boy all mine,

Just four years old.

Give me no gold and starry crown

Nor harps, nor palm branches unrolled;

Give me a nestling head of brown,

Just four years old.

Give me a cheek that's like the peach,

Two arms to clasp me from the cold;

And all my heaven's within my reach,

Just four years old.

Dear God, You give me from Your skies

A little paradise to hold,

As Mary once her Paradise,

Just four years old.

Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931]

A CHILD'S LAUGHTER

All the bells of heaven may ring,

All the birds of heaven may sing,

All the wells on earth may spring,

All the winds on earth may bring

All sweet sounds together;

Sweeter far then all things heard,

Hand of harper, tone of bird,

Sound of woods at sundawn stirred,

Welling water's winsome word,

Wind in warm, wan weather.

One thing yet there is, that none,

Hearing ere its chime be done,

Knows not well the sweetest one

Heard of man beneath the sun,

Hoped in heaven hereafter;

Soft and strong and loud and light,

Very sound of very light,

Heard from morning's rosiest height,

When the soul of all delight,

Fills a child's clear laughter.

Golden bells of welcome rolled

Never forth such note, nor told

Hours so blithe in tones so bold,

As the radiant mouth of gold

Here that rings forth heaven.

If the golden-crested wren

Were a nightingale--why, then

Something seen and heard of men

Might be half as sweet as when

Laughs a child of seven.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

SEVEN YEARS OLD

Seven white roses on one tree,

Seven white loaves of blameless leaven,

Seven white sails on one soft sea,

Seven white swans on one lake's lea,

Seven white flowerlike stars in Heaven,

All are types unmeet to be

For a birthday's crown of seven.

Not the radiance of the roses,

Not the blessing of the bread,

Not the breeze that ere day grows is

Fresh for sails and swans, and closes

Wings above the sun's grave spread

When the starshine on the snows is

Sweet as sleep on sorrow shed.

Nothing sweeter, nothing best,

Holds so good and sweet a treasure

As the love wherewith once blest

Joy grows holy, grief takes rest,

Life, half tired with hours to measure,

Fills his eyes and lips and breast

With most light and breath of pleasure;

As the rapture unpolluted,

As the passion undefiled,

By whose force all pains heart-rooted

Are transfigured and transmuted,

Recompensed and reconciled,

Through the imperial, undisputed,

Present godhead of a child.

Brown bright eyes and fair bright head,

Worth a worthier crown than this is,

Worth a worthier song instead,

Sweet grave wise round mouth, full fed

With the joy of love, whose bliss is

More than mortal wine and bread,

Lips whose words are sweet as kisses.

Little hands so glad of giving,

Little heart so glad of love,

Little soul so glad of living,

While the strong swift hours are weaving

Light with darkness woven above,

Time for mirth and time for grieving,

Plume of raven and plume of dove.

I can give you but a word

Warm with love therein for leaven,

But a song that falls unheard

Yet on ears of sense unstirred

Yet by song so far from Heaven,

Whence you came the brightest bird,

Seven years since, of seven times seven.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

CREEP AFORE YE GANG

Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang,

Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld Grannie's sang:

Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang,

Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang.

Creep awa', my bairnie, ye're ower young to learn

To tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn;

Better creepin' cannie, than fa'in' wi' a bang,

Duntin' a' your wee brow,--creep afore ye gang.

Ye'll creep, an' ye'll hotch, an' ye'll nod to your mither,

Watchin' ilka step o' your wee dousy brither;

Rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow strang,

An' ye'll be a braw chiel yet,--creep afore ye gang.

The wee birdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee,

Folks are sure to tumble, when they climb ower hie;

They wha canna walk right are sure to come to wrang,

Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang.

James Ballantine [1808-1877]

CASTLES IN THE AIR

The bonnie, bonnie bairn who sits poking in the ase,

Glowering in the fire wi' his wee round face,

Laughing at the fuffin' lowe--what sees he there?

Ha! the young dreamer's bigging castles in the air.

His wee chubby face and his touzie curly pow

Are laughing and nodding to the dancing lowe;

He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair,

Glowering at the imps wi' their castles in the air.

He sees muckle castles towering to the moon;

He sees little sodgers pu'ing them a' doun;

Warlds whommlin' up and doun, bleezing wi' a flare,--

See how he loups as they glimmer in the air!

For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken?

He's thinking upon naething, like mony mighty men:

A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare,--

There are mair folk than him bigging castles in the air.

