UCSB LIBRARY
 
 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 FOR MY CHILDREN. 
 
 BY THOMAS MILLER, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "j'JCTUBES OF COUNTRY LIFE," "THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS," &C. 
 
 
 LONDON: 
 DAVID BOGUE, 86 FLEET STREET.
 
 LONDON: 
 Printed by G. BARCLAY, Castle St. Leicester 3q.
 
 GOD AND HIS ANGELS 
 EVERYWHERE. 
 
 WE know that God is everywhere. 
 We see Him in the changing year, 
 Above, below, remote, or near. 
 
 And there His Angels are also ; 
 They ride on all the winds that blow, 
 And at His bidding come and go. 
 
 Unseen by us, that holy band 
 
 Speed night and day o'er sea and land, 
 
 Or in His presence waiting stand. 
 
 Some wake the morning from repose, 
 And scent the early Summer-rose, 
 Or tell the evening when to close.
 
 GOD AND HIS ANGELS EVERYWHERE. 
 
 They throw grey twilight o'er the hills, 
 In Spring unloose the frozen rills, 
 And shake the golden daffodils. 
 
 Some sow the dews upon the earth, 
 Or anthem in the morning's birth, 
 Teaching the birds their woodland mirth. 
 
 They light the stars across the skies, 
 And tell the lark 't is time to rise, 
 When they unlock the daisies' eyes. 
 
 They scatter cowslips on the dale, 
 
 Perfume the lilies of the vale, 
 
 And hang the thorn with blossoms pale. 
 
 Some twine the branches into bowers, 
 Others at evening shut the flowers, 
 And sprinkle them with silver showers. 
 
 Some guide the birds across the sea, 
 Or point out to the belted bee 
 Where honey-bells wave on the lea. 
 
 Alighting with half-folded wings, 
 
 They bend the buds o'er brooks and springs, 
 
 By which the linnet builds, and sings. 
 
 They scatter seeds upon the breeze, 
 And hang with mellow fruit the trees, 
 Obeying Him who all things sees, 
 
 Keep record of our idle talk, 
 
 Are with us when we sleep, or walk : 
 
 And ever ready at His call, 
 
 To keep a watch o'er great and small. 
 
 God's messengers, who love us all.
 
 SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 THE spotted horse is put away, 
 
 The hoop, and kite, and top, and ball ; 
 For 'tis the holy Sabbath day, 
 When Christians go to church, and pray 
 
 To God, who loveth all. 
 
 To-day the doll is put aside, 
 
 The story-books placed out of sight ; 
 For we must seek a holier guide, 
 And read how Christ the Saviour died 
 
 For us on Calvary's height. 
 
 The creaking waggon 's in the shed, 
 The busy flail is heard no more ; 
 The horse is littered down and fed, 
 The harness hangs above his head, 
 The whip behind the door.
 
 SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 His leathern gloves and hooked bill 
 
 To-day the woodman throws aside ; 
 
 The blacksmith's fiery forge is still ; 
 
 The wooden wheel of the old mill 
 Sleeps in the mill-dam wide. 
 
 The miller's boat is anchored, where 
 
 Far out, the water lilies sleep, 
 You see their shadows mirrored there, 
 The broad white flowers reflected clear 
 Within the mill-pool deep. 
 
 The barrow 's in the garden shed, 
 
 Hoe, rake, and spade, are put away ; 
 Unweeded stands the onion bed, 
 The gardener from his work hath fled, 
 This holy Sabbath day. 
 
 Upon the wall the white cat sleeps, 
 
 By which the churns and milk pans lie ; 
 A drowsy watch the house-dog keeps, 
 And scarcely from his dull eye peeps 
 Upon the passer-by. 
 
 And sweetly over hill and dale 
 
 The silvery-sounding church bells ring ; 
 Across the moor and down the dale 
 They come and go, and on the gale 
 
 Their Sabbath tidings fling. 
 
 From where the whitewashed Sunday-school 
 Peeps out between the poplars dim, 
 
 Which ever throw their shadows cool 
 
 Far out upon the rushy pool, 
 
 You hear the Sabbath hymn.
 
 SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 From farm and field, and grange grown grey ; 
 
 From woodland walks and winding ways, 
 The old and young, the grave and gay, 
 Unto the old church come to pray, 
 
 And sing God's holy praise. 
 
 For the great God himself did say, 
 
 Thou shalt rest one day out of seven ; 
 And set apart that holy day 
 To worship Me, and sing, and pray, 
 If thou wouldst enter Heaven.
 
 THE WATER-CRESS SELLER. 
 
 Now all aloud the wind and rain 
 Beat sharp upon the window-pane, 
 
 And though 'tis hardly light, 
 I hear that little girl go by, 
 Who does "fine water-cresses" cry, 
 
 Morning, and noon, and night. 
 
 I saw her pass by yesterday, 
 The snow upon the pavement lay, 
 
 Her hair was white with sleet ; 
 She shook with cold, as she did cry, 
 " Fine water-cresses, come and buy," 
 
 And naked were her feet. 
 
 And with one hand, so red and cold, 
 She did her tattered bonnet hold, 
 
 The other held her shawl, 
 Which was too thin to keep her warm, 
 But naked left each little arm, 
 
 It was so very small.
 
 SISTER MARTHA IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Her water-cresses froze together, 
 
 Yet she, through the cold, bitter weather, 
 
 Went on from street to street : 
 And thus she goes out every day, 
 For she can earn no other way 
 
 The bread which she doth eat. 
 
 SISTER MARTHA IN HEAVEN. 
 
 I KNOW my sister Martha 's dead, 
 
 That weeping for her 's all in vain ; 
 
 For mother dried my eyes, and said, 
 We all should meet again. 
 
 She told me how the grave but led 
 
 To a much happier land than ours ; 
 
 A land where summer never shed 
 Its ever-blooming flowers.
 
 SISTEB MAHTHA IN HEAVEN. 
 
 That sorrow never entered where 
 
 The star-paved floor of heaven lay ; 
 
 But angels ever waited there, 
 To wipe our tears away. 
 
 That Martha is an angel now, 
 
 And numbered with that seraph band, 
 Who in His presence ever bow, 
 
 Or sit on His right hand. 
 
 That high above she hymns His praise, 
 Tuning a harp with golden strings, 
 
 Or kneels amid a sun-like blaze, 
 
 Which gilds her face and wings. 
 
 That she hath now an angel's voice, 
 
 That on her brow a star doth shine ; 
 
 While she doth with the saints rejoice, 
 Before the Throne Divine. 
 
 I will no longer weep and sigh, 
 
 But night and morning bend my knee, 
 And pray to God that when I die 
 
 I may an angel be. 
 
 '--
 
 THE MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 
 
 SLUMBER, my darling, no danger is near, 
 
 Thy mother sits by thee to guard thy repose ; 
 Though the wind roars aloud, not a breath 
 
 reaches here, 
 To shake the white curtains which round thee 
 
 do close: 
 Then slumber, my darling, and sleep without 
 
 fear, 
 
 Thou art safe from all danger, my dearest, while 
 here. 
 
 What is it the angels do unto thee say, 
 
 When thou dost lie smiling so sweet in thy 
 sleep 1 
 
 Are they trying, my sweetest, to lure thee away, 
 And leave me alone in my sorrow to weep 1
 
 THE SEA-DEEPS. 
 
 Oh! sometimes I fancy they whisper thy name, 
 And would fain bear thee back to the land 
 whence they came. 
 
 Then never, my darling, when thou growest old, 
 Forget her who on thy sweet infancy smiled, 
 
 To whom thou wert dearer than jewels or gold, 
 Who studied thy looks and thy wishes, my 
 child, 
 
 Who, when thou didst need her, was never away 
 
 In health or in sickness, by night or by day. 
 
 THE SEA-DEEPS. 
 
 DEEPER than the narwhal sinketh, 
 Deeper than the sea-horse drinketh, 
 There are miles, and miles of sea, 
 Where darkness reigns eternally.
 
 THE SEA-DEEPS. 
 
 Nor length of line, nor sounding lead 
 Have ever reached the deep sea-bed ; 
 Nor aught again beheld the light, 
 Which touched that land of endless night. 
 Above, a ship might strike and ground, 
 Below, no -bottom could be found ; 
 Though o'er the rocks the white waves hiss, 
 Unfathomed lay the dark abyss : 
 Depths measureless rocks that were hurled 
 From the foundations of the world. 
 Deeper than plummet e'er can go 
 Lie those grim endless depths below, 
 Which neither wind nor wave come near, 
 For all is dark and silent there. 
 Perchance, huge monsters, feed and sleep 
 Below that black and soundless deep, 
 Monsters of such weight and size, 
 That they have no power to rise. 
 The mighty Kraken, which they say, 
 Will heave up on that awful day, 
 When the last trumpet's startling sound 
 Shall pierce the inmost depths profound ; 
 He '11 from the burning granite start, 
 And many a league of ocean part, 
 While his huge bulk he doth uprear, 
 And like an island vast appear. 
 Such monstrous things, they say, now sleep 
 Within the caverns of the deep.
 
 MUSTARD SEED. 
 
 BEHOLD this ground ! There 's nothing here 
 Save earth ; nor has there been this year, 
 
 Grass, moss, nor flower, nor weed ; 
 Yet in a week, here shall be seen 
 Your name, dear George, in leaves of green ; 
 
 Springing from this round seed. 
 
 Now clear and plain before your sight, 
 In this dark mould your name I '11 write. 
 
 There 's every letter clear 
 Now fill the lines with mustard seed 
 Well done, a dunce your name might read, 
 
 So plain it doth appear. 
 
 Cover the seeds beneath this mould, 
 That looks so dark, and damp, and cold, 
 
 Until not one is seen. 
 And in a week, I dare be bound, 
 The name of GEORGE will here be found 
 
 In double leaves of green.
 
 MUSTARD SEED. 
 
 Though I can write your name in gold, 
 And many a curl and nourish bold 
 
 Around the letters throw : 
 Were I a thousand years to try, 
 To make a plant but one inch high, 
 
 I could not make it grow. 
 
 When one short week had gone and past, 
 The seed which in the earth George cast 
 
 Rose up and bore his name. 
 The plainest print could not be better, 
 Up every stroke and every letter 
 
 In double green leaves came. 
 
 Said George, " You wrote my name, I know ; 
 I sowed the seed who made it grow T 
 
 Said I, " That power unseen, 
 Who caused the sun to shed his light, 
 The rounded moon to shine by night, 
 
 And hung the stars between. 
 
 " That God who made the oak-tree tall, 
 The velvet moss upon the wall, 
 
 The little daisy white ; 
 The elephant, and spouting whale, 
 Small harvest-mouse and horned snail, 
 
 And the brown dust-like mite. 
 
 " The simplest flower by which we pass, 
 Deep buried in the summer grass, 
 
 Man hath not skill to make. 
 Although he 's power to build a town, 
 He cannot form the thistle's down, 
 
 Which every wind doth shake.
 
 THE POOR GIRL TO HER MOTHER. 
 
 " Then ever bear in mind my child, 
 That there grows not by wayside wild, 
 
 Upon the lowliest sod, 
 A blade of grass, a common weed, 
 A tuft of moss, or naked reed. 
 
 But 'tis the WORK OF GOD." 
 
 THE POOR GIRL TO HER MOTHER. 
 
 OH, mother dear ! were you to die, 
 
 I do not know what I should do ; 
 
 For no one else, were they to try, 
 Could be so kind to me as you. 
 
 When at your feet I lowly kneel, 
 
 And pray to God, to give me grace, 
 
 I cannot tell you all I feel, 
 
 When I look up into your face.
 
 THE POOH GIRL TO HER MOTHER. 
 
 For tears will come, do what I will, 
 
 When your pale care-worn face I see ; 
 
 And I oft think, if you were ill, 
 
 Oh ! what would then become of me. 
 
 I know how hard you work for me, 
 I know that we are very poor ; 
 
 And that I must, (if I lost thee), 
 
 Go beg my bread from door to door. 
 
 I know you sit up half the night, 
 
 And sew, and sew, for little pay ; 
 
 I hear you rise before 't is light, 
 
 And see you sit and sew all day ; 
 
 Oh ! it is this which makes me weep, 
 
 And oft I sit up in my bed, 
 When you believe I 'm fast asleep, 
 
 And see your hand support your head :- 
 
 And when you say, " poor child," and sigh, 
 My head beneath the clothes I hide ; 
 
 I cannot bear to hear you cry 
 
 As you have done, since father died. 
 
 I 'm but a little girl, I know, 
 
 And 't is but little I can do ; 
 
 Taller and stronger I shall grow, 
 
 And then I '11 work as hard for you.
 
 THE SPRING WALK. 
 
 WE had a pleasant walk to day 
 Over the meadows and far away, 
 Across the bridge by the water-mill, 
 By the woodside, and up the hill ; 
 And if you listen to what I say, 
 I '11 tell you what we saw to day. 
 
 Amid a hedge, where the first leaves 
 
 Were peeping from their sheaths so sly, 
 
 We saw four eggs within a nest, 
 
 And they were blue as a summer sky. 
 
 An elder-branch dipped in the brook, 
 
 We wondered why it moved, and found 
 
 A silken-haired smooth water-rat 
 
 Nibbling, and swimming round and round.
 
 THE SPUING WALK. 
 
 Where daisies opened to the sun, 
 
 In a broad meadow, green and white, 
 
 The lambs were racing eagerly 
 We never saw a prettier sight. 
 
 We saw upon the shady banks 
 
 Long rows of golden flowers shine, 
 
 And first mistook for buttercups 
 
 The star-shaped yellow celandine. 
 
 Anemones and primroses, 
 
 And the blue violets of spring, 
 
 We found, while listening by a hedge 
 To hear a merry ploughman sing. 
 
 And from the earth the plough turned up, 
 There came a sweet refreshing smell, 
 
 Such as the lily of the vale 
 
 Sends forth from many a woodland dell.
 
 THE SPRING WALK. 
 
 We saw the yellow wall-flower wave 
 Upon a mouldering castle wall, 
 
 And then we watched the busy rooks 
 Among the ancient elm-trees tall. 
 
 And leaning from the old stone bridge, 
 Below we saw our shadows lie, 
 
 And through the gloomy arches watched 
 The swift and fearless swallows fly. 
 
 We heard the speckle-breasted lark 
 
 As it sang somewhere out of sight, 
 
 And tried to find it, but the sky 
 
 Was filled with clouds of dazzling light. 
 
 We saw young rabbits near the wood, 
 
 And heard a pheasant's wings go " whirr," 
 
 And then we saw a squirrel leap 
 From an old oak tree to a fir. 
 
 And many pretty birds we saw, 
 
 Which had come o'er the stormy main, 
 To build their nests, and rear their young, 
 
 And sing in our old woods again. 
 
 We came back by the village fields, 
 A pleasant walk it was across 'em, 
 
 For all behind the houses lay 
 
 The orchards red and white with blossom. 
 
 Were I to tell you all we saw, 
 
 I 'm sure that it would take me hours ; 
 For the whole landscape was alive 
 
 With bees, and birds, and buds, and flowers.
 
 THE POOR LONDON GIRL. 
 
 WITHIN a narrow London court, 
 
 This little girl was born and bred, 
 
 And no one shares her childish sport. 
 She sleeps upon a hard straw-bed, 
 And is both poorly clothed and fed. 
 
 One ruined house, dark, low, and small, 
 Does that dull narrow court contain, 
 
 Before it stands a high dead wall, 
 Without a single window-pane, 
 But damp with mould, and rot, and rain. 
 
 Over that ruined house so fearful, 
 
 The wall its gloomy shadow flings, 
 
 The sparrows never chirrup cheerful, 
 
 But shake the soot from off their wings, 
 They are such black and dirty things.
 
 THE POOB LONDON GIRL. 
 
 That little girl has never seen 
 
 A garden in which sweet flowers blow ; 
 
 Nothing but old moss, black and green, 
 Which on the murky eaves still grow, 
 Or in the unpaved court below. 
 
 Poor little girl ! she cannot read, 
 
 Neither has she been taught to pray, 
 
 And it would make your kind hearts bleed, 
 To see how she doth pass the day, 
 All, save herself, then far away. 
 
 Ever arises with the light, 
 
 Her mother, who is very poor, 
 
 Nor from her work returns till night ; 
 And often for twelve hours or more, 
 That child will sit and watch the door. 
 
 About this earth she nothing knows, 
 She very rarely sees the sun, 
 
 But when the shadow darker grows, 
 
 She up and down the court will run, 
 
 " Mother," she says, " will soon be done." 
 
 When flowers are cried from street to street, 
 She knows the season is called Spring, 
 
 But never saw them waving sweet, 
 
 Nor heard aught, save the sparrows, sing 
 Their weary weary chirrupping. 
 
 Seed-time and harvest are to her, 
 
 Seasons unseen and names unknown ; 
 
 In Autumn they cry lavender ; 
 
 She never saw on hill or down 
 The ripe and eary corn wave brown.
 
 THE GOLDEN-CRESTED WEEN. 
 
 Because the days are long and hot, 
 
 Summer from Winter she may know ; 
 
 Though there the sunshine lingers not : 
 And when the long nights darker grow, 
 She looks for hail, and frost, and snow. 
 
 You pity this poor child so small, 
 
 Who in this narrow court was bred ? 
 
 Yet many have no home at -all, 
 
 Nowhere at night to lay their head, 
 No living soul to give them bread. 
 
 THE GOLDEN-CRESTED WEEN. 
 
 THE smallest bird that can be found, 
 If you search all England round, 
 Everywhere through glade and glen, 
 Is the golden-crested wren.
 
 THE GOLDEN-CHESTED WEEN. 
 
 Though little, 'tis a brave bird too, 
 And stays with us the winter through ; 
 Goes picking here, and hopping there, 
 And never leaves us all the year. 
 When it freezes, when it snows, 
 When it thaws, and when it blows, 
 You still see its little form. 
 Tossed about upon the storm ; 
 "Rumpled, crumpled every feather, 
 And all backward blown together, 
 While it puffs, and pants, and draws 
 Together close its little claws 
 On some branch or mossy rail, 
 Turning to the wind its tail. 
 But if there be a hole at all, 
 It can get in it is so small 
 And shelter from the piercing cold 
 Its pretty head and crest of gold. 
 In spring it builds a little house, 
 Scarce larger than the harvest mouse ; 
 And in it you'll find children five, 
 The size of bees, and all alive. 
 And for all these she must find bread, 
 From morning till 'tis time for bed. 
 And you will see this little wren, 
 Works harder far than many men, 
 Beginning when the dawn doth peep, 
 Nor ending till it's time to sleep. 
 Without a minute's pause or rest, 
 She carries food into her nest 
 Near forty times in every hour. 
 Through the sunshine and the shower, 
 Food doth she to her young convey, 
 For sixteen hours through every day, 
 Without a moment's time to play.
 
 THE GOLDEN-CHESTED WEEN. 
 
 Ever coming, ever going, 
 Never idle, always doing 
 This a bit, and that a taste ; 
 Then she's off again in haste, 
 Across the field and by the mill, 
 Bringing something for each bill 
 Bill wide-gaping every minute, 
 And she dropping something in it. 
 Such a hungry family 
 As a man doth seldom see ; 
 Helpless, and without a feather, 
 Opening all their mouths together. 
 As soon as brought, the food is gone, 
 All the five a-gape like one. 
 She herself can't get a bit, 
 There is such a " twit, twit, twit." 
 Though such a family she maintains, 
 Her weight is scarcely ninety grains : 
 No smaller bird can there be found, 
 If you search all England round. 
 
 I'm sure that every girl or boy 
 Will usefully their time employ, 
 And be ashamed to idle, when 
 They've read about this little wren.
 
 CHILD AND MOTHER. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 OH ! why does brother William sleep 
 
 So long upon his little bed \ 
 And why, dear mother, do you weep \ 
 
 MOTHER. 
 Your brother William's dead. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 I thought when dead, my mother dear, 
 
 That angels bore us through the sky \ 
 But brother William still is here \ 
 
 MOTHER. 
 No : he now dwells on high.
 
 CHILD AND MOTHER. 
 CHILD. 
 
 I stroke his hair, his hand I hold, 
 
 Oh, William, do get up and play 
 Why is your hand so very cold \ 
 
 MOTHER. 
 He hears not what you say. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 And will he never wake again, 
 
 Nor spread his playthings on the floor ? 
 Nor walk with us down the green lane \ 
 
 MOTHER. 
 No, never never more. 
 
 The little body that lies here, 
 
 Will rest beneath the church-yard sod. 
 His soul the angels back did bear, 
 
 Unto the hands of God.
 
 THE FLY. 
 
 WHAT a sharp little fellow is Mister Fly, 
 
 He goes where he pleases, low or high, 
 
 And can walk just as well with his feet to the sky, 
 
 As I can on the floor. 
 
 At the window he comes 
 
 With a buzz and a roar, 
 
 And o'er the smooth glass 
 
 Can easily pass, 
 
 Or through the keyhole of the door. 
 He eats the sugar, and goes away, 
 Nor ever once asks what there is to pay ; 
 And sometimes he crosses the tea-pot's steam, 
 And comes and plunges his head in the cream ; 
 Then on the edge of the jug he stands, 
 And cleans his wings with his feet and hands. 
 This done, through the window he hurries away, 
 And gives a buzz, as if to say, 
 " At present I have'nt a minute to stay, 
 But I '11 peep in again in the course of the day." 
 
 Then away he '11 fly, 
 
 Where the sunbeams lie, 
 
 And neither stop to shake hands, 
 
 Nor bid one good-bye : 
 Such a strange little fellow is Mister Fly, 
 Who goes where he pleases, low or high, 
 
 And can walk on the ceiling 
 
 Without ever feeling 
 A fear of tumbling down " sky-high."
 
 THE CRADLE SONG. 
 
 MY dearest baby go to sleep, 
 
 For now the bright round moon doth peep 
 
 On thy little snow-white bed, 
 
 And upon thy pretty head. 
 
 The silver stars are shining bright, 
 And bid my baby dear good night ; 
 And every bird has gone to rest 
 Long since, in its little nest. 
 
 The lambs no longer run and leap, 
 But by the daisies lie asleep ; 
 The flowers have closed their pretty eyes 
 Until the sun again shall rise.
 
 THE CEADLE SONG. 
 
 All things are wrapt in sweet repose, 
 The dew falls noiseless on the rose : 
 So thou must like an angel lie 
 Till golden morning streaks the sky. 
 
 Soon will I gently steal to bed, 
 And rest beside thy pretty head, 
 And all night keep thee snug and warm, 
 Nestling fondly on my arm. 
 
 Then dearest baby go to sleep. 
 While the moon doth on thee peep, 
 Shining on thy little bed, 
 And around thy pretty head.
 
 THE PET LAMB.
 
 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 ONCE on a time, a shepherd lived 
 
 Within a cottage small ; 
 The grey thatched roof was shaded by 
 
 An elm-tree dark and tall ; 
 While all around stretched far away 
 
 A wild and lonesome moor, 
 Except a little daisied field 
 
 Before the trellised door. 
 
 Now it was on a cold March day, 
 When on the moorland wide, 
 
 The shepherd found a trembling lamb 
 By its dead mother's side ;
 
 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 And so pitiful it bleated, 
 
 As with the cold it shook, 
 He wrapped it up beneath his coat, 
 
 And home the poor lamb took. 
 
 He placed it by the warm fireside, 
 
 And then his children fed 
 This little lamb, whose mother died, 
 
 With milk and sweet brown bread, 
 Until it ran about the floor, 
 
 Or at the door would stand ; 
 And grew so tame it ate its food 
 
 From out the children's hand. 
 
 It followed them where'er they went, 
 
 Came ever at their call, 
 And dearly was this pretty lamb 
 
 Beloved by them all. 
 And often on a market day, 
 
 When cotters crossed the moor, 
 They stopped to praise this snow-white lamb 
 
 Beside the cottage door ; 
 They patted it upon its head, 
 
 And stroked it with the hand, 
 And vowed it was the prettiest lamb 
 
 They 'd seen in all the land.
 
 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 THE PET LAMB. PART THE SECOND. 
 
 Now this kind shepherd was as ill, 
 
 As ill, as he could be, 
 And kept his bed for many a week, 
 
 And nothing earned he ; 
 And when he had got well again, 
 
 He to his wife did say, 
 " The doctor wants his money, and 
 
 I have n't it to pay. 
 
 " What shall we do, what can we do ? 
 
 The doctor 's made me well, 
 There 's only one thing can be done, 
 
 We must the pet lamb sell ; 
 We 've nearly eaten all the bread, 
 And how can we get more,
 
 THE PET IAMB. 
 
 Unless you call the butcher in 
 When he rides by the door V 
 
 " Oh, do not sell my white pet lamb," 
 
 Then little Mary said, 
 " And every night I '11 go up stairs 
 
 Without my tea to bed ; 
 For if the butcher buys my lamb, 
 
 He '11 take away its life, 
 And make its pretty white throat bleed 
 
 With his sharp cruel knife ; 
 
 " And never in the morning light 
 
 Again it will me meet, 
 Nor come again to lick my hand, 
 
 Look up to me and bleat. 
 Oh, do not sell my sweet pet lamb ