University of California Berkeley 
 
POEMS 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 
 
 ' ! dear to memory are those hours 
 When every pathway led to flowers." 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 GEORGE COOLIDGE, 
 
 13 TRRMONT Row, 
 
 1861. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, 
 
 BY GEORGE COOLIJGK, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of 
 Massachusetts. 
 
 Elecfcrotyped at the 
 
 BOSTON STEREOTYPE FO 
 
 T >amri>ll & Moore, Printers, Boston. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 " In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse 
 Upon the days gone by ; to act in thought 
 Past seasons o'er, and be again a child." 
 
 BLEST hour of childhood ; there, and there alone, 
 Dance we the revels close round Pleasure's throne ; 
 Quaff the bright nectar from the fountain springs, 
 And laugh beneath the rainbow of her wings. 
 O ! time of promise, hope, and innocence, 
 Of trust, and love, and happy ignorance, 
 When every dream is heaven, in whose fair joy 
 Experience yet has thrown no sad alloy ; 
 Whose pain,when fiercest, lacks the venomed pang, 
 Which to maturer ill doth oft belong, 
 When mute, and cold, we weep departed bliss, 
 And Hope expires on broken happiness. 
 
 (3) 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 SPORTING through the forest wide ; 
 Playing by the water side ; 
 Wandering o'er the heathy fells ; 
 Down within the woodland dells j 
 All among the mountains wild, 
 Dwelleth many a little child ! 
 In the baron's hall of pride ; 
 By the poor man's dull fireside : 
 'Mid the mighty, 'mid the mean, 
 Little children may be seen, 
 Like the flowers that spring up fair, 
 Bright and countless every where ! 
 In the far isles of the main ; 
 In the desert's lone domain j 
 In the savage mountain- glen, 
 'Mong the tribes of swarthy men ; 
 Wheresoe'er a foot hath gone ; 
 Wheresoe'er the sun hath shone 
 On a league of peopled ground, 
 Little children may be found ! 
 Blessings on them ! they in me 
 Move a kindly sympathy 
 With their wishes, hopes, and fears ; 
 With their laughter and their tears ; 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 With their wonder so intense, 
 And their small experience ! 
 Little children, not alone 
 On the wide earth are ye known, 
 'Mid its labors and its cares, 
 'Mid its sufferings and its snares ; 
 Free from sorrow, free from strife, 
 In the world of love and life, 
 Where no sinful thing hath trod 
 In the presence of your God, 
 Spotless, blameless, glorified 
 Little children, ye abide ! 
 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
 ROSY-CHEEKED APPLES. 
 
 COME here, my bairnie, 
 
 Come here to me ; 
 Rosy-cheeked apples 
 
 You shall have three. 
 All full of honey 
 
 They dropped from the tree 
 Like your bonny self, 
 
 All the sweeter that they're wee. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Come here, my bairnie, 
 
 Nor shake your fair head ; 
 You are like my own bairn, 
 
 Long long- dead. 
 Ah ! for lack of nourishment 
 
 He dropped from the tree 
 Like your bonny self, 
 
 All the sweeter he was wee ! 
 
 O ! old, frail folk 
 
 Are like old fruit-trees ; 
 They cannot stand the gnarl 
 
 Of the cold winter breeze. 
 But heaven takes the fruit, 
 
 Though earth forsake the tree; 
 And we mourn our fairy blossoms, 
 
 All the sweeter that they're wee. 
 
 Come here, my bairnie, 
 
 Come here to me ; 
 Rosy-cheeked apples 
 
 You shall have three. 
 All so full of honey 
 
 They dropped from the tree 
 Like your bonny self, 
 
 All the sweeter they are wee. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 THE MADONNA. 
 
 " I WISH I were a picture," 
 
 Said a prattling little boy ; 
 " For a picture is so beautiful, 
 
 And its face so full of joy. 
 There is a pretty lady 
 
 In the parlor of mamma, 
 With a ribbon blue upon her head, 
 
 And upon her breast a star. 
 
 And she ever smiles so sweetly, 
 
 And her soft eyes are so blue, 
 That I wish when I look on her 
 
 I might be a picture too. 
 She is never sad like others, 
 
 For she smiles when people die ; 
 And she never seems to hear it 
 
 When the funeral goes by. 
 
 " Her blue bright eyes are beaming, 
 
 And each seems a little dream 
 Of the violet reflected 
 
 In the silence of a stream. 
 And she always is so happy, 
 
 Though the saddest things occur, 
 That I wish I were a picture, 
 
 In a pretty frame like her. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 " I wonder if a picture 
 
 Ever thinks thoughts of its own ? 
 If it smiles so very sweetly, 
 
 When we leave it all alone. 
 If it knows it is a picture, 
 
 While we are speaking thus ; 
 But O, it is too beautiful 
 
 To wish to be like us." 
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 SI&HING, I see yon little troop at play, 
 
 By sorrow yet untouched, unhurt by care, 
 While free and sportive they enjoy to-day, 
 
 " Content and careless of to-morrow's fare." 
 O, happy age ! when Hope's unclouded ray 
 
 Lights their green path, and prompts their sim 
 ple mirth, 
 
 Ere yet they feel the thorns that lurking lay 
 To wound the wretched pilgrims of the earth, 
 Making them rue the hour that gave them birth, 
 
 And threw them on a world so full of pain, 
 Where prosperous folly treads on patient worth, 
 
 And to deaf pride misfortune pleads in vain ! 
 Ah ! for their future fate how many fears 
 Oppress my heart, and fill mine eyes with tears. 
 Charlotte Smith. 
 
POEMS^ OF CHILDHOOD. 9 
 
 CHILDREN AT PLAY. 
 
 SPORT on ; sport on ; 
 
 A mother's thought, shadow of heavenly love, 
 Dwells on you. In her home, 'mid household 
 
 cares, 
 
 Kindle up hopes, which, deep in its soft folds, 
 Her inmost soul has wrapped. She musing- asks, 
 " What his high fate, that boy with eagle eye, 
 And well-knit limbs, and proud impetuous 
 
 thought ? 
 
 A patriot, leading men, and breathing forth 
 His warm soul for his country ? or a bard, 
 With holy song refining earth's cold ear ? 
 A son, holding the torch of love to age 
 As its closed eye turns dimly to the grave ? 
 Or husband, wrapping, with protecting arms, 
 One who leans on him in her trusting youth ? " 
 " And for those girls," she asks, " what gentlo 
 
 fate 
 
 Lies cradled on the softest down of time ? 
 A rosy lot must garland out their years 
 Those sunny eyes, with laughing spirits wild, 
 Those rounded limbs are all unfit for Avant, 
 Or sterner care. Gently will they be borne 
 On beds of flowers, beneath an azure sky." 
 O dreams, fair dreams ! God's dower to wo 
 man's heart ! 
 
 Your light and waving curtains still suspend 
 Before the future, which lies dark behind. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 A PARENTAL ODE TO MY INFANT SON. 
 
 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 
 (Good heavens ! 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 (Stop the boy ! 
 
 There goes my ink ! ) 
 
 Thou cherub but of earth ! 
 Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale, 
 
 In harmless sport and mirth. 
 (The dog will bite him if he pulls his tail ! ) 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey 
 From every blossom in the world that blows, 
 
 Singing 1 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 love ! 
 (He'll have that jug off with another shove ! ; 
 
 Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest ! 
 
 (Are those 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 !; 
 
12 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 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 ! ) 
 
 Hood. 
 
 HOW LIKE HIS FATHER! 
 
 BEHOLD, my lords, although the print be little, 
 
 the whole matter 
 
 And copy of the father : eye, nose, lip, 
 The trick of his frown, his forehead ; nay, the 
 
 valley, 
 The pretty dimples of his chin, and cheek , his 
 
 smiles ; 
 The very mould of hand, nail, finger. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 13 
 
 MOUNTAIN CHILDREN. 
 
 DWELLERS by lake and hill, 
 Merry companions of the bird and bee, 
 
 Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill, 
 With unconstrained step and spirit free. 
 
 No crowd impedes your way ; 
 No city wall proscribes your further bounds ; 
 
 Where the wild flocks can wander, ye may stray 
 The long day through, mid summer sights and 
 sounds. 
 
 The sunshine and the flowers, 
 And the old trees that cast a solemn shade , 
 
 The pleasant evening, the fresh, dewy hours, 
 And the green hills whereon your fathers played : 
 
 The gray and ancient peaks, 
 Round which the silent clouds hang day and 
 
 night ; 
 
 And the low voice of water, as it makes, 
 Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight ; 
 
 These are your joys. Go forth, 
 Give your hearts up unto their mighty power ; 
 
 For in his spirit God has clothed the earth, 
 And speaks in love from every tree and flower. 
 
14 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 The voice of hidden rills 
 Its quiet way into your spirit finds ; 
 And awfully the everlasting- hills 
 Address you in their many-toned winds. 
 
 Ye sit upon the earth 
 Twining its flowers, and shouting, full of glee ; 
 
 And a pure, mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, 
 Moulds your unconscious spirit silently. 
 
 Hence is it that the lands 
 Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons ; 
 
 Whom the world reverences, the patriot bands 
 Were of the hills like you, ye little ones ! 
 
 Children of pleasant song 
 Are taught within the mountain solitudes ; 
 For hoary legends to your wilds belong, 
 And yours are haunts where inspiration broods. 
 
 Then go forth : earth and sky 
 To you are tributary ; joys are spread 
 
 Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie 
 In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread. 
 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 15 
 
 TO J. H. 
 
 FOUR YEARS OLD A NURSERY SONG. 
 
 .... Pien d' amori, 
 Pien di canti, e pien di fiori. 
 
 Frugoni. 
 
 Full of little loves of ours. 
 Full of songs, and full of flowers. 
 
 AH, little ranting Johnny ! 
 
 Forever blithe and bonny, 
 
 And sing-ing- nonny, nonny ; 
 
 With hat just thrown upon ye, 
 
 Or whistling like the thrushes, 
 
 With voice in silver gushes ; 
 
 Or twisting random posies 
 
 With daisies, weeds, and roses ; 
 
 And strutting in and out so, 
 
 Or dancing all about so ; 
 
 With cock-up nose so lightsome, 
 
 And sidelong eyes so brightsome, 
 
 And cheeks as ripe as apples, 
 
 And head as rough as Dapple's, 
 
 And arms as sunny shining 
 
 As if their veins they'd wine in, 
 
 And mouth that smiles so truly 
 
 Heaven seems to have made it newly 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 It breaks into such sweetness 
 With merry-lipped completeness ; 
 Ah, Jack, ah, Gianni mio, 
 As blithe as Laughing Trio ! 
 Sir Richard, too, you rattler, 
 So christened from the Tatler, 
 My Bacchus in his glory, 
 My little Cor-di-fiori, 
 My tricksome Puck, my Robin, 
 Who in and out come bobbing, 
 As full of feints and frolics as 
 That fibbing rogue Antolycus, 
 And play the graceless robber on 
 Your grave-eyed brother Oberon, 
 Ah, Dick, ah, Dolce-riso, 
 How can you, can you be so ? 
 
 One cannot turn a minute, 
 
 But mischief there you're in it : 
 
 A-getting at my books, John, 
 
 With mighty bustling looks, John ; 
 
 Or poking at the roses, 
 
 In midst of which your nose is ; 
 
 Or climbing on a table, 
 
 No matter how unstable, 
 
 And turning up your quaint eye 
 
 And half-shut teeth, with, " Mayn't I . : 
 
 Or else you're off at play, John, 
 
 Just as you'd be all day, John, 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 With hat or not, as happens ; 
 
 And there you dance, and clap hands, 
 
 Or on the grass go rolling-, 
 
 Or plucking flowers, or bowling, 
 
 And getting me expenses 
 
 With losing balls o'er fences ; 
 
 Or, as the constant trade is, 
 
 Are fondled by the ladies 
 
 With, " What a young rogue this is ! " 
 
 Reforming him with kisses ; 
 
 Till suddenly you cry out, 
 
 As if you had an eye out, 
 
 So desperately tearful, 
 
 The sound is really fearful ; 
 
 When, lo ! directly after, 
 
 It bubbles into laughter. 
 
 Ah, rogue ! and do you know, John, 
 Why 'tis we love you so, John ? 
 And how it is they let ye 
 Do what you like and pet ye, 
 Though who look upon ye, 
 Exclaim, " Ah, John, Johnny ! " 
 It is because you please 'em 
 Still more Johnny, than you tease 'em ; 
 Because, too, when not present, 
 The thought of you is pleasant ; 
 Because, though such an elf, John, 
 They think that if yourself, John, 
 2 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Had something to condemn too, 
 You'd be as kind to them too ; 
 In short, because you're very 
 Good-tempered, Jack, and merry, 
 And are as quick at giving 
 As easy at receiving, 
 And in the midst of pleasure 
 Are certain to find leisure 
 To think, my boy, of ours, 
 And bring us lumps of flowers. 
 
 But see, the sun shines brightly ; 
 Come, put your hat on rightly, 
 And we'll among the bushes, 
 And hear your friends, the thrushes ; 
 And see what flowers the weather 
 Has rendered fit to gather ; 
 And, when we home must jog, you 
 Shall ride my back, you rogue you, 
 Your hat adorned with fine leaves, 
 Horse-chestnut, oak, and vine-leaves ; 
 And so, with green o'erhead, John, 
 Shall whistle home to bed, John. 
 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 19 
 
 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 the scarlet feather. 
 
TOEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 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 nought amiss, 
 
 And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, 
 And I give her all my roses. 
 
 T. Westwood. 
 
 THE GAMBOLS OF CHILDREN. 
 
 DOWN the dimpled greensward dancing, 
 Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy 
 
 Bud-lipped boys and girls advancing, 
 Love's irregular little levy. 
 
 Rows of liquid eyes in laughter, 
 How they glimmer, how they quiver ! 
 
 Sparkling one another after, 
 Like bright ripples on a river. 
 
 Tipsy band of rubious faces, 
 Flushed with Joy's ethereal spirit, 
 
 Make your mocks and sly grimaces 
 At Love's self, and do not fear it. 
 
 George Darley, 
 
POEMS OF CHILD HOOD. 21 
 
 A FAXCY ABOUT A BOY. 
 
 " Nothing, less than nothing ; and vanity." 
 
 WE stood beside the window, still 
 
 The little boy and I ; 
 Within the room was sober gloom j 
 
 Without, a sunset sky. 
 I drew him forward to the light, 
 
 That I might view him plain : 
 The sudden view thrilled my heart through 
 
 With a delicious pain. 
 
 I leant his head back o'er my arm, 
 
 And smoothed his crisped hair 
 The dear, dear curls, o'er which salt pearls 
 
 I could have rained out there. 
 I looked beneath his heavy lids, 
 
 Drooping with dreamy fold : 
 What visioned eyes I saw arise ! 
 
 But nothing shall be told. 
 
 Gayly I spoke : " Could I count back 
 
 Nine years, and he gain nine, 
 I would not say what ill to-day 
 
 Had chanced this heart of mine." 
 He laughed all laughed I most of all ; 
 
 But I was glad, I ween, 
 That the whole room lay in such gloom 
 
 His face alone was seen. 
 
22 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 He talked to me in schoolboy phrase ; 
 
 I gave him meet replies, 
 I mind not what ; my sense was nought, 
 
 Or lived but in mine eyes. 
 I could not kiss him as a child j 
 
 I only touched his hair ; 
 Or with my hand his broad brow spanned, 
 
 But not that it was fair. 
 
 He, strange to me, as I to him 
 
 We never met before ; 
 Yet I would fain brave mickle pain 
 
 To see the lad once more. 
 But why this was, and is, God knows ; 
 
 And I I know, with joy, 
 I'll find, among his angel-throng, 
 
 An angel like that boy. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 LITTLE ELLIJE. 
 
 DARLING little Ellie, 
 Stout of heart and limb 
 
 What, I often wonder, 
 Will the future make of him ? 
 
 Where will be the roses 
 That make his cheeks so red, 
 
 When years, with their temptations, 
 And trials shall have fled ? 
 
 Stirring with the morning, 
 As if he owned the farm; 
 
 On the floor at sunset, 
 Sleeping 1 on his arm. 
 
 Torn and faded jacket, 
 
 Feet brown and bare, 
 Sunshine laughing in his eyes, 
 
 And tangled in his hair. 
 
 In his little bucket 
 
 Helping milk the cows 
 Riding on the horses, 
 
 Tumbling- down the mows ; 
 
 Wading in the water, 
 
 Working mimic mills 
 Chasing through the meadows, 
 
 Rolling down the hills ; 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Making strings of elm-bark, 
 
 Stealing mother's yarn 
 All to see his kite fly 
 
 Higher than the barn j 
 
 Planning, long aforetime, 
 
 With ambitious pride, 
 How, when snow has fallen, 
 
 He'll have a sled and ride. 
 
 Gravely puzzling over 
 
 Each childish little plan 
 Working, and tugging, 
 
 And scheming like a man. 
 
 Now upon grandfather's knee, 
 
 Listening with delight 
 To the stories that are new 
 
 Every day and night. 
 
 Now, with joyous make-believe, 
 
 In despite his frown, 
 Turning chairs to railcars, 
 
 And riding into town. 
 
 Ah, 'tis wisely well for us 
 
 That we cannot see 
 What, in years that are to come, 
 
 He will grow to be. 
 
 Alice Cary. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 TO H. C. 
 
 SIX YEARS OLD. 
 
 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 j 
 O, blessed vision ! happy child ! 
 Thou art so exquisitely wild, 
 
 1 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 sat 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, 
 
26 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 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-niorrow ? 
 Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, 
 111 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 wrongs, without a strife 
 Slips in a moment out of life. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 TO GEORGE M . 
 
 YES, I do love thee well, my child, 
 
 Albeit mine's a wandering mind ; 
 But never, darling, hast thou smiled, 
 
 Or breathed a wish, that did not find 
 
 A ready echo in my heart. 
 What hours I've held thee on my knee, 
 
 Thy little rosy lips apart ! 
 Or, when asleep, I've gazed on thee, 
 And with old tunes sung thee to rest, 
 
 Hugging thee closely to my bosom ; 
 For thee my very heart hath blessed, 
 
 My joy, my care, my blue-eyed blossom ! 
 
 Thomas Miller. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 
 
 ART thou a thing- of mortal birth, 
 Whose happy home is on our earth ? 
 Does human blood with life imbue 
 Those wandering veins of heavenly blue, 
 That stray along" that forehead fair, 
 Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair ? 
 O, can that light and airy breath 
 Steal from a being doomed to death ? 
 Those features to the grave be sent 
 In sleep thus mutely eloquent ? 
 Or, art thou, what thy form would seem, 
 A phantom of a blessed dream ? 
 
 A human shape I feel thou art ; 
 I feel it at my beating heart, 
 Those tremors both of soul and sense 
 Awoke by infant innocence ! 
 Though dear the forms by Fancy wove, 
 We love them with a transient love j 
 Thoughts from the living world intrude 
 Even on her deepest solitude : 
 But, lovely child, thy magic stole 
 At once into my inmost soul, 
 With feelings as thy beauty fair, 
 And left no other vision there. 
 
 To me thy parents are unknown ; 
 Glad would they be their child to own ! 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 And well they must have loved beft* ~, 
 If since thy birth they loved not more. 
 Thou art a branch of noble stem, 
 And, seeing thee, I figure them. 
 What many a childless one would give, 
 If thou in their still home wouldst live, 
 Though in thy face no family line 
 Might sweetly say, " This babe is mine ! " 
 In time thou wouldst become the same 
 As their own child, all but the name. 
 
 How happy must thy parents be 
 Who daily live in sight of thee ! 
 Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek 
 Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak, 
 And feel all natural griefs beguiled 
 By thee, their fond, their duteous child ' 
 What joy must in their souls have stirred 
 When thy first broken words were heard 
 Words, that, inspired by heaven, expressed 
 The transports dancing in thy breast ! 
 And for thy smile ! thy lip, cheek, brow, 
 Even while I gaze, are kindling now. 
 
 I called thee duteous ; am 1 wrong ? 
 No ! truth, I feel, is in my song. 
 Duteous, thy heart's still beatings move 
 To God, to Nature, and to love ! 
 To God ! for thou, a harmless child, 
 Hast kept his temple undefiled : 
 To Xaturc ! for thy tears and sighs 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 29 
 
 Obey alone her mysteries ; 
 To Love ! for fiends of hate might sec 
 Thou dwcll'st in love, and love in thee. 
 What wonder then, though in thy dreams 
 Thy face with mystic meaning beams ! 
 
 O, that my spirit's eye could see 
 Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy ! 
 That light of dreaming soul appears 
 To play from thoughts above thy years ; 
 Thou smilest as if thy soul were soaring 
 To heaven, and heaven's God adoring. 
 And who can tell what visions high 
 May bless an infant's sleeping eye ? 
 What brighter throne can brightness find 
 To reign on than an infant's mind, 
 Ere sin destroy, or error dim, 
 The glory of the seraphim ? 
 
 But now thy changing smiles express 
 Intelligible happiness. 
 I feel my soul thy soul partake ; 
 What grief if thou wouldst now awake ! 
 With infants happy as thyself 
 I see thee bound, a playful elf; 
 I see thou art a darling child 
 Among thy playmates bold and wild ; 
 They love thee well ; thou art the queen 
 Of all their sports, in bower or green ; 
 And if thou livest to woman's height, 
 In thee will friendship, love, delight. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 And live thou surely must ; thy life 
 Is far too spiritual for the strife 
 Of mortal pain ; nor could disease 
 Find heart to prey on smiles like these. 
 O, thou wilt be an angel bright 
 To those thou lovest, a saving light 
 The staff of age, the help sublime 
 Of erring youth, and stubborn prime ; 
 And when thou goest to heaven again, 
 Thy vanishing be like the strain 
 Of airy harp so soft the tone 
 The ear scarce knows when it is gone ! 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 DEAR child ! whom sleep can hardly tame, 
 As live and beautiful as flame, 
 Thou glancest round my graver hours 
 As if thy crown of wild- wood flowers 
 Were not by mortal forehead worn, 
 But on the summer breeze were borne, 
 Or on a mountain streamlet's waves 
 Came glistening down from dreamy caves. 
 
 With bright, round cheek, amid whose glow 
 Delight and wonder come and go, 
 And eyes whose inward meanings play 
 Congenial with the light of day, 
 And brow so calm, a home for Thought 
 Before he knows his dwelling wrought ; 
 Though wise indeed thou seemest not, 
 Thou brightenest well the wise man's lot. 
 
 That shout proclaims the undoubting mind ; 
 That laughter leaves no ache behind j 
 And in thy look and dance of glee, 
 Unforced, unthought of, simply free, 
 How weak the schoolman's formal art 
 Thy soul and body's bliss to part ! 
 I hail thee Childhood's very lord, 
 In gaze and glance, in voice and word. 
 
32 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 In spite of all foreboding- fear, 
 
 A thing thou art of present cheer ; 
 
 And thus to be beloved and known, 
 
 As is a rushy fountain's tone, 
 
 As is the forest's leafy shade, 
 
 Or blackbird's hidden serenade. 
 
 Thou art a flash that lights the whole 
 
 A gush from nature's vernal soul. 
 
 And yet, dear child ! within thee lives 
 A power that deeper feeling gives ; 
 That makes thee more than light or air, 
 Than all things sweet and all things fair. 
 And sweet and fair as aught may be, 
 Diviner life belongs to thee ; 
 For, 'mid tlmic aimless joys, began 
 ' r he perfect heart and will of man. 
 
 Thus, what thou art, foreshows to me 
 How greater far thou soon shalt be ; 
 And while amid thy garlands blow 
 The winds that warbling come and go, 
 Ever within, not loud but clear, 
 Prophetic murmur fills the ear, 
 And says thnt every human birth 
 Anew discloses God to earth. 
 
 Joltn Sterling. 
 
CHILDHOOD. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 33 
 
 LITTLE CORA. 
 
 CORA'S hand is dimpled 
 
 Very small and fair, 
 And its softness soothes me 
 
 Pressing on my hair ; 
 Cora's voice is music, 
 
 Gushing through the hours, 
 Kippling in the twilight, 
 
 " Whom we love are ours." 
 
 Cora has two natures ; 
 
 A mischief-loving sprite, 
 Peeping from meek eyelids 
 
 Through fringes dark as night - 
 A spirit sweet and saintly 
 
 Sitting in her smile, 
 With one wing in the fountain 
 
 That sent up tears erewhile. 
 
 And here we sit together ; 
 
 Each heart with its sphinx, 
 Xow winding now unloosing 
 
 Life's Gordian knotted links ; 
 Till a mild voice whispers 
 
 " Ye linger, daughters, late, 
 And Beauty's handmaids only 
 
 On early sleepers wait.'" 
 3 
 
34 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 God bless my Cora's mother 
 
 For her heart of ruth, 
 And keep forever gleaming 
 
 The dew-drops of her youth. 
 God love the rare old mansion, 
 
 With its something dearer still 
 Than the white-browed children 
 
 And the star-song's thrill ! 
 
 MATERNAL DAYS. 
 
 To aid thy mind's development to watch 
 
 Thy dawn )f little joys to sit and see 
 Almost thy very growth to view thee catch 
 
 Knowledge of objects wonders yet to thee j 
 To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 
 
 And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss ; 
 This, it should seem, was not reserved for me .' 
 
 Yet this was in my nature ; as it is, 
 I know not what there is there, yet 
 
 Something like to this. 
 
 Byron. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 THE BAREFOOT BOY. 
 
 BLESSINGS on the 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 janty 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 the barefoot boy ! 
 
 O, 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 flowers' time and place, 
 
30 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 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 j 
 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 j 
 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 ! 
 
 O, 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 ; 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 37 
 
 For my sport the squirrel played, 
 Plied the snouted mole his spade j 
 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. 
 
 O, 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 wide-swung fold ; 
 While, for music, came the play 
 Of the pied frog's orchestra j 
 
POEMS OF CHILD II ODD. 
 
 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. 
 Ali 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 j 
 Happy if they sink not in 
 Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
 Ah, that thou couldst know thy jo)', 
 Ere it passes, barefoot boy. 
 
 John G. Whittier. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 THE SHADOW CHILD. 
 
 WHENCE came this little phantom, 
 
 That flits about my room, 
 That's here from early morning 
 
 Until the twilight gloorn ? 
 Forever dancing, dancing, 
 
 She haunts the wall and floor, 
 And frolics in the sunshine 
 
 Around the open door. 
 
 The ceiling by the table 
 
 She makes her choice retreat, 
 For there a little human girl 
 
 Is wont to have her seat. 
 They take a dance together 
 
 A crazy little jig ; 
 And sure two baby witches 
 
 Ne'er ran so wild a rig. 
 
 They pat their hands together, 
 
 With frantic jumps and springs, 
 Until you almost fancy 
 
 You can catch the gleam of wings. 
 Shrill shrieks the human baby 
 
 In the madness of delight, 
 And back return loud echoes 
 
 From the little shadow sprite. 
 
40 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Her blue eyes are beaming, 
 
 And each seems a little dream 
 Of the violet reflected 
 
 In the silence of a stream ; 
 And she always is so happy, 
 
 Though the saddest things occur, 
 That I wish I were a picture, 
 
 In a pretty frame like her. 
 
 At night I still am haunted 
 
 By glimpses of her face ; 
 Her features on my pillow 
 
 By moonlight I can trace. 
 Whence came this shadow-baby, 
 
 That haunts my heart and home ? 
 What kindly hand hath sent her, 
 
 And wherefore hath she come ? 
 
 Long be her dancing image 
 
 Our guest by night and day, 
 For lonely were our dwelling 
 
 If she were now away. 
 Far happier hath our home been, 
 
 More blest than ere before, 
 Since first that little shadow 
 
 Came gliding through our door. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 41 
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 COME back, come back together, 
 
 All ye fancies of the past : 
 Ye days of April weather, 
 
 Ye shadows that are cast 
 
 By the haunted hours before ! 
 Come back, come back, my childhood ; 
 
 Thou art summoned by a spell 
 From the green leaves of the wildwood, 
 
 From beside the charmed well, 
 
 For Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
 The flower of fairy lore ! 
 
 The fields were covered over 
 
 With colors as she went ; 
 Daisy, buttercup, and clover 
 
 Below her footsteps bent ; 
 
 Summer shed its shining store ; 
 She was happy as she pressed them 
 
 Beneath her little feet ; 
 She plucked them and caressed them ; 
 
 They were so very sweet, 
 
 They had never seemed so sweet before, 
 To Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
 The flower of fairy lore. 
 
42 FOE MS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 How the heart of childhood dances 
 
 Upon a sunny day ! 
 It has its own romances, 
 And a wide, wide world have they ! 
 A world where Phantasie is king 1 , 
 Made all of eager dreaming ; 
 
 When once grown up and tall 
 Now is the time for scheming 
 Then we shall do them all ! 
 
 Do such pleasant fancies spring 
 For Red Hiding- Hood, the darling, 
 The flower of fairy lore ? 
 
 She seems like an ideal love, 
 
 The poetry of childhood shown, 
 And yet loved with a real love, 
 As if she were our own 
 
 A younger sister for the heart ; 
 Like the woodland peasant 
 
 Her hair is brown and bright j 
 And her smile is pleasant, 
 With its rosy light. 
 
 Never can the memory part 
 With Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
 The flower of fairy lore. 
 
 Did the painter, dreaming 
 In a morning hour, 
 
 Catch the fairy seeming- 
 Of this fairy flower ? 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 43 
 
 Winning it with eager eyes 
 From the old enchanted stories, 
 Lingering with a long delight 
 On the unfor gotten glories 
 Of the infant sight ? 
 
 Giving us a sweet surprise 
 In Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
 The flower of fairy lore ? 
 
 Too long in the meadow staying, 
 
 Where the cowslip bends, 
 With the buttercups delaying 
 As with early friends, 
 
 Did the little maiden stay. 
 Sorrowful the tale for us ; 
 
 We, too. loiter 'mid life's flowers, 
 A little while so glorious, 
 So soon lost in darker hours. 
 
 All love lingering on their way, 
 Like Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
 The flower of fairy lore. 
 
 Lcetitia Elizabeth Maclean. 
 
44 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 WATCH, MOTHER, WATCH. 
 
 MOTHER, watch the little feet 
 Climbing- o'er the garden wall, 
 
 Bounding through the busy street, 
 Ranging cellar, shed, and hall. 
 
 Never count the moments lost, 
 
 Never mind the time it cost j 
 
 Little feet will go astray, 
 
 Guide them, mother, while you may. 
 
 Mother, watch the little hand 
 Picking berries by the way, 
 Making houses in the sand, 
 
 Tossing up the fragrant hay. 
 Never dare the question ask 
 " Why to me this weary task ? " 
 These same little hands may provo 
 Messengers of light and love. 
 
 Mother, watch the little tongue 
 
 Prattling eloquent and wild, 
 What is said, and what is sung- 
 
 By the happy, joyous child. 
 Catch the word while yet unspoken, 
 Stop the vow before 'tis broken ; 
 This same tongue may yet proclaim 
 Blessings in a Saviour's name. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 45 
 
 Mother, watch the little heart, 
 Beating soft and warm for you ; 
 
 Wholesome lessons now impart, 
 Keep, O keep that young heart true j 
 
 Extricating every weed j 
 
 Sowing good and precious seed ; 
 
 Harvest rich you then may see, 
 
 Ripening for eternity. 
 
 A CHILD PRAYING. 
 
 FOLD thy little hands in prayer, 
 
 Bow down at thy mother's knee ; 
 Now thy sunny face is fair, 
 Shining through thine auburn hair ; 
 
 Thine eyes are passion free ; 
 And pleasant thoughts, like garlands, brad thoc 
 Unto thy home, yet grief may find thee 
 Then pray, child, pray ! 
 
 Now, thy young heart, like a bird, 
 
 Warbles in its summer nest ; 
 No evil thought, no unkind word, 
 No chilling autumn winds have stirred 
 
 The beauty of thy rest ; 
 
40 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 But winter hastens, and decay 
 Shall waste thy verdant home away 
 Then pray, child, pray 1 
 
 Thy bosom is a house of glee, 
 
 With gladness harping at the door j 
 While ever, with a joyous shout, 
 Hope, the May queen, dances out, 
 
 Her lips with music running o'er ; 
 But Time those strings of joy will sever, 
 And Hope will not dance on forever 
 Then pray, child, pray I 
 
 Now, thy mother's arm is spread 
 
 Beneath thy pillow in the night ; 
 And loving feet creep round thy bed, 
 And o'er thy quiet face is shed 
 The taper's darkened light ; 
 But that fond arm will pass away, 
 By thee no more those feet will stay 
 Then pray, child, pray ! 
 
 Robert Aris Wittmott. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 47 
 
 LITTLE BOY BLUE. 
 
 e cornfields and meadows 
 Are pearled with the dew, 
 With the first sunny shadow 
 Walks little Boy Blue. 
 
 O, the nymphs and the graces 
 
 Still gleam on his eyes, 
 And the kind fairy faces 
 
 Look down from the skies ! 
 
 And a secret revealing 
 
 Of life within life, 
 When feeling meets feeling 
 
 In musical strife. 
 
 A winding and weaving 
 
 In flowers and in trees, 
 A floating and heaving 
 
 In sunlight and breeze. 
 
 A striving and soaring, 
 
 A gladness and grace, 
 Make him kneel half adoring 
 
 The God in the place. 
 
48 POEMS OF CHILD HOOD. 
 
 Then amid the live shadows 
 Of lambs at their play, 
 
 Where the kine scent the meadows 
 With breath like the May j 
 
 He stands in the splendor 
 That waits on the morn, 
 
 And a music more tender 
 Distils from his horn. 
 
 And he weeps, he rejoices, 
 He prays ; nor in vain, 
 
 For soft loving voices 
 Will answer again ; 
 
 And the nymphs and the graces 
 Still gleam through the dew, 
 
 And kind fairy faces 
 Watch little Boy Blue. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 49 
 
 A LITTLE GIRL THAT MEETS ME. 
 
 THERE'S a little girl that meets me, 
 And with laughter ever greets me, 
 And to kiss her oft entreats me, 
 
 As I stray 
 
 'Long the path of life, so dreary, 
 Where the saddened heart and weary 
 Shades the sunlight, shining near me, 
 
 On my way. 
 
 She has eyes as blue as heaven 
 Only aged about eleven ; 
 But unto her God has given 
 
 Such a heart, 
 
 That forever she is singing, 
 And her sweet voice, ever ringing, 
 Beauty o'er the rapt heart bringing, 
 
 Sweet as art. 
 
 With her sunny hair so curly, 
 With her teeth so white and pearly, 
 I have met her, late and early, 
 
 By the way ; 
 
 And I take her hand, and press it 
 In my own, just to caress it 
 " Pretty little hand God bless it ! " 
 
 I do say. 
 
50 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 May the world smile kindly on her, 
 Benedictions fall upon her, 
 Angels be her guard of honor, 
 
 As she goes 
 
 Through this world of ours, singing, 
 Peace to troubled spirits bringing, 
 No grief her poor heart wringing 
 
 With its woes. 
 
 May the sweetest harp in heaven, 
 Brightest crown that e'er was given 
 Where the waves of life are driven 
 
 Past the throne, 
 Echo to her dainty finger, 
 'Pon her pure brow ever linger, 
 While each angel is a singer, 
 
 Calling home. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 CHILDHOOD ! happiest stage of life ! 
 Free from care, and free from strife, 
 Free from memory's ruthless reign, 
 Fraught with scenes of former pain ; 
 Free from fancy's cruel skill, 
 Fabricating future ill ; 
 Time when all that meets the view, 
 All can charm, for all is new ; 
 How thy long-lost hours I mourn, 
 Never, never to return ! 
 
 Then to toss the circling ball, 
 Caught rebounding from the wall ; 
 Then the mimic ship to guide 
 Down the kennel's dirty tide j 
 Then the hoop's revolving pace 
 Through the dirty street to chase j 
 O what joy ! it once was mine ; 
 Childhood ! matchless boon of thine 1 
 How thy long-lost hours I mourn, 
 Never, never to return ! 
 
 Scott. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 A CHILD'S SMILE. 
 
 " For I say unto you, that in heaven their angels do always 
 behold the face of my Father which is in heaven." 
 
 A CHILD'S smile - nothing more ; 
 Quiet, and soft, and grave, and seldom seen ; 
 
 Like summer lightning o'er, 
 Leaving the little luce again serene. 
 
 I think, boy well beloved, 
 Thine angel, who did grieve to see how far 
 
 Thy childhood is removed 
 From sports that dear to other children are ; 
 
 On this pale check has thrown 
 The brightness of his countenance, and made 
 
 A beauty like his own 
 That while we see it, we are half afraid, 
 
 And marvel, will it stay ? 
 Or, long ere manhood, will that angel fair, 
 
 Departing some sad day, 
 Steal the child-smile and leave the shadow care ? 
 
 r 
 
POEMS OF CHILD HOOD. j 
 
 Nay, fear not. As is given 
 Unto this child the father watching o'er, 
 
 His angel up in heaven 
 Beholds our Father's face forevermore. 
 
 And He will help him bear 
 His burden, as his father helps him now ; 
 
 So may he come to wear 
 
 That happy child-smile on an old man's brow. 
 Miss Muloch. 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 IN my poor mind it is most sweet to muse 
 
 Upon the days gone by 5 to act in thought 
 
 Past seasons o'er, and be again a child ; 
 
 To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope 
 
 Down which the child would roll ; to pluck gay 
 
 flowers, 
 
 Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand 
 (Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled) 
 Would throw away, and straight take up again, 
 Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn 
 Bound with so playful and so light a foot, 
 That the pressed daisy scarce declined her head. 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 THE CHILDREN. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL the children's faces ! 
 
 Spite of all that mars and sears j 
 To my inmost heart appealing 1 ; 
 Calling forth love's tendercst feeling ; 
 
 Steeping all my soul with tears. 
 
 Eloquent the children's faces 
 Poverty's lean look, which saith, 
 
 " Save us ! save us ! woe surrounds us ; 
 
 Little knowledge sore confounds us ; 
 Life is but a lingering death. 
 
 " Give us light amid our darkness ; 
 
 Let us know the good from ill ; 
 Hate us not for all our blindness ; 
 Love us, lead us, show us kindness 
 
 You can make us what you will. 
 
 " "We arc willing, we are ready ; 
 
 We would learn if you would teach ; 
 "We have hearts that yearn to duty j 
 We have minds alive to beauty ; 
 
 Souls that any heights can reach. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 " Raise us by your Christian knowledge ; 
 
 Consecrate to man our powers ; 
 Let us take our proper station ; 
 We, the rising generation, 
 
 Let us stamp the age as ours. 
 
 " We shall be what you will make us 
 Make us wise and make us good ! 
 
 Make us strong in time of trial ; 
 
 Teach us temperance, self-denial, 
 Patience, kindness, fortitude. 
 
 " Look into our childish faces ; 
 
 See ye not our willing hearts ? 
 Only love us only lead us ; 
 Only let us know you need us, 
 
 And we all will do our parts. 
 
 " We are thousands many thousands ; 
 
 Every day our ranks increase ; 
 Let us march beneath your banner, 
 We, the legion of true honor, 
 
 Combating for love and peace. 
 
 " Train us ; try us ; days slide onward, 
 They can ne'er be ours again ; 
 
 Save us ! save, from our undoing ! 
 
 Save from ignorance and ruin ; 
 Make us worthy to be men ! 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 " Send us to our weeping- mothers, 
 Angel-stamped in heart and brow j 
 
 We may be our fathers' teachers ; 
 
 We may be the mightiest preachers 
 In the day that dawneth now ! " 
 
 Such the children's mute appealing. 
 
 All my inmost soul was stirred ; 
 And my heart was bowed with sadness, 
 When a cry, like summer's gladness, 
 
 Said, " The children's prayer is heard." 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 57 
 
 THE WONDERFU' WEAN. 
 
 OUR wean's the most wonderfu' wean I e'er saw ! 
 It would tak me a lang simmer day to tell a' 
 His pranks, frae the mornin' till night shuts his ee ; 
 When he sleeps like a peerie, 'tween his father 
 
 and me. 
 
 For in his quite turns siccan questions he'll speir : 
 How the moon can stick up in the sky that's sae 
 
 clear ? 
 What gars the wind blaw ? and where frae comes 
 
 the rain ? 
 He's a perfect divert he's a wonderfu' wean ! 
 
 Or wha was the first body's father ? and wha 
 Made the very first snaw-showcr that ever did fa' i 
 And wha made the first bird that sang on a tree ? 
 And the water that swims a' the ships in the sea ? 
 But after I've told him as weel as I ken, 
 Again he begins with his wha and his when ; 
 And he looks ay so wistm' the whiles I explain ; 
 He's auld as the hills he's an auld farrard wean. 
 
 And faulk wha hae skill o' the bumps on the head, 
 Hint there's more ways than toiliu' o' winnin' 
 
 ane's bread; 
 Gar he'll be a rich man, and hae men to work for 
 
 him, 
 Wi' akyte like a bailie's, shug-shuggin' afory him ; 
 
58 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Wi' a face like the moon sober, sonsy, and douce, 
 And a back, for its breadth, like the side o' a house. 
 Tweel ! I'm unco ta'en up wi't they mak a' sae' 
 
 plain, 
 He's just a town's talk ; he's a by-ord'nar wean ! 
 
 I ne'er can forget sic a laugh as I gat, 
 
 To see him put on father's waistcoat and hat ; 
 
 Then the lang-leggit boots gaed sae far owre his 
 
 knees, 
 
 The tap-loops wi' his fingers he grippit wi' eese ; 
 Then he marched through the house, he marched 
 
 but, he marched ben, 
 
 Like owre many more o' our great little men, 
 That I leuch clean outright, for I cou'dna contain, 
 He was sic a conceit sic an ancient-like wean ! 
 
 But 'mid a' his damn sic kindness he shows, 
 That he's dear to my heart as the dew to the rose ; 
 And the unclouded hinny-beam ay in his ee, 
 Makes him every day dearer and dearer to me. 
 Though Fortune be saucy, and dirty and dour, 
 And glower through her fingers like hills through 
 
 a door, 
 
 When bodies hae got a bit bit bairn o' their am, 
 How he cheers up their hearts ! he's a wonderfu' 
 
 wean! 
 
 William Miller. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 59 
 
 THE MOTHER'S GIFT. 
 
 ADDRESSED " TO MY CHARLIE," WITH A BIBLE. 
 
 So young you cannot pleasure take 
 In this but for your mother's sake, 
 
 The gift you will not spurn ; 
 And O, my child, in after years, 
 When forced to weep life's bitter tears, 
 
 Then to this volume turn. 
 
 Too young thou art to prize it now, 
 With merry laugh and sunny brow, 
 
 But when by earth's cares driven, 
 You'll love to read of rest above, 
 And prize it for a mother's love, 
 
 With which, dear boy, 'tis given. 
 
 When tempted, love, to go astray, 
 Pause, pause, my child ! O, turn away 
 
 From sin's alluring form ; 
 Go to thy chamber, and when there, 
 Seek in thy mother's gift, and prayer, 
 
 A refuge from the storm. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Read, my dear son, " believe and live," 
 Then not in vain this book I give 
 
 To my own darling- boy ; 
 'Twill smooth for thee life's thorny path, 
 Teach thee to shun thy Maker's wrath, 
 
 And wear his " crown of joy." 
 
 "When grief shall check thy young heart's 
 
 mirth, 
 To weep that she who gave thee birth 
 
 Has passed into the skies ; 
 Then ponder o'er thy mother's gift, 
 It will thy drooping spirit lift, 
 
 And dry those streaming eyes. 
 
 And as your hand its pages turn, 
 Resolve, dear boy, of Christ to learn, 
 
 Be lowly, meek, and mild ; 
 Remember, she who gave this book, 
 May, though unseen, upon thee look, 
 
 Rejoicing in her child. 
 
 But, if with grief I am appalled, 
 
 That thou shoulclst be " the early called," 
 
 And I " the left to weep ; " 
 Then may this book my gift to thee 
 Support my soul, my solace be, 
 
 Till by thy side I sleep. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 61 
 
 THE LITTLE GIRL'S SONG. 
 
 Do not mind my crying, papa, I am not cry 
 ing for pain ; 
 
 Do not mind my shaking, papa, I am not 
 shaking with fear ; 
 
 Though the wild wind is hideous to hear, 
 
 And I see the snow and the rain 
 
 When will you come back again, 
 
 Papa, papa? 
 
 Somebody else that you love, papa, 
 
 Somebody else that you dearly love 
 
 Is weary, like me, because you're away. 
 
 Sometimes I see her lips tremble and move, 
 
 And I seem to know what they are going to say ; 
 
 And every day, and all the long day, 
 
 I long to cry, " O mamma, mamma ! 
 
 When will papa come back again ? " 
 
 But before I can say it I see the pain 
 
 Creeping up on her white, white cheek, 
 
 As the sweet, sad sunshine creeps up the white 
 
 wall ; 
 
 And then I am sorry, and fear to speak : 
 And slowly the pain goes out of her cheek, 
 As the sad, sweet sunshine goes from the wall. 
 
62 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 O, I wish I were grown up wise and tall ! 
 That I might throw my arms around her neck, 
 And say, " Dear mamma, O, what is it all 
 That I see, and see, and do not see, 
 In your white face all the live-long day ? " 
 But she hides her grief from a child like me. 
 When will you come back again, 
 Papa, papa ? 
 
 Where were you going, papa, papa ? 
 
 All this long while have you been on the sea? 
 
 When she looks as if she saw far away, 
 
 Is she thinking of you, and what does she see? 
 
 Are the white sails blowing, 
 
 And the blue men rowing, 
 
 And are you standing on the high deck 
 
 Where -we saw you stand till the ship grew gray, 
 
 And we watched and watched till the ship was a 
 
 speck, 
 
 And the dark came first to you, far away ? 
 I wish I could see what she can see, 
 But she hides her grief from a child like me. 
 When will you come back again, 
 Papa, papa ? 
 
 Don't you remember, papa, papa, 
 
 How we used to sit by the fire all three, 
 
 And she told me tales while I sat on her knee, 
 
 And heard the winter winds roar down the street, 
 
 And knocked like men at the window pane i 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 63 
 
 And the louder they roared, O, it seemed more 
 
 sweet 
 
 To be warm and warm as we used to be, 
 Sitting at night by the fire, all three. 
 When will you come back again, 
 Papa, papa ? 
 
 Papa, I like to sit by the fire ; 
 
 Why does she sit far away in the cold ? 
 
 If I had but somebody wise and old, 
 
 That every day I might cry and say, 
 
 " Is she changed, do you think, or do I forget ? 
 
 Was she always as white as she is to-day ? 
 
 Did she never carry her head up higher ? " 
 
 Papa, papa, if I could but know ! 
 
 Do you think her voice was always so low ? 
 
 Did I always see what I seem to see 
 
 When I wake up at night and her pillow is wet ? 
 
 You used to say her hair it was gold 
 
 It looks like silver to me. 
 
 But still she tells the same tale that she told, 
 
 She sings the same songs when I sit on her knoe, 
 
 And the house goes on as it went long ago, 
 
 When we lived together, all three. 
 
 Sometimes my heart seems to sink, papa, 
 
 And I feel as if I could be happy no more. 
 
 Is she changed, do you think, papa, 
 
 Or did I dream she was brighter before ? 
 
64 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 She makes me remember my snowdrop, papa, 
 
 That I forgot in thinking- of you, 
 
 The sweetest snowdrop that ever I knew ! 
 
 But I put it out of the sun and the rain ; 
 
 It was green and white when I put it away, 
 
 It had one sweet bell and green leaves four ; 
 
 It was green and white when I found it that day, 
 
 It had one pale bell and green leaves four ; 
 
 But I was not glad of it any more. 
 
 Was it changed, do you think, papa, 
 
 Or did I dream it was brighter before ? 
 
 Do not mind my crying, papa, 
 
 I am not crying for pain. 
 
 Do not mind my shaking, papa, 
 
 I am not shaking for fear, 
 
 Though the wild, wild wind is hideous to hear, 
 
 And I see the snow and the rain. 
 
 When will you come back again, 
 
 Papa, papa f 
 
 Sidney Dobell. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. f>5 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN. 
 
 A SIMPLE child, dear brother Jim, 
 That lightly draws its breath, 
 
 And feels its life in every limb, 
 What should it know of death ? 
 
 I met a little cottage girl; 
 
 She was eight years old, she said ; 
 Her hair was thick with many a curl 
 
 That clustered round her head. 
 
 She had a rustic woodland air, 
 
 And she was wildly clad ; 
 Her eyes were fair, and very fair 
 
 Her beauty made me glad. 
 
 " Sisters and brothers, little maid, 
 
 How many may you be ? " 
 " How many ? seven in all," she said, 
 
 And wondering looked at me. 
 
 " And where are they ? I pray you tell.' 
 She answered, " Seven are we ; 
 
 And two of us at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 5 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 " Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
 
 My sister and my brother ; 
 And in the churchyard-cottage, I 
 
 Dwell near them, with my mother." 
 
 " You say that two at Conway dwell, 
 
 And two are gone to sea, 
 Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell, 
 
 Sweet maid, how this may be? " 
 
 Then did the little maid reply, 
 
 " Seven boys and girls are we ; 
 Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
 
 Beneath the churchyard tree." 
 
 " You run about, my little maid, 
 
 Your limbs they are alive ; 
 If two are in the churchyard laid, 
 
 Then ye are only five." 
 
 4 Their graves are green ; they may be seen," 
 
 The little maid replied, 
 " Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 
 
 And they are side by side. 
 
 My stockings there I often knit, 
 
 My kerchief there I hem ; 
 And there upon the ground I sit 
 
 I sit and sing to them. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 67 
 
 " And often after sunset, sir, 
 
 When it is light and fair, 
 I take my little porringer, 
 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
 " The first that died was little Jane ; 
 
 In bed she moaning lay, 
 Till God released her of her pain, 
 
 And then she went away. 
 
 " So in the churchyard she was laid ; 
 
 And all the summer dry, 
 Together round her grave we played 
 
 My brother John and I. 
 
 "And when the ground was white with snow, 
 
 And I could run and slide, 
 My brother John was forced to go 
 
 And he lies by her side." 
 
 44 How many are you, then," said I, 
 
 " If they two are in heaven ? " 
 The little maiden did reply, 
 
 " O master ! we are seven." 
 
 " But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 
 
 Their spirits are in heaven ! " 
 'Twas throwing words away ; for still 
 The little maid would have her will, 
 
 And said, " Nay, we are seven ! " 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 MY CHILD. 
 
 I CANNOT make him dead ! 
 
 His fair, sunshiny head 
 Is ever bounding round my study chair ; 
 
 Yet, when my eyes, now dim 
 
 With tears, I turn to him, 
 The vision vanishes he is not there. 
 
 I walk my parlor floor, 
 
 And through the open door 
 I hear a footfall on the chamber stair ; 
 
 I'm stepping towards the hall 
 
 To give the boy a call ; 
 And then bethink me that he is not there. 
 
 I thread the crowded street, 
 
 A satchelled lad I meet, 
 With the same beaming eyes and colored hair ; 
 
 And, as he's running by, 
 
 Follow him with my eye, 
 Scarcely believing that he is not there. 
 
 I know his face is hid 
 
 Under the coffin lid ; 
 Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair : 
 
 My hand that marble felt j 
 
 O'er it in prayer 1 knelt ; 
 Yet my heart whispers that he is not there. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 69 
 
 I cannot make him dead ! 
 
 When passing by the bed, 
 So long watched over with parental care, 
 
 My spirit and my eye 
 
 Seek him inquiringly, 
 Before the thought comes that he is not there. 
 
 When, at the cool, gray break 
 
 Of day, from sleep I wake, 
 With my first breathing of the morning air 
 
 My soul goes up, with joy, 
 
 To Him who gave my boy ; 
 Then comes the sad thought that he is not there. 
 
 When at the day's calm close, 
 
 Before we seek repose, 
 I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer ; 
 
 Whate'er I may be saying, 
 
 I am in spirit praying 
 For our boy's spirit, though he is not there. 
 
 Not there ! Where, then, is he ? 
 
 The form 1 used to see 
 Was but the raiment that he used to wear ; 
 
 The grave, that now doth press 
 
 Upon that cast-off dress, 
 Is but his wardrobe locked he is not there. 
 
70 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 He lives ! In all the past 
 
 He lives ; nor, to the last, 
 Of seeing him again will I despair : 
 
 In dreams I see him now, 
 
 And on his angel-brow 
 I see it written, " Thou shalt see me there." 
 
 Yes, we all live to God ! 
 
 Father, thy chastening rod, 
 So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 
 
 That, in the spirit-land, 
 
 Meeting at thy right hand, 
 'Twill be our heaven to find that he is there. 
 John Pierpont. 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 THY memory, as a spell 
 
 Of love, comes o'er my mind ; 
 As dew upon the purple bell 
 
 As perfume on the wind 
 As music on the sea 
 
 As sunshine on the river ; 
 So hath it always been to me, 
 
 So shall it be forever. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 71 
 
 I hear thy voice in dreams, 
 
 Upon me softly call, 
 Like echoes of the mountain streams, 
 
 In sportive waterfall. 
 I see thy form as when 
 
 Thou wert a living thing 1 , 
 And blossomed in the eyes of men 
 
 Like any flower of spring 1 . 
 
 Thy soul to heaven hath fled, 
 
 From earthly thraldom free ; 
 Yet, 'tis not as the dead 
 
 That thou appear 'st to me. 
 In slumber I behold 
 
 Thy form, as when on earth, 
 Thy locks of waving gold, 
 
 Thy sapphire eye of mirth. 
 
 I hear, in solitude, 
 
 The prattle kind and free, 
 Thou uttered st in joyful mood 
 
 While seated on my knee. 
 So strong each vision seems, 
 
 My spirit that doth fill, 
 I think not they are dreams, 
 
 But that thou livest still. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 MY BOY. 
 
 IT is his birthday ask me not 
 Why sadness dwells upon my brow ; 
 
 The past can never be forgot ; 
 My angel boy is with me now ! 
 
 Ye see no tear ye hear no groan 
 
 Nay, all my tears are shed alone ! 
 
 My heart is full ; but still no sigh 
 Shall mar the joy that others feel ; 
 
 I've tried, and ever mean to try, 
 To share a part in others' weal. 
 
 I love each flower that God hath made, 
 
 In garden-walk or greenwood glade. 
 
 It is six years this very day, 
 Since first I smiled upon my boy j 
 
 The gift upon my bosom lay, 
 A mother's only pride and joy ! 
 
 My first-born darling was at rest 
 
 Upon her heavenly Father's breast I 
 
 One cherished bud was early torn 
 From earth, to bloom in Paradise ! 
 
 For weeks and mouths I sadly mourned, 
 Nor dreamed that God would chasten twice .' 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 73 
 
 I thought he sent my angel boy 
 
 To bring back love, and health, and joy. 
 
 The spoiler's hand was not content ; 
 I loved, and loved, alas, too well ! 
 
 The treasure from my heart was rent ; 
 Life of my life, farewell ! farewell ! 
 
 My Father knew a heart like mine 
 
 Worshipped too wildly at earth's shrine. 
 
 I have a long dark chestnut curl, 
 Which seems to form of life a part ; 
 
 Not all the riches of this world 
 Could tempt the treasure from my heart. 
 
 O, what is this earth's glittering gold, 
 
 When love's dear treasures have been sold . ? 
 
 Each treasure of the past I shrine ; 
 
 I've garnered up thy books, my boy ; 
 No child shall touch what once was thine ; 
 
 No rude hand mar one single toy. 
 O, call me selfish, if ye will, 
 And strive love's warm wild gush to still. 
 
 Ye gaze upon my tearless eye, 
 Ye see me smile when others smile ; 
 
 But when I to my chamber hie, 
 'Tis there I grieve like some lone child ! 
 
 Tears are too sacred gems to fall, 
 
 To attract the gaze of one and all. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Ye say that grief grows less with time j 
 A mother's heart forget to feel ! 
 
 Go, bid the sun to cease to shine ! 
 Yon starry heavens their gems to yield ! 
 
 There's One who reads my inmost soul ; 
 
 He knows my love will ne'er grow cold. 
 
 Mrs. . T. Eldredye. 
 
 THE LITTLE SLEEPER. 
 
 SHE sleeps ; but the soft breath 
 
 No longer stirs her golden hair, 
 
 The robber hand of Death 
 
 Has stolen thither unaware ; 
 
 The lovely edifice 
 
 Is still as beautiful and fair, 
 
 But mournfully we miss 
 
 The gentle habitant that sojourned there. 
 
 With stealthy pace he crept 
 
 To the guest-chamber where it lay 
 
 That angel-thing and slept, 
 
 And whispered it to come away ; 
 
 He broke the fairy lute 
 
 That, light with laughter, used to play, 
 
 And left all dull and mute 
 
 The silver strings that tinkled forth so gay. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD, 75 
 
 Then with his finger cold 
 
 He shut the glancing windows too ; 
 
 With fringe of drooping gold 
 
 He darkened the small panes of blue 5 
 
 Sheer from the marble floor 
 
 He swept the flowers of crimson hue ; 
 
 He closed the ivory door, 
 
 And o'er the porch the rosy curtains drew. 
 
 The angel-guest is gone, 
 
 Upon the spoiler's dark wing borne ; 
 
 The road she journeys on 
 
 Wends evermore, without return. 
 
 To ruin and decay 
 
 The fairy palace now must turn ; 
 
 For the sun's early ray 
 
 Upon its walls and windows shall not play, 
 
 Nor light its golden roof to-morrow morn. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 LITTLE JANE. 
 
 LITTLE Jane came dancing 
 Into the sunny room, 
 
 " And what do you think, papa ? " she cried, 
 " I saw the father of Ellen who died, 
 And the men who were making her tomh ; 
 And the father patted me on the head 
 All for the sake of her who is dead, 
 And gave me this doll, and wept, and said 
 That I was my papa's pride ! " 
 " And so you are," with an accent wild, 
 Said the widower wan, "Come here, my 
 child ! " 
 
 Ah, but her locks were fair and bright ; 
 
 O, but her eyes were full of light, 
 
 And her little feet danced in ceaseless play. 
 
 " Always be glad, always be gay, 
 
 Sing and romp, and never be sad. 
 
 So you will make your papa glad." 
 
 And the little one bounded from his knee, 
 Lifted her doll, and screamed with glee, 
 As the sunlight fell on the floor ; 
 But who is he at the open door, 
 Waiting, watching evermore, 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 77 
 
 Whose fellow none may see, 
 
 Who came unbidden once before, 
 
 And hushed the harp in the corner there, 
 
 And filled one heart with the wild despair 
 
 Of the endless Nevermore? 
 
 Stealthy his touch, and stealthy his tread ; 
 He lays his hand on her sunny head ; 
 And who may mention the grace that has fled, 
 Or paint the bloom of light that is dead ? 
 
 The Present rushes into the Past 
 Nothing on earth is doomed to last ; 
 Summer is ended, and winter is near, 
 Rain is steaming on moor and mere, 
 Dead leaves are on the blast ; 
 The shutters are up in the empty room, 
 Nothing to break its hush of gloom, 
 Nothing but gusts of plashing rain 
 Beating against the window pane, 
 Mingled with brine swirled up from the sea, 
 And thoughts of that which used to be 
 And cannot be again. 
 
 J. Stanyan Bigg. 
 
78 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 THE DYING BOY'S REQUEST. 
 
 O, TAKE me home, mother, 
 
 Where the brook goes babbling by, 
 And where the thrush pours forth his song - 
 
 O, take me home to die ; 
 I yearn to see my old playground, 
 
 Where I played in childhood's mom, 
 And I yearn to lay on my little cot 
 
 In the room where I was born. 
 You'll plant sweet flowers on my grave 
 
 Say, mother, will you not ? 
 You'll lay me by the mossy bank 
 
 I've told you of the spot ; 
 'Tis close by the church, dear mother, 
 
 And when you kneel to pray, 
 I'll listen to your humble words, 
 
 Though I'll be far away. 
 I feel I'm dying now, kind mother ; 
 
 O, take me to your breast, 
 And let me hear your loving voice 
 
 Ere I shall sink to rest ; 
 O, there's dimness on my sight, mother ; 
 
 I cannot get my breath ; 
 Is it your sobs I hear, mother ? 
 
 O, tell me, is this death ? 
 
 George Bowlwln. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 79 
 
 DIRGE OF A CHILD. 
 
 No bitter tears for thee be shed, 
 Blossom of being-, seen and gone ! 
 
 With flowers alone we strew thy bed, 
 O, blest departed one ! 
 
 "Whose all of life, a rosy ray, 
 
 Blessed into dawn, and passed away. 
 
 Yes, thou art fled, ere guilt had power 
 To stain thy cherub-soul and form ; 
 
 Closed is the soft, ephemeral flower, 
 That never felt a storm, 
 
 The sunbeam's smile, the zephyr's breath, 
 
 All that it knew from birth to death. 
 
 Thou wert so like a form of light, 
 That heaven benignly called thee hence, 
 
 Ere yet the world could breathe one blight 
 O'er thy sweet innocence ; 
 
 And thou, that brighter home to bless, 
 
 Art passed, with all thy loveliness. 
 
 O, hadst thou still on earth remained, 
 Vision of beauty, fair as brief ! 
 
 How soon thy brightness had been stained 
 With passion or with grief ! 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Now, not a sullying 1 breath can rise, 
 To dim thy glory in the skies. 
 
 We rear no marble o'er thy tomb ; 
 
 No sculptured image there shall mourn ; 
 Ah, fitter far the vernal bloom 
 
 Such dwelling to adorn. 
 Fragrance, and flowers, and dews must be 
 The only emblems meet for thee. 
 
 Thy grave shall be a blessdd shrine, 
 Adorned with Nature's brightest wreath ; 
 
 Each glowing season shall combine 
 Its incense there to breathe, 
 
 And oft, upon the midnight air, 
 
 Shall viewless harps be murmuring there. 
 
 And, O, sometimes in visions blest, 
 
 Sweet spirit, visit our repose, 
 And bear from thine own world of rest 
 
 Some balm for human woes ! 
 What form more lovely could be given, 
 Than thine, to messenger of heaven? 
 
 Mrs. Hcmans. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 THE ANGEL'S STORY. 
 
 THROUGH the blue and frosty heavens, 
 Christmas stars were shining bright ; 
 
 The glistening lamps of the great city 
 Almost matched their gleaming light ; 
 
 And the winter snow was lying, 
 
 And the winter winds were sighing, 
 Long ago, one Christmas night. 
 
 While from every tower and steeple, 
 Pealing bells were sounding clear, 
 
 (Never with such tones of gladness, 
 Save when Christmas time is near,) 
 
 Many a one that night was merry, 
 Who had toiled through all the year. 
 
 That night saw old wrongs forgiven, 
 Friends, long parted, reconcile ; 
 
 Voices, all unused to laughter, 
 Eyes that had forgot to smile, 
 
 Anxious hearts that feared the morrow, 
 Freed from all their cares a while. 
 
 
82 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Rich and poor felt the same blossing 
 From the gracious season fall ; 
 
 Joy and plenty in the cottage, 
 Peace and feasting in the hall ; 
 
 And the voices of the children 
 Ringing clear above it all I 
 
 Yet one house was dim and darkened ; 
 
 Gloom, and sickness, and despair, 
 Abiding in the gilded chamber, 
 
 Climbing up the marble stair, 
 Stilling e'en the voice of mourning 
 
 For a child lay dying there. 
 
 Silken curtains fell around him, 
 Velvet carpets hushed the tread, 
 
 Many costly toys were lying, 
 All unheeded, by his bed ; 
 
 And his tangled golden ringlets 
 Were on downy pillows spread. 
 
 All the skill of the great city 
 To save that little life was vain ; 
 
 That little thread from being broken ; 
 
 That fatal word from being spoken j 
 Nay, his very mother's pain, 
 
 And the mighty love within her, 
 Could not give him health again. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 And she knelt there still beside him, 
 She alone with strength to smile, 
 
 And to promise he should suffer 
 No more in a little while, 
 
 And with murmured song and story, 
 The long, weary hours beguile. 
 
 Suddenly an unseen Presence 
 
 Checked these constant mourning cries, 
 Stilled the little heart's quick fluttering, 
 
 Raised the blue and wondering eyes, 
 Fixed on some mysterious vision, 
 
 With a startled, sweet surprise ; 
 
 For a radiant angel hovered, 
 
 Smiling, o'er the little bed j 
 White his raiment, from his shoulders 
 
 Snowy dove-like pinions spread, 
 And a starlike light was shining J 
 
 In a glory round his head. 
 
 While, with tender love, the angel, 
 
 Leaning o'er the little nest, 
 In his arms the sick child folding, 
 
 Laid him gently on his breast ; 
 Sobs and wailings from the mother, 
 
 And her darling was at rest. 
 
84 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 So the angel, slowly rising, 
 
 Spread his wings ; and, through the air, 
 Bore the pretty child, and held him 
 
 On his heart with loving care, 
 A red branch of blooming roses 
 
 Placing softly by him there. 
 
 While the child thus clinging, floated 
 Towards the mansions of the blest, 
 
 Gazing from his shining guardian 
 To the flowers upon his breast, 
 
 Thus the angel spake, still smiling 
 On the little heavenly guest : 
 
 " Know, O little one ! that heaven 
 Does no earthly thing disdain. 
 
 Man's poor joys find there an echo, 
 Just as surely as his pain ; 
 
 Love, on earth so feebly striving, 
 Lives divine in heaven again ! " 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 THE LITTLE FROCK. 
 
 A COMMON light-blue muslin frock 
 
 Is hanging 1 on the wall, 
 But no one in the household now 
 
 Can wear a dress so small. 
 
 r 
 The sleeves are both turned inside out, 
 
 And tell of summer wear ; 
 They seem to wait the owner's hands 
 Which last year hung them there. 
 
 'Twas at the children's festival 
 Her Sunday dress was soiled 
 
 You need not turn it from the light 
 To me it is not spoiled. 
 
 A sad and yet a pleasant thought 
 
 Is to the spirit told, 
 By this dear little rumpling thing, 
 
 With dust in every fold. 
 
 Why should men weep that to their home 
 
 An angel's love is given 
 Or that, before them, she is gone 
 
 To blessedness in heaven? 
 
80 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 THE DYING CHILD. 
 
 " COME closer, closer, dear mamma, 
 
 My heart is filled with fears ; 
 My eyes are dark ; I hear your sobs, 
 But cannot see your tears. 
 
 " I feel your warm breath on my lips* 
 
 That are so icy cold ; 
 Come closer, closer, dear mamma, 
 Give me your hand to hold. 
 
 " I quite forget my little hymn, 
 
 ' How doth the busy bee,' 
 
 Which every day I used to say, 
 
 When sitting on your knee. 
 
 " Nor can I recollect my prayers ; 
 And, dear mamma, you know 
 That the great God will angry be 
 If I forget them too. 
 
 " And dear papa, when he comes home, 
 
 O, will not he be vexed ? 
 Give us this day our daily bread ' 
 
 What is it that comes next ? " 
 
 " Hush, darling ; you are going to 
 
 The bright and blessed sky, 
 Where all God's blessed children go, 
 To live with him on high." 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 " But will he love me, dear mamma, 
 
 As tenderly as you ? 
 And will my own papa, one day, 
 Come and live with me, too ? 
 
 " But you must first lay me to sleep 
 
 Where grandpapa is laid ; 
 Is not the churchyard cold and dark ! 
 And shan't I be afraid ? 
 
 " And will you every evening- come, 
 
 And say my pretty prayer 
 Over poor Lucy's little grave, 
 And see that no one's there ? 
 
 " And promise me that when you die, 
 That they your grave shall make 
 Next unto mine, that I may be 
 Close to you when I wake. 
 
 " Nay, do not leave me, dear mamma ; 
 
 Your watch beside me keep. 
 My heart feels cold the room's all dark ; 
 ' Now lay me down to sleep.' 
 
 " And should I sleep to wake no more, 
 
 Dear, dear mamma, good by ! 
 Poor nurse is kind ; but, O, do you 
 Be with me when I die ! " 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 THE LITTLE SLEEPER. 
 
 No mother's eye beside thee wakes to-night ; 
 
 No taper burns beside thy lonely bed ; 
 Darling, thou liest, hidden out of sight, 
 
 And none are near thce but the silent dead. 
 
 How cheerly glows the hearth, yet glows in vain ; 
 
 For we, uncheered, beside it sit alone, 
 And listen to the wild and beating rain, 
 
 In angry gusts against our easement blown. 
 
 And though we nothing speak, yet well I know 
 That both our hearts are there, where thou dost 
 keep 
 
 Within thy narrow chamber far below, 
 For the first time unwatched, thy lonely sleep. 
 
 O, no ; not thou ! and we our faith deny 
 This thought allowing. Thou, removed from 
 harms, 
 
 In Abraham's bosom dost securely lie; 
 O, not in Abraham's, in a Saviour's arms ! 
 
 In that dear Lord's, who, in thy worst distress. 
 
 Thy bitterest anguish, gave thee, dearest child, 
 Still to abide in perfect gentleness, 
 
 And, like an angel, to be meek and. mild. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 89 
 
 Sweet corn of wheat, committed to the ground, 
 To die and live, and bear more gracious ear ; 
 
 While in the heart of earth thy Saviour found 
 His place of rest, for thee we will not fear. 
 
 Sleep softly, till that blessed rain and dew, 
 Down lighting upon earth, such change shall 
 
 bring, 
 
 That all its fields of death shall laugh anew j 
 Yea, with a living harvest, laugh and sing. 
 
 Dean French. 
 
 ANNIE IN THE GRAVEYARD. 
 
 SHE bounded o'er the graves, 
 
 "With a buoyant step of mirth ; 
 She bounded o'er the graves, 
 Where the weeping willow waves, 
 Like a creature not of earth. 
 
 Her hair was blown aside, 
 
 And her eyes were glittering bright j 
 Her hair was blown aside, 
 And her little hands spread wide, 
 
 With an innocent delight. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 She spelled the lettered word 
 
 That registered the dead j 
 She spelled the lettered word, 
 And her busy thoughts were stirred 
 
 With pleasure as she read. 
 
 She stopped and culled a leaf, 
 
 Left fluttering on a rose ; 
 She stopped and culled a leaf, 
 Sweet monument of grief, 
 
 That in our churchyard grows. 
 
 She culled it with a smile 
 'Twas near her sister's mound ; 
 
 She culled it with a smile, 
 
 And played with it a while, 
 Then scattered it around. 
 
 I did not chill her heart, 
 Nor turn its gush to tears ; 
 
 I did not chill her heart 
 
 O, bitter drops will start 
 Full soon in coming years. 
 
 Caroline Gihnan. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 91 
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILD. 
 
 " WHY wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child ? 
 Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild 
 A straw-roofed cabin, with lowly wall ; 
 Mine is a fair and pillared hall, 
 Where many an image of marble gleams, 
 And the sunshine of pictures forever streams." 
 
 " O, green is the turf where my brothers play, 
 Through the long bright hours of the summer's 
 
 day; 
 
 They find the red cup-moss where they climb, 
 And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme, 
 And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms 
 
 they know. 
 Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 
 
 " Content thee, boy, in my bower to dwell ; 
 Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well : 
 Flutes on the air in the stilly noon, 
 Harps which the wandering breezes tune, 
 And the silvery wood-note of many a bird 
 Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountain heard." 
 
 " O, my mother sings at the twilight's fall, 
 A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; 
 She sings it under our own green tree, 
 To the babe half slumbering on her knee. 
 I dreamed last night of that music low 
 Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 
 
92 POEMS OF CHILD HOOD. 
 
 " Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest ; 
 She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast ; 
 Thou wouldst meet her footsteps, my boy, no 
 
 more, 
 
 Nor hear her song at the cabin door. 
 Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh, 
 And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye." 
 
 " Is my mother gone from her home away ? 
 But I know that my brothers are there at play 
 I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell, 
 Or the long fern leaves by the sparkling well ; 
 Or they launch their boats where the bright 
 
 streams flow 
 Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 
 
 " Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now ; 
 They sport no more on the mountain's brow ; 
 They have left the fern by the spring's green 
 
 side, 
 
 And the streams where the fairy barks were tied. 
 Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot, 
 For the cabin home is a lonely spot. 
 
 " Are they gone, all gone, from the sunny hill ? 
 But the bird and the bluefly rove o'er it still ; 
 And the red deer bound in their gladness free, 
 And the heath is bent by the singing bee, 
 And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow 
 Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 
 
 Felicia Ilemans. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 93 
 
 THREE LITTLE GRAVES. 
 
 THREE little graves ! Talk not of sympathy - 
 
 'Twere vain for human clay 
 To speak of consolation 
 
 To those weary hearts to-day. 
 Warmest words that lips could fashion, 
 
 Can but mock the woe 
 Reigning in that stricken household, 
 
 Where, not long ago, 
 Echoed happy childish voices 
 
 All the livelong day, 
 Till an angel came from heaven, 
 
 Bearing them away ; 
 Folding one in her white pinions, 
 
 Whispering at the door 
 *' These are gems too bright for earth, 
 
 I must gather more ! " 
 
 So she lingered on the threshold, 
 
 O ! so white and chill 
 Saying, softly, " One more darling, 
 
 Gentle mother, still." 
 How she clasps it I Now she's pleading, 
 
 " Let the little bahy come 
 We will fold our wings around her, 
 
 Bear her safely Lome 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 We will keep her, O, so pure, 
 
 Spotless, undefiled 
 Mother, see your angel band, 
 
 Yet another child ! " 
 
 Then the white wings softly rustled, 
 
 And the low voice said 
 " Mother, let your darlings sleep-, 
 
 Do not call them dead." 
 
 So they made three little graves ; 
 
 Let the sunshine fall, 
 With its golden haze upon them, 
 
 Bright funereal pall. 
 Lay the crimson autumn leaves 
 
 On the little graves, 
 While above, the bending willow 
 
 Sadly, softly waves. 
 
 Anguished hearts, bereft and lonely, 
 
 In the angels' keeping 
 Are your three lost ones to-night 
 
 No, not dead, but sleeping ! 
 
 Mrs. B. F. E. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 95 
 
 TO A CHILD DURING SICKNESS. 
 
 SLEEP breathes at last from out thee, 
 
 My little, patient boy ; 
 And balmy rest about tbee 
 
 Smooths off the day's annoy. 
 I sit me down and think 
 
 Of all thy winning 1 ways ; 
 Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, 
 
 That I had less to praise. 
 
 Thy sidelong pillowed meekness, 
 
 Thy thanks to all that aid, 
 Thy heart, in pain and weakness, 
 
 Of fancied faults afraid ; 
 The little trembling hand 
 
 That wipes thy quiet tears : 
 These, these are things that may demand 
 
 Dread memories for years. 
 
 Sorrows I've had, severe ones, 
 
 I will not think of now, 
 And calmly, 'midst my dear ones, 
 
 Have wasted with dry brow ; 
 But when thy fingers press 
 
 And pat my stooping head, 
 I cannot bear the gentleness 
 
 The tears are in their bed. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Ah, first-born of thy mother, 
 
 When life and hope were new j 
 Kind playmate of thy brother, 
 
 Thy sister, father, too ; 
 My light, where'er I go 5 
 
 My bird, when prison-bound ; 
 My hand-in-hand companion No, 
 
 My prayers shall hold thee round. 
 
 To say, " He has departed " 
 
 " His voice " " his face " is gone, 
 To feel impatient-hearted, 
 
 Yet. feel we must bear on 
 Ah, I could not endure 
 
 To whisper of such woe, 
 Unless I felt this sleep insure 
 
 That it will not be so. 
 
 Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping ! 
 
 This silence, too, the while 
 Its very hush and creeping 
 
 Seem whispering us a smile ; 
 Something divine and dim 
 
 Seems going by one's ear, 
 Like parting wings of cherubim, 
 
 Who says, " We've finished here." 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 97 
 
 SIX LITTLE FEET ON THE FENDER. 
 
 IN my heart there liveth a picture 
 
 Of a kitchen rude and old, 
 Where the firelight tripped o'er the rafters, 
 
 And reddened the roof's brown mould ; 
 Gilding the steam from the kettle 
 
 That hummed on the foot-worn hearth, 
 Throughout all the livelong evening 
 
 Its measures of drowsy mirth. 
 
 * 
 
 Because of the three light shadows 
 
 That frescoed that rude old room 
 Because of the voices echoed 
 
 Up 'mid the rafters' gloom 
 Because of the feet on the fender, 
 
 Six restless, white little feet 
 The thoughts of that dear old kitchen 
 
 Are to me so fresh and sweet. 
 
 When then the first dash on the window 
 
 Told of the coming rain, 
 O ! where are the fairy young faces 
 
 That crowded against the pane ? 
 What bits of firelight stealing 
 
 Their dimpled cheeks between, 
 Went struggling out in the darkness 
 
 In shreds of silver sheen ! 
 
)8 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Two of the feet grew weary, 
 
 One dreary, dismal day, 
 And we tied them with snow-white ribbons. 
 
 Leaving them there by the way. 
 There was fresh clay on the fender 
 
 That weary, wintry night, 
 For the four little feet had tracked it 
 
 From his grave on the bright hill's height. 
 
 O ! why, on this darksome evening, 
 
 This evening 1 of rain and sleet, 
 Rest my feet all alone on the hearthstone ? 
 
 O ! where are those other feet ? 
 Are they treading the pathway of virtue 
 
 That will bring us together above f 
 Or have they made steps that will dampen 
 
 A sister's tireless love ? 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 99 
 
 THE LITTLE BOY THAT DIED. 
 
 Dr. Chalmers is said to be the author of the following 
 beautiful poem, written on the occasion of the death of a 
 young son whom he greatly loved. 
 
 I AM all alone in my chamber now, 
 
 And the midnight hour is near, 
 And the fagot's crack and the clock's dull tick, 
 
 Are the only sounds I hear ; 
 And over my soul, in its solitude, 
 
 Sweet feelings of sadness glide, 
 For my heart and my eyes are full when I think 
 
 Of the little boy that died. 
 
 I went one night to my father's house 
 
 Went home to the dear ones all 
 And softly I opened the garden gate, 
 
 And softly the door of the hall. 
 My mother came out to meet her son 
 
 She kissed me, and then she sighed, 
 And her head fell on my neck, and she wept 
 
 For the little boy that died. 
 
100 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 I shall miss him when the flowers come, 
 
 In the garden where he played ; 
 I shall miss him more by the fireside, 
 
 When the flowers have all decayed ; 
 I shall see his toys and his empty chair, 
 
 And his horse he used to ride. 
 And they will speak with a silent speech, 
 
 Of the little boy that died. 
 
 We shall go home to our Father's house 
 
 To our Father's house in the skies, 
 Where the hope of our souls shall have no bligh' 
 
 Our love no broken ties. 
 We shall roam on the banks of the River of Peace 
 
 And bathe in its blissful tide, 
 And one of the joys of our heaven shall be 
 
 The little boy that died. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 101 
 
 DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN. 
 
 YOUNG mother, he is gone ! 
 His dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast j 
 
 No more the music-tone 
 
 Float from his lips, to thine all fondly pressed } 
 His smile and happy laugh are lost to thee ; 
 Earth must his mother and his pillow be. 
 
 His was the morning hour ; 
 And he had passed in beauty from the day 
 
 A bud, not yet a flower, 
 
 Torn, in its sweetness, from the parent spray ; 
 The death-wind swept him to his soft repose, 
 As frost, in spring-time, blights the early rose. 
 
 Never on earth again 
 Will his rich accents charm thy listening ear, 
 
 Like some JEolian strain 
 Breathing at eventide serene and clear ; 
 His voice is choked in dust, and on his eyes 
 The unbroken seal of peace and silence lies. 
 
102 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 And from thy yearning heart, 
 Whose inmost core was warm with love for him 
 
 A gladness must depart, 
 
 And those kind eyes with many tears be dim ; 
 While lonely memories, an unceasing train, 
 Will turn the raptures of the past to pain. 
 
 Yet, mourner, while the day 
 Rolls like the darkness of a funeral by, 
 
 And Hope forbids one ray 
 To stream across the grief-discolored sky, 
 There breaks upon thy sorrow's evening gloom 
 A trembling lustre from beyond the tomb. 
 
 'Tis from the better land ! 
 
 There, bathed in radiance that around then! 
 springs, 
 
 Thy loved one's wings expand ; 
 As with the choiring cherubim he sings, 
 And all the glory of that God can see, 
 Who said, on earth, to children, " Come to me." 
 
 Mother, thy child is blessed ; 
 And though his presence may be lost to thee, 
 
 And vacant leave thy breast, 
 
 And missed, a sweet load from thy parent knee ; 
 
 Though tones familiar from thine ear have passed 
 
 Thou'lt meet thy first-born with his Lord at last. 
 
 Willis Gaylord Clark. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 103 
 
 A PKAYER IN SICKNESS. 
 
 SEND down thy winged angel, God, 
 
 Amid tins night so wild, 
 And bid him come where now we watch, 
 
 And breathe upon our child. 
 
 She lies upon her pillow, pale, 
 
 And moans within her sleep, 
 Or wakeneth with a patient smile, 
 
 And striveth not to weep. 
 
 How gentle and how good a child 
 
 She is, we know too well ; 
 And dearer to her parents' hearts 
 
 Than our weak words can tell. 
 
 We love we watch throughout the night, 
 
 To aid when need may be ; 
 We hope and have despaired at times : 
 
 But now we turn to Thee ! 
 
 Send down thy sweet-souled angel, God, 
 
 Amid the darkness wild, 
 And bid him soothe our souls to-night, 
 
 And heal our gentle child ! 
 
 Proctor. 
 
104 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD. 
 
 " PM thinking that to-nig-ht, if not before, 
 There'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewtor 
 
 roar ? 
 
 It's brewing up down westward ; and look there 
 One of those sea-gulls ! ay, there goes a pair 
 And such a sudden thaw ! If rain conies on, 
 As threats, the waters will be out anon. 
 That path by the ford's a nasty bit of way 
 Best let the young ones bide from school to-day.' 
 
 The children themselves join in this request 
 but the mother resolves that they should set ou' 
 the two girls, Lizzy and Jenny, the one fiv< 
 and the other seven. As the dame's will wai 
 law, so, 
 
 One last fond kiss 
 
 " God bless iny little maids '. " the father said ; 
 And cheerily went his way to win their bread. 
 
 Prepared for their journey, they depart witl 
 the mother's admonitions to the elder, 
 
 " Now, mind and bring 
 Jenny safe home," the mother said. " Don' 
 
 stay 
 To pull a bough or berry by the way ; 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 105 
 
 And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast 
 
 Your little sister's hand till you're quite past 
 
 That plank's so crazy, and so slippery, 
 
 If not overflowed, the stepping stones will be. 
 
 But you're good children steady as old folk ; 
 
 I'd trust ye any where." Then Lizzy's cloak 
 
 (A good gray duffle) lovingly she tied, 
 
 And ample little Jenny's lack supplied 
 
 With her own warmest shawl. " Be sure," said 
 
 she, 
 
 " To wrap it round, and knot it carefully 
 (Like this) when you come home just leaving 
 
 free 
 
 One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away 
 Good will to school, and then good right to 
 
 play." 
 
 The mother watched them as they went down 
 the lane, overburdened with something like a fore 
 boding of evil which she strove to overcome ; but 
 could not during the day quite bear up against 
 her own thoughts, more especially as the threat 
 ened storm did at length truly set in. His labor 
 done, the husband makes his three miles way 
 homeward, until his cottage coming into view, all 
 its pleasant associations of spring, summer, and 
 autumn, with its thousand family delights, rush 
 on his heart : 
 
100 POEMS OF CHILD HOOD. 
 
 There was a treasure hidden in his hat 
 
 A plaything 1 for his young- ones. He had found 
 
 A dormouse nest ; the living ball coiled round 
 
 For its long winter sleep ; and all his thought, 
 
 As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of noughl 
 
 But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes, 
 
 And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise, 
 
 When he should yield, by guess, and kiss, and 
 
 prayer, 
 Hard won, the frozen captive to their care. 
 
 Out rushes his fondling dog Tinker, but no lit 
 tle faces greet him as wont at the threshold ; and 
 to his hurried question, " Are they come ? " 
 'twas " No." 
 
 To throw his tools down, hastily unhook 
 The old cracked lantern from its dusty nook, 
 And while he lit it, speak a cheering word 
 That almost choked him, and was saarcely 
 
 heard, 
 
 Was but a moment's act ; and he was gone 
 To where a fearful foresight led him on. 
 
 A neighbor accompanies him, and they strike 
 into the track which the children should have 
 taken in their way back now calling aloud on 
 them through the pitchy darkness, and now, by 
 the lantern-light, scrutinizing " thicket, hole, and 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 107 
 
 nook," till the dog 1 , brushing past them with a 
 bark, shows them that he was on their track : 
 
 " Hold the light 
 
 Low down he's making for the water. Hark ! 
 I know that whine the old dog's found them, 
 
 Mark." 
 
 So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on 
 Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone ! 
 And all his dull contracted light could show 
 Was the black void, and dark swollen stream 
 
 below. 
 
 " Yet there's life somewhere more than Tin 
 ker's whine " 
 " That's sure," said Mark. " So, let the lantern 
 
 shine 
 Down yonder. There's the dog and hark ! " 
 
 O dear t " 
 
 And a low sob came faintly on the ear, 
 Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as 
 
 thought, 
 Into the stream leaped Ambrose, where he 
 
 caught 
 
 Fast hold of something a dark huddled heap 
 Half in the water, where 'twas scarce knee deep 
 For a tall man ; and half above it, propped 
 By some old ragged side-piles that had stopped 
 Endways the broken plank when it gave way 
 With the two little ones that luckless day '. 
 
108 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 " My babes ! my lambkins ! " was the father's 
 
 cry 
 
 One little voice made answer, " Here am I ! " 
 'Twas Lizzy's. There she crouched, with face 
 
 as white, 
 
 More ghastly, by the flickering lantern-light, 
 Than sheeted corpse. The pale, blue lips drawn 
 
 tight, 
 
 Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, 
 And eyes on some dark object underneath, 
 Washed by the turbid water, fixed like stone 
 One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid 
 
 grown, 
 Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock. 
 
 There she lay drowned 
 
 They lifted her from out her watery bed 
 Its covering gone, the lovely little head 
 Hung like a broken snow-drop, all aside, 
 And one small hand. The mother's shawl was 
 
 tied, 
 
 Leaving that free about the child's small form, 
 As was her last injunction " fast and warm j " 
 Too well obeyed too fast ! A fatal hold, 
 Affording to the scrag, by a thick fold 
 That caught and pinned her to the river's bed : 
 While through the reckless water overhead 
 Her life-breath bubbled up. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 109 
 
 I pass over the cruel self-upbr aiding s of her 
 mother for 
 
 " She might have lived, 
 Struggling- like Lizzie," was the thought that 
 
 rived 
 The wretched mother's heart, when she knew 
 
 all, 
 " But for my foolishness about that shawl " 
 
 a torture aggravated by the tones of the surviving 
 child, who half deliriously kept on ejaculating 
 
 " Who says I forgot ? 
 Mother ! indeed, indeed I kept fast hold ; 
 And tied the shawl quite close she can't be 
 
 cold 
 But she won't move we slept I don't know 
 
 how 
 
 But I held on and I'm so weary now 
 And it's so dark and cold ! O dear ! O dear ! 
 And she won't move if daddy was but here I " 
 
 From their despair for the lost, the poor par 
 ents turned to their almost forlorn hope in the 
 living, as 
 
 All night long from side to side she turned, 
 Piteously plaining like a wounded dove, 
 With now and then the murmur, " She won't 
 move." 
 
110 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 And, lo ! when morning, as in mockery, bright 
 Shone on that pillow passing strange the 
 
 sight 
 The young head's raven hair was streaked with 
 
 white ! 
 
 Caroline Anne Souther. 
 
 TO A CHILD 
 
 EMBRACING HIS MOTHER. 
 
 LOVE thy mother, little one ! 
 
 Kiss and clasp her neck again, 
 Hereafter she may have a son 
 
 Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 
 Love thy mother, little one ! 
 
 Gaze upon her living eyes, 
 
 And mirror back her love for thee, 
 Hereafter thou mayst shudder sighs 
 
 To meet them when they cannot see. 
 Gaze upon her living eyes ! 
 
TOEMS OF CHILDHOOD. Ill 
 
 Press her lips the while they glow 
 With love that they have often told, 
 
 Hereafter thou mayst press in woe, 
 And kiss them till thine own are cold. 
 Press her lips the while they glow ! 
 
 O, revere her raven hair ! 
 
 Although it be not silver-gray, 
 Too early Death, led on by Care, 
 
 May snatch save one dear lock away. 
 O, revere her raven hair ! 
 
 Pray for her at eve and morn, 
 
 That Heaven may long the stroke defer, 
 For thou mayst live the hour forlorn 
 When thou wilt ask to die with her. 
 Pray for her at eve and morn ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
112 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 OVER THE WAY. 
 
 GONE in her childish purity 
 
 Out from her golden day ; 
 Fading away in the light so sweet, 
 Where the silver stars and the sunbeams meet, 
 Paving a path for her silent feet, 
 
 Over the silent way. 
 
 Over her bosom tenderly 
 The pearl-white hands are pressed ; 
 The lashes lie on her cheeks so thin 
 Where the softest blush of the rose hath been 
 Shutting the blue of her eyes within 
 The pure lids closed in rest. 
 
 Over the sweet brow lovingly 
 
 Twineth her sunny hair ; 
 She was so fragile that Love sent down 
 From his heavenly gems that soft bright crown, 
 To shade her brow with its waves so brown, 
 
 Light as the dimpling air. 
 
 Gone to sleep with the tender smile 
 
 Froze on her silent lips 
 By the farewell kiss of her dewy breath, 
 Cold in the clasp of her angel Death 
 Like the last fair bud of a fading wreath, 
 
 Whose bloom the white frost nips. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 113 
 
 Robin hushed in your downy bed 
 
 Over the swinging 1 boug'h 
 Do you miss her voice from your glad duet, 
 "When the dew in the heart of the rose is set, 
 Till its velvet lips with the essence wet 
 
 In orient crimson giow ? 
 
 Rosebud under your shady leaf 
 
 Hid from the sunny day 
 Do you miss the glance of the eye so bright, 
 Whose blue was heaven in your timid sight? 
 It is beaming now in the world of light, 
 
 Over the starry way. 
 
 Hearts where the darling's head hath lain, 
 Held by love's shining ray 
 Do you know that the touch of her gentle hand 
 Doth brighten the harp in the unknown land ? 
 O, she waits for us with the angel band 
 Over the starry way. 
 
 E. Conwell Smith. 
 8 
 
114 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. 
 
 STAY, lady, stay, for mercy's sake, 
 
 And hear a helpless orphan's tale ! 
 Ah ! sure my looks must pity wake, 
 
 'Tis Want that makes my cheek so pale. 
 Yet I was once a mother's pride, 
 
 And my brave father's hope and joy ; 
 But in the Nile's proud fight he died, 
 
 And I am now an orphan boy. 
 
 Poor, foolish child ! how pleased was I 
 
 When news of Nelson's victory came, 
 Along- the crowded streets to fly, 
 
 And see the lighted windows flame ! 
 To force me home my mother sought ; 
 
 She could not bear to see my joy, 
 For with my father's life 'twas bought, 
 
 And made me a poor orphan boy. 
 
 The people's shouts were long and loud j 
 
 My mother, shuddering, closed her ears ; 
 " Rejoice ! rejoice ! " still cried the crowd ; 
 
 My mother answered with her tears. 
 " Why are you crying thus," said I, 
 
 " While others laugh and shout with joy ? ' 
 She kissed me and with such a sigh ! 
 
 She called me her poor orphan boy. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 115 
 
 " What is an orphan boy ? " I cried, 
 
 As in her face I looked, and smiled ; 
 My mother through her tears replied, 
 
 " You'll know too soon, ill-fated child ! " 
 And now they've tolled my mother's knell, 
 
 And I'm no more a parent's joy j 
 O, lady, I have learned too well 
 
 What 'tis to be an orphan boy ! 
 
 O, were I by your bounty fed ! 
 
 Nay, gentle lady, do not chide 
 Trust me, I mean to earn my bread ; 
 
 The sailor's orphan boy has pride. 
 Lady, you weep ! ha ! this to me ! 
 
 You'll give me clothing, food, employ? 
 Look down, dear parents ! look, and see 
 
 Your happy, happy orphan boy ! 
 
 Amelia Opie. 
 
116 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 A JUVENILE ACTOR. 
 
 Ben Jonson has some pleasing lines on a precocious lad 
 in his time, who seems to have been a wonderful actor of 
 "old men " characters. He died in his thirteenth year, and 
 the poet thus eulogizes him: 
 
 WEEP with me, all you that read 
 
 This little story ; 
 And know for whom a tear you shod 
 
 Death's self is sorry. 
 
 'Twas a child that did so thrive 
 
 In grace and feature, 
 That heaven and nature seemed to strive 
 
 Which owned the creature. 
 
 Years he numbered scarce thirteen, 
 
 When fates turned cruel ; 
 Yet three filled zodiacs had he been 
 
 The stage's jewel. 
 
 And did act, what noAV we moan, 
 
 Old men so duly, 
 As sooth the Parca3 thought him one, 
 
 He played so truly. 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 117 
 
 TO A CHILD BLOWING BUBBLES. 
 
 THRICE happy elf! what radiant dreams are thine, 
 As thus thou bidd'st thine air-born bubbles 
 soar ; 
 
 Who would not Wisdom's choicest gifts resign 
 To be, like thee, a careless child once more ; 
 
 To share thy simple sports and sinless glee ; 
 
 Thy breathless wonder, thy unfeigned delight, 
 As, one by one, those sun-touched glories flee, 
 
 In swift succession, from thy straining sight j 
 
 To feel a power within himself to make, 
 Like thee, a rainbow wheresoe'er he goes ; 
 
 To dream of sunshine, and like thee, to wake 
 To brighter visions from his charmed repose ; 
 
 Who would not give his all of worldly lore, 
 The hard-earned fruits of many a toil and care, 
 
 Might he but thus the faded past restore, 
 Thy guileless thoughts and blissful ignorance 
 share ? 
 
 Yet life hath bubbles, too, that soothe a while 
 The sterner dreams of man's maturer years ; 
 
118 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Love, Friendship, Fortune, Fame, by turns be 
 guile, 
 But melt, 'neath Truth's Ithuriel touch, to tears. 
 
 Thrice happy child, a brighter lot is thine ! 
 
 What new illusion e'er can match the first ? 
 We mourn to see each cherished hope decline ; 
 
 Thy mirth is loudest when thy bubbles burst. 
 
 Alaric Watts. 
 
 THE BLIND CHILD. 
 
 WHERE'S the blind child so admirably fair, 
 With guileless dimples, and with flaxen hair 
 That waves in every breeze ? He's often seen 
 Beyond yon cottage wall, or on the green 
 With others, matched in spirit and in size 
 Health in their cheeks and rapture in their eyes. 
 That full expanse of voice, to children dear, 
 Soul of their sports, is duly cherished here. 
 And hark ! that laugh is his that jovial cry 
 He hears the ball and trundling hoop brush by, 
 And runs the giddy course with all his might 
 A very child in every thing but sight 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 119 
 
 With circumscribed, but not abated powers, 
 Play the great object of his infant hours. 
 In many a game he takes a noisy part, 
 And shoNvs the native gladness of his heart ; 
 But soon he hears, on pleasure all intent, 
 The new suggestion, and the quick assent ; 
 The grove invites ; delight thrills every breast 
 To leap the ditch, and seek the downy nest. 
 Away they start, leave balls and hoops behind, 
 And one companion leave the boy is blind! 
 His fancy paints their distant paths so gay, 
 That childish fortitude a while gives way ; 
 He feels his dreadful loss yet short the pain 
 Soon he resumes his cheerfulness again. 
 Pondering how best his moments to employ, 
 He sings his little songs of nameless joy, 
 Creeps on the warm green turf for many an hour, 
 And plucks, by chance, the white and yellow 
 
 flower -, 
 
 Smoothing their stems, while resting on his knees, 
 He binds a nosegay which he never sees ; 
 Along the homeward path then feels his way. 
 
 Eloomfield. 
 
120 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 THE LITTLE PILGRIM. 
 
 I SAW a little pilgrim come 
 A sudden to that river, 
 
 At whose dark brink bold lips grow dumb, 
 And stout hearts quail and quiver, 
 The marge of Death's cold river. 
 
 Down to the stream the little maid 
 Was led by white-robed angels j 
 
 Around her golden harps they played, 
 And sung those sweet evangels 
 Sung only by the angels. 
 
 Five days upon the brink she lay 
 
 Of that appalling river ; 
 And Death shot arrows every day 
 
 From his insatiate quiver, 
 
 At her, beside the river. 
 
 O ! but I stood amazed to hear 
 Her wan lips sweetly saying, 
 
 " Don't pray to keep me, mamma, dear, 
 I must not here be staying." 
 Such words of wonder saying ! 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 121 
 
 " Mamma, I do not fear to die, 
 
 My sins are all forgiven ; 
 And shining angels, hovering nigh, 
 
 Will bear my soul to heaven 
 
 By Jesus quite forgiven." 
 
 And then from her fond mother's breast 
 
 She plunged into that river ; 
 Her fluttering pulses sunk to rest, 
 
 Her heart was still forever, 
 
 And her soul beyond the river. 
 
 Now, when my children wait to hear 
 
 Some tender, touching story, 
 I tell them how, without a fear, 
 
 She died, and went to glory 
 
 And tears flow with the story. 
 
 Rev. C. W.Richards. 
 
122 POEMS OF CHILD HOOD. 
 
 CASA WAPPY. 
 
 Casa Wappy was the self-conferred pet name of an infant 
 son of the poet, snatched away after a very brief illness. 
 
 AND hast thou sought thy heavenly home, 
 
 Our fond, dear boy 
 The realms where sorrow dare not come, 
 
 Where life is joy ? 
 Pure at thy death as at thy birth, 
 Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; 
 Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Despair was in our last farewell, 
 
 As closed thine eye ; 
 Tears of our anguish may not tell 
 
 When thou didst die ; 
 Words may not paint our grief for thee ; 
 Sighs are but bubbles on the sea 
 Of our unfathomed agony, 
 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Thou wert a vision of delight, 
 
 To bless us given ; 
 Beauty embodied to our sight ; 
 
 A type of heaven ! 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 123 
 
 So dear to us thou wert, thou art 
 Even less thine own self than a part 
 Of mine and of thy mother's heart, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Thy bright brief day knew no decline 
 
 'Twas cloudless joy 5 
 Sunrise and night alone were thine, 
 
 Beloved boy ! 
 
 This morn beheld thee blithe and gay, 
 That found thee prostrate in decay, 
 And ere a third shone clay was clay, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Gem of our hearth, our household pride, 
 
 Earth's undefiled ; 
 Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, 
 
 Our dear, sweet child ! 
 Humbly we bow to Fate's decree : 
 Yet had we hoped that Time should see 
 Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Do what I may, go where I will, 
 
 Thou meet'st my sight ; 
 There dost thou glide before me still, 
 
 A form of light 1 
 
t POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 I feel thy breath upon my cheek 
 I see thee smile, I hear thee speak 
 Till, O ! my heart is like to break, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Methinks thou smilest before me now, 
 
 With glance of stealth ; 
 The hair thrown back from thy full brow, 
 
 In buoyant health ; 
 I see thine eyes' deep violet light, 
 Thy dimpled cheek carnationed bright, 
 Thy clasping arms so round and white, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 The nursery shows thy pictured wall, 
 
 Thy bat, thy bow, 
 Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball ; 
 
 But where art thou ? 
 A corner holds thy empty chair, 
 Thy playthings idly scattered there, 
 But speak to us of our despair, 
 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Even to the last, thy very word 
 
 To glad, to grieve 
 Was sweet as sweetest song of bird, 
 
 On summer's eve j 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 125 
 
 In outward beauty undecayed, 
 Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade, 
 And like the rainbow thou didst fade, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 We mourn for thee when blind, blank night 
 
 The chamber fills ; 
 We pine for thee when morn's first light 
 
 Keddens the hills ; 
 
 The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, 
 All, to the wall-flower and wild pea, 
 Are changed we saw the world through 
 thee, 
 
 Casa Wappy '. 
 
 And though, perchance, a smile may gleam, 
 
 Of casual mirth, 
 It doth not own, whate'er may seem, 
 
 An inward birth ; 
 
 We miss thy small step on the stair ; 
 We miss thee at our evening prayer ; 
 All day we miss thee, every where, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, 
 
 In life's spring bloom, 
 Down to the appointed house below 
 
 The silent tomb j 
 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 But now the green leaves of the tree, 
 The cuckoo, and " the busy bee," 
 Return but with them bring not thee, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair, 
 
 Fond, fairest boy, 
 That heaven is God's, and thou art there 
 
 With him in joy : 
 
 There, past are Death, and all its woes ; 
 There Beauty's stream forever flows, 
 And Pleasure's day no sunset knows, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Farewell, then, for a while, farewell, 
 
 Pride of my heart ! 
 It cannot be that long we dwell 
 
 Thus torn apart : 
 
 Time's shadows like the shuttle flee ; 
 And, dark howe'er life's night may be, 
 Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 D. AL Moir. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 (FOR DAYS OF GLADNESS.) 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ah, little ranting Johnny 15 
 
 Art thou a thing of mortal birth 27 
 
 A child's smile nothing more 52 
 
 Blessings on the little man 35 
 
 Beautiful the children's faces 54 
 
 Behold, my lords 12 
 
 Blest hour of childhood; there, and there aloue . 3 
 
 Childhood, happiest stage of life 51 
 
 Cora's hand is dimpled 33 
 
 Come here, my bairnie 5 
 
 Come back, come back together 41 
 
 Darling little Ellie 23 
 
 Dear child whom sleep can hardly tame 31 
 
 Dwellers by lake and hill 13 
 
 Down the dimpled greensward dancing 20 
 
 Do not mind my crying, papa 61 
 
 Fold thy little hands in prayer 45 
 
 In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse .... 53 
 
 I wish I were a picture 7 
 
 Mother, watch the little feet 44 
 
 O, thou whose fancies from afar are brought ... 25 
 
 Our wean's the most wonderfu' wean I e'er saw . 57 
 
 So young you cannot pleasure take 59 
 
 Sighing I see yon little troop at play 8 
 
 Sporting through the forest wild 4 
 
 Sport on, sport on 9 
 
 There's a little girl that meets me 49 
 
 Thou happy, happy elf 10 
 
 To aid thy mind's development 34 
 
 Under my window 19 
 
 (127) 
 
128 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 When the cornfields and meadows 47 
 
 Whence came this little phantom o9 
 
 We stood beside the window, still 21 
 
 Yes, I do love thee well, my child 26 
 
 (FOR DAYS OF SADNESS.) 
 
 A simple child, dear brother Jim 65 
 
 A common light-blue muslin frock 85 
 
 And hast thou sought thy heavenly home .... 122 
 
 Come closer, closer, dear mamma 86 
 
 Gone in her childish purity 112 
 
 I am all alone in my chamber now 99 
 
 I cannot make him dead 68 
 
 In my heart there liveth a picture 97 
 
 I'm thinking that to-night, if not before 1^-4 
 
 I saw a little pilgrim come 120 
 
 It is his birthday ask me not 72 
 
 Little Jane came dancing 76 
 
 Love thy mother, little one 110 
 
 No bitter tears for thee be shed 79 
 
 No mother's eye beside thee wakes to night ... 88 
 
 0, take me home, mother 78 
 
 She bounded o'er the graves 89 
 
 Sleep breathes at last from out thee ( . 5 
 
 Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake 114 
 
 Send down thy winged angel, God 103 
 
 She sleeps; but the soft breath 74 
 
 Through the blue and frosty heavens 81 
 
 Thrice happj" elf, what radiant dreams are thine . 117 
 
 Thy memory as a spell 70 
 
 Three little graves 93 
 
 Weep with me. all you that read 116 
 
 Where's the blind child so admirably fair .... 118 
 
 Why vrouldst thou leave me, 0, gentle child ... 91 
 
 Young mother, he is gone 101 
 
ILLUSTRATED 
 
 POETIC GEMS. 
 
 DIAMOND EDITION. 
 *-**+ 
 
 POEMS OF INFANCY. 
 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 POEMS OF YOUTH. 
 POEMS OF WOMANHOOD. 
 POEMS OF MANHOOD. 
 POEMS OF OLD AGE. 
 
 128 pages each. 
 Sold separately, or in sets, by all Booksellers. 
 
 Price, 25 cents, Single, or $1.50 for the Set, in 
 Fancy Box. 
 
 Sent by mail, post paid, on receipt of the price, 
 by the Publisher. 
 
 Address, GEORGE COOLTDGE, 13 TRE- 
 MONT Row, BOSTON. 
 
NATIONAL MONUMENT to the FOREFATHERS. 
 
 Now erecting at Plymouth, by the Pilgrim Society. 
 
 The corner stone of this Monument was laid August 
 2, 1859. and its completion is a question of lime only. 
 
 All Subscribers receive a Testimonial of Subscription. 
 
 Every person contributing $1.00, receives a Steel Plate 
 View of the Monument; $500, receives an elegant Steel 
 Plate Certificate of Membership to the Pilgrim Society; 
 $100.00, receives, in addition to the above, a Bronze Stat 
 uette of the Monument. 
 
 AH persons interested in the Pilgrim Fathers, are in 
 vited to subscribe. 
 
 W. M. HARDING, Financial Agent, 13 Tre- 
 mont How, Boston. 
 
BURNETT'S tiETCOAINE, 
 
 &jT A compound of Cocoa-nut Oil, &c., for 
 dressing- the Hair. For efficacy and agreeable- 
 ness, it is without an equal. 
 
 It prevents the hair from falling off. 
 
 It promotes its healthy, vigorous growth. 
 
 It is not greasy or sticky. 
 
 It leares no disagreeable odor. 
 
 It softens the hair when hard and dry. 
 
 It soothes the irritated scalp skin. 
 
 It affords the richest lustre. 
 
 It remains longest in effect: 
 
 It costs fifty cents for a half -pint bottle. 
 
 LOSS OF HAIR. 
 
 BOSTOX, July 19, 1837. 
 Messrs. JOSEPH BURXETT & Co. 
 
 I cannot refuse to state the salutary effect, in my own 
 aggravated case, of your excellent Hair Oil, (Cocoaine.j 
 
 For many months my hair had been falling off, until I 
 was fearful of losing it entirely. The skin upon my head 
 became gradually more and more inflamed, so that I 
 could not touch it without pain. This irritated condition 
 I attributed to the use of various advertised hair washes. 
 which I have since been told contain campheno spirit. 
 
 By the advice of my physician, to whom vou hnd 
 shown your process of purifying the Oil, I commenced 
 its use the last week in Juire. The first application al 
 layed the itching and irritation: in three or four days 
 the redness and tenderness disappeared the hair ceased 
 to fall, and I have now a thick growth of new hair. I 
 trust that others, similarly afflicted, will be induced to 
 try the same remedy. Yours very truly, 
 
 SUSAN R. POPE. 
 
 BURNETT'S COCOAINE. 
 
 6f" A single application renders the hair (no matter 
 how stiff and dry,) soft and glossy for several days. It 
 is conceded by all who have used it, to be the best and 
 cheapest Hir Drifting in the. world. 
 
 Prepared by Joseph Burnett & Co., Boston, and for 
 sale by dealers generally, at 50 cents a bottle.