Sic a night in winter may weel mak' him cauld:

His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld;

His brow is brent sae braid--O pray that daddy Care

Wad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air!

He'll glower at the fire, and he'll keek at the light;

But mony sparkling stars are swallowed up by Night:

Aulder e'en than his are glamored by a glare,--

Hearts are broken, heads are turned, wi' castles in the air.

James Ballantine [1808-1877]

UNDER MY WINDOW

Under my window, under my window,

All in the Midsummer weather,

Three little girls with fluttering curls

Flit to and fro together:--

There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen,

And Maud with her mantle of silver-green,

And Kate with her scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window,

Leaning stealthily over,

Merry and clear, the voice I hear

Of each glad-hearted rover.

Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my roses;

And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies,

As merry as bees in clover.

Under my window, under my window,

In the blue Midsummer weather,

Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe,

I catch them all together:--

Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen,

And Maud with her mantle of silver-green,

And Kate with her scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window,

And off through the orchard closes;

While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts,

They scamper and drop their posies;

But dear little Kate takes naught amiss,

And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss,

And I give her all my roses.

Thomas Westwood [1814?-1888]

LITTLE BELL

He prayeth well who loveth well

Both man and bird and beast.

The Ancient Mariner

Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray

"Pretty maid, slow wandering this way,

What's your name?" quoth he--

"What's your name? Oh stop and straight unfold,

Pretty maid with showery curls of gold,"--

"Little Bell," said she.

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks--

Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks--

"Bonny bird," quoth she,

"Sing me your best song before I go."

"Here's the very finest song I know,

Little Bell," said he.

And the blackbird piped; you never heard

Half so gay a song from any bird--

Full of quips and wiles,

Now so round and rich, now soft and slow.

All for love of that sweet face below,

Dimpled o'er with smiles.

And the while the bonny bird did pour

His full heart out freely o'er and o'er

'Neath the morning skies.

In the little childish heart below

All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,

And shine forth in happy overflow

From the blue, bright eyes.

Down the dell she tripped and through the glade,

Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade,

And from out the tree

Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear,--

While bold blackbird piped that all might hear--

"Little Bell," piped he.

Little Bell sat down amid the fern--

"Squirrel, to your task return--

Bring me nuts," quoth she.

Up, away the frisky squirrel hies--

Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes--

And adown the tree,

Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun,

In the little lap dropped one by one--

Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun!

"Happy Bell," pipes he.

Little Bell looked up and down the glade--

"Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid,

Come and share with me!"

Down came squirrel eager for his fare--

Down came bonny blackbird I declare;

Little Bell gave each his honest share--

Ah the merry three!

And the while these frolic playmates twain

Piped and frisked from bough to bough again,

'Neath the morning skies,

In the little childish heart below

All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,

And shine out in happy overflow

From her blue, bright eyes.

By her snow-white cot at close of day,

Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray--

Very calm and clear

Rose the praying voice to where, unseen,

In blue heaven, an angel shape serene

Paused awhile to hear--

"What good child is this," the angel said,

"That, with happy heart, beside her bed

Prays so lovingly?"

Low and soft, oh! very low and soft,

Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft,

"Bell, dear Bell!" crooned he.

"Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair

Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care;

Child, thy bed shall be

Folded safe from harm--Love deep and kind

Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind,

Little Bell, for thee!"

Thomas Westwood [1814?-1888]

THE BAREFOOT BOY

Blessings on thee, little man,

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!

With thy turned-up pantaloons,

And thy merry whistled tunes;

With thy red lip, redder still

Kissed by strawberries on the hill;

With the sunshine on thy face,

Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;

From my heart I give thee joy,--

I was once a barefoot boy!

Prince thou art,--the grown-up man

Only is republican.

Let the million-dollared ride!

Barefoot, trudging at his side,

Thou hast more than he can buy

In the reach of ear and eye,--

Outward sunshine, inward joy:

Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's painless play,

Sleep that wakes in laughing day,

Health that mocks the doctor's rules,

Knowledge never learned of schools,

Of the wild bee's morning chase,

Of the wild flower's time and place,

Flight of fowl and habitude

Of the tenants of the wood;

How the tortoise bears his shell,

How the woodchuck digs his cell,

And the ground-mole sinks his well;

How the robin feeds her young,

How the oriole's nest is hung;

Where the whitest lilies blow,

Where the freshest berries grow,

Where the ground-nut trails its vine,

Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;

Of the black wasp's cunning way,

Mason of his walls of clay,

And the architectural plans

Of gray hornet artisans!

For, eschewing books and tasks,

Nature answers all he asks;

Hand in hand with her he walks,

Face to face with her he talks,

Part and parcel of her joy,--

Blessings on the barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's time of June,

Crowding years in one brief moon,

When all things I heard or saw,

Me, their master, waited for.

I was rich in flowers and trees,

Humming-birds and honey-bees;

For my sport the squirrel played,

Plied the snouted mole his spade;

For my taste the blackberry cone

Purpled over hedge and stone;

Laughed the brook for my delight

Through the day and through the night,

Whispering at the garden wall,

Talked with me from fall to fall;

Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond

Mine the walnut slopes beyond,

Mine, on bending orchard trees,

Apples of Hesperides!

Still as my horizon grew,

Larger grew my riches too;

All the world I saw or knew

Seemed a complex Chinese toy,

Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

Oh for festal dainties spread,

Like my bowl of milk and bread;

Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,

On the door-stone, gray and rude!

O'er me, like a regal tent,

Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,

Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,

Looped in many a wind-swung fold;

While for music came the play

Of the pied frogs' orchestra;

And, to light the noisy choir,

Lit the fly his lamp of fire.

I was monarch: pomp and joy

Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man,

Live and laugh, as boyhood can!

Though the flinty slopes be hard,

Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,

Every morn shall lead thee through

Fresh baptisms of the dew;

Every evening from thy feet

Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:

All too soon these feet must hide

In the prison cells of pride,

Lose the freedom of the sod,

Like a colt's for work be shod,

Made to tread the mills of toil,

Up and down in ceaseless moil:

Happy if their track be found

Never on forbidden ground;

Happy if they sink not in

Quick and treacherous sands of sin.

Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,

Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]

THE HERITAGE

Thee rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick and stone, and gold,

And he inherits soft white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,

Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares;

The bank may break, the factory burn,

A breath may burst his bubble shares,

And soft white hands could hardly earn

A living that would serve his turn;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants,

His stomach craves for dainty fare;

With sated heart, he hears the pants

Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,

And wearies in his easy-chair;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit,

King of two hands, he does his part

In every useful toil and art;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,

A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,

Content that from employment springs,

A heart that in his labor sings;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

A patience learned of being poor,

Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,

A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son! there is a toil

That with all others level stands;

Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft white hands;

This is the best crop from thy lands,

A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;

There is worse weariness than thine,

In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine,

And makes rest fragrant and benign;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,

Are equal in the earth at last;

Both, children of the same dear God,

Prove title to your heirship vast

By record of a well-filled past;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Well worth a life to hold in fee.

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

LETTY'S GLOBE

Or Some Irregularities In A First Lesson In Geography

When Letty had scarce passed her third glad year,

And her young artless words began to flow,

One day we gave the child a colored sphere

Of the wide Earth, that she might mark and know,

By tint and outline, all its sea and land.

She patted all the world; old Empires peeped

Between her baby fingers; her soft hand

Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leaped,

And laughed and prattled in her world-wide bliss!

But when we turned her sweet unlearned eye

On our own Isle, she raised a joyous cry,--

"O yes! I see it, Letty's home is there!"

And while she hid all England with a kiss,

Bright over Europe fell her golden hair.

Charles Tennyson Turner [1808-1879]

DOVE'S NEST

"Sylvia, hush!" I said, "come here,

Come see a fairy-tale, my dear!

Tales told are good, tales seen are best!"

The dove was brooding on the nest

In the lowest crotch of the apple tree.

I lifted her up so quietly,

That when she could have touched the bird

The soft gray creature had not stirred.

It looked at us with a wild dark eye.

But, "Birdie, fly!" was Sylvia's cry,

Impatient Sylvia, "Birdie, fly."

Ah, well: but when I touched the nest,

The child recoiled upon my breast.

Was ever such a startling thing?

Sudden silver and purple wing,

The dove was out, away, across,

Struggling heart-break on the grass.

And there in the cup within the tree

Two milk-white eggs were ours to see.

Was ever thing so pretty? Alack,

"Birdie!" Sylvia cried, "come back!"

Joseph Russell Taylor [1868-1933]

THE ORACLE

I lay upon the summer grass.

A gold-haired, sunny child came by,

And looked at me, as loath to pass,

With questions in her lingering eye.

She stopped and wavered, then drew near,

(Ah! the pale gold around her head!)

And o'er my shoulder stopped to peer.

"Why do you read?" she said.

"I read a poet of old time,

Who sang through all his living hours--

Beauty of earth--the streams, the flowers--

And stars, more lovely than his rhyme.

"And now I read him, since men go,

Forgetful of these sweetest things;

Since he and I love brooks that flow,

And dawns, and bees, and flash of wings!"

She stared at me with laughing look,

Then clasped her hands upon my knees:

"How strange to read it in a book!

I could have told you all of these!"

Arthur Davison Ficke [1883-

TO A LITTLE GIRL

You taught me ways of gracefulness and fashions of address,

The mode of plucking pansies and the art of sowing cress,

And how to handle puppies, with propitiatory pats

For mother dogs, and little acts of courtesy to cats.

O connoisseur of pebbles, colored leaves and trickling rills,

Whom seasons fit as do the sheaths that wrap the daffodils,

Whose eyes' divine expectancy foretells some starry goal,

You taught me here docility--and how to save my soul.

Helen Parry Eden [18

TO A LITTLE GIRL

Her eyes are like forget-me-nots,

So loving, kind and true;

Her lips are like a pink sea-shell

Just as the sun shines through;

Her hair is like the waving grain

In summer's golden light;

And, best of all, her little soul

Is, like a lily, white.

Gustav Kobbe [1857-1918]

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON

Aged Three Years And Five Months

Thou happy, happy elf!

(But stop,--first let me kiss away that tear!)

Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)

Thou merry, laughing sprite,

With spirits feather-light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin,--

(My dear, the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air,--

(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)

Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,

Thou idol of thy parents,--(Drat the boy!

There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub,--but of earth;

Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,

In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him, if he pulls its tail!)

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey

From every blossom in the world that blows,

Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny.--

(Another tumble! That's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)

With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint,

(Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)

Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!

(Are these torn clothes his best?)

Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)

Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,--

(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,

Play on, play on,

My elfin John!

Toss the light ball, bestride the stick,--

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)

With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,

Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,

With many a lamb-like frisk!

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)

Balmy and breathing music like the South,--

(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)

Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,--

(I wish that window had an iron bar!)

Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove;--

(I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write unless he's sent above.)

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

A NEW POET

I write. He sits beside my chair,

And scribbles, too, in hushed delight,

He dips his pen in charmed air:

What is it he pretends to write?

He toils and toils; the paper gives

No clue to aught he thinks. What then?

His little heart is glad; he lives

The poems that he cannot pen.

Strange fancies throng that baby brain.

What grave, sweet looks! What earnest eyes!

He stops--reflects--and now again

His unrecording pen he plies.

It seems a satire on myself,--

These dreamy nothings scrawled in air,

This thought, this work! Oh tricksy elf,

Wouldst drive thy father to despair?

Despair! Ah, no; the heart, the mind

Persists in hoping,--schemes and strives

That there may linger with our kind

Some memory of our little lives.

Beneath his rock in the early world

Smiling the naked hunter lay,

And sketched on horn the spear he hurled,

The urus which he made his prey.

Like him I strive in hope my rhymes

May keep my name a little while,--

O child, who knows how many times

We two have made the angels smile!

William Canton [1845-

TO LAURA W--, TWO YEARS OLD

Bright be the skies that cover thee,

Child of the sunny brow,--

Bright as the dream flung over thee

By all that meets thee now,--

Thy heart is beating joyously,

Thy voice is like a bird's,

And sweetly breaks the melody

Of thy imperfect words.

I know no fount that gushes out

As gladly as thy tiny shout.

I would that thou might'st ever be

As beautiful as now,

That time might ever leave as free

Thy yet unwritten brow.

I would life were all poetry

To gentle measure set,

That naught but chastened melody

Might stain thine eye of jet,

Nor one discordant note be spoken,

Till God the cunning harp hath broken.

I would--but deeper things than these

With woman's lot are wove:

Wrought of intensest sympathies,

And nerved by purest love;

By the strong spirit's discipline,

By the fierce wrong forgiven,

By all that wrings the heart of sin,

Is woman won to heaven.

"Her lot is on thee," lovely child--

God keep thy spirit undefiled!

I fear thy gentle loveliness,

Thy witching tone and air,

Thine eye's beseeching earnestness

May be to thee a snare.

The silver stars may purely shine,

The waters taintless flow:

But they who kneel at woman's shrine

Breathe on it as they bow.

Peace may fling back the gift again,

But the crushed flower will leave a stain.

What shall preserve thee, beautiful child?

Keep thee as thou art now?

Bring thee, a spirit undefiled,

At God's pure throne to bow?

The world is but a broken reed,

And life grows early dim--

Who shall be near thee in thy need,

To lead thee up to Him?

He who himself was "undefiled?"

With Him we trust thee, beautiful child!

Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]

TO ROSE

Rose, when I remember you,

Little lady, scarcely two,

I am suddenly aware

Of the angels in the air.

All your softly gracious ways

Make an island in my days

Where my thoughts fly back to be

Sheltered from too strong a sea.

All your luminous delight

Shines before me in the night

When I grope for sleep and find

Only shadows in my mind.

Rose, when I remember you,

White and glowing, pink and new,

With so swift a sense of fun

Although life has just begun;

With so sure a pride of place

In your very infant face,

I should like to make a prayer

To the angels in the air:

"If an angel ever brings

Me a baby in her wings,

Please be certain that it grows

Very, very much like Rose."

Sara Teasdale [1884-1933]

TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY

Timely blossom, Infant fair,

Fondling of a happy pair,

Every morn and every night

Their solicitous delight,

Sleeping, waking, still at ease,

Pleasing, without skill to please;

Little gossip, blithe and hale,

Tattling many a broken tale,

Singing many a tuneless song,

Lavish of a heedless tongue;

Simple maiden, void of art,

Babbling out the very heart,

Yet abandoned to thy will,

Yet imagining no ill,

Yet too innocent to blush;

Like the linnet in the bush

To the mother-linnet's note

Moduling her slender throat;

Chirping forth thy pretty joys,

Wanton in the change of toys,

Like the linnet green, in May

Flitting to each bloomy spray;

Wearied then and glad of rest,

Like the linnet in the nest:--

This thy present happy lot,

This, in time will be forgot:

Other pleasures, other cares,

Ever-busy Time prepares;

And thou shalt in thy daughter see,

This picture, once, resembled thee.

Ambrose Philips [1675?-1749]

THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T. C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS

See with what simplicity

This nymph begins her golden days!

In the green grass she loves to lie,

And there with her fair aspect tames

The wilder flowers, and gives them names;

But only with the roses plays,

And them does tell

What color best becomes them, and what smell.

Who can foretell for what high cause

This darling of the gods was born?

Yet this is she whose chaster laws

The wanton Love shall one day fear,

And, under her command severe,

See his bow broke, and ensigns torn.

Happy who can

Appease this virtuous enemy of man!

O then let me in time compound

And parley with those conquering eyes,

Ere they have tried their force to wound,

Ere with their glancing wheels they drive

In triumph over hearts that strive,

And them that yield but more despise:

Let me be laid

Where I may see the glories from some shade.

Meantime, whilst every verdant thing

Itself does at thy beauty charm,

Reform the errors of the Spring;

Make that the tulips may have share

Of sweetness, seeing they are fair,

And roses of their thorns disarm

But most procure

That violets may a longer age endure.

But O young beauty of the woods,

Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers,

Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;

Lest Flora, angry at thy crime

To kill her infants in their prime,

Do quickly make the example yours;

And, ere we see,

Nip, in the blossom, all our hopes and thee.

Andrew Marvell [1621-1678]

TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE

Six Years Old

O thou! whose fancies from afar are brought:

Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,

And fittest to unutterable thought

The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;

Thou fairy voyager! that dost float

In such clear water, that thy boat

May rather seem

To brood on air than on an earthly stream;

Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,

Where earth and heaven do make one imagery:

O blessed vision! happy child!

Thou art so exquisitely wild,

I think of thee with many fears

For what may be thy lot in future years.

I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,

Lord of thy house and hospitality;

And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest

But when she sate within the touch of thee.

O too industrious folly!

O vain and causeless melancholy!

Nature will either end thee quite;

Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,

Preserve for thee, by individual right,

A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks.

What hast thou to do with sorrow,

Or the injuries of to-morrow?

Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth,

Ill-fitted to sustain unkindly shocks,

Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;

A gem that glitters while it lives,

And no forewarning gives;

But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife,

Slips in a moment out of life.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY

Five Years Old, 1704, The Author Then Forty

Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band

That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,

Were summoned by her high command

To show their passions by their letters.

My pen amongst the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read,

Should dart their kindling fires, and look

The power they have to be obeyed.

Nor quality, nor reputation,

Forbids me yet my flame to tell;

Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion,

And I may write till she can spell.

For, while she makes her silkworms' beds

With all the tender things I swear;

Whilst all the house my passion reads,

In papers round her baby's hair;

She may receive and own my flame;

For, though the strictest prudes should know it,

She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,

And I for an unhappy poet.

Then too, alas! when she shall tear

The rhymes some younger rival sends,

She'll give me leave to write, I fear,

And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our different ages move,

'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!),

That I shall be past making love

When she begins to comprehend it.

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]

EX ORE INFANTIUM

Little Jesus, wast Thou shy

Once, and just so small as I?

And what did it feel like to be

Out of Heaven, and just like me?

Didst Thou sometimes think of there,

And ask where all the angels were?

I should think that I would cry

For my house all made of sky;

I would look about the air,

And wonder where my angels were;

And at waking 'twould distress me--

Not an angel there to dress me!

Hadst Thou ever any toys,

Like us little girls and boys?

And didst Thou play in Heaven with all

The angels, that were not too tall,

With stars for marbles? Did the things

Play Can you see me? through their wings?

Didst Thou kneel at night to pray,

And didst Thou join Thy hands, this way?

And did they tire sometimes, being young,

And make the prayer seem very long?

And dost Thou like it best, that we

Should join our hands to pray to Thee?

I used to think, before I knew,

The prayer not said unless we do.

And did Thy Mother at the night

Kiss Thee, and fold the clothes in right?

And didst Thou feel quite good in bed,

Kissed, and sweet, and Thy prayers said?

Thou canst not have forgotten all

That it feels like to be small:

And Thou know'st I cannot pray

To Thee in my father's way--

When Thou wast so little, say,

Could'st Thou talk Thy Father's way?--

So, a little Child, come down

And hear a child's tongue like Thy own;

Take me by the hand and walk,

And listen to my baby-talk.

To Thy Father show my prayer

(He will look, Thou art so fair),

And say: "O Father, I, Thy Son,

Bring the prayer of a little one."

And He will smile, that children's tongue

Has not changed since Thou wast young!

Francis Thompson [1859-1907]

OBITUARY

Finding Francesca full of tears, I said,

"Tell me thy trouble." "Oh, my dog is dead!

Murdered by poison!--no one knows for what!--

Was ever dog born capable of that?"

"Child,"--I began to say, but checked my thought,--

"A better dog can easily be bought."

For no--what animal could him replace?

Those loving eyes! That fond, confiding face!

Those dear, dumb touches! Therefore I was dumb.

From word of mine could any comfort come?

A bitter sorrow 'tis to lose a brute

Friend, dog or horse, for grief must then be mute,--

So many smile to see the rivers shed

Of tears for one poor, speechless creature dead.

When parents die there's many a word to say--

Kind words, consoling_--one can always pray;

When children die 'tis natural to tell

Their mother, "Certainly, with them 'tis well!"

But for a dog, 'twas all the life he had,

Since death is end of dogs, or good or bad.

This was his world; he was contented here;

Imagined nothing better, naught more dear,

Than his young mistress; sought no brighter sphere;

Having no sin, asked not to be forgiven;

Ne'er guessed at God nor ever dreamed of heaven.

Now he has passed away, so much of love

Goes from our life, without one hope above!

When a dog dies there's nothing to be said

But--kiss me, darling!--dear old Smiler's dead.

Thomas William Parsons [1819-1892]

THE CHILD'S HERITAGE

On, there are those, a sordid clan,

With pride in gaud and faith in gold,

Who prize the sacred soul of man

For what his hands have sold.

And these shall deem thee humbly bred:

They shall not hear, they shall not see

The kings among the lordly dead

Who walk and talk with thee!

A tattered cloak may be thy dole,

And thine the roof that Jesus had:

The broidered garment of the soul

Shall keep thee purple-clad!

The blood of men hath dyed its brede,

And it was wrought by holy seers

With sombre dream and golden deed,

And pearled with women's tears.

With Eld thy chain of days is one:

The seas are still Homeric seas;

Thy skies shall glow with Pindar's sun,

The stars of Socrates!

Unaged the ancient tide shall surge,

The old Spring burn along the bough:

For thee, new and old converge

In one eternal Now!

I give thy feet the hopeful sod,

Thy mouth, the priceless boon of breath;

The glory of the search for God

Be thine in life and death!

Unto thy flesh, the soothing dust;

Thy soul, the gift of being free:

The torch my fathers gave in trust,

Thy father gives to thee!

John G. Neihardt [1881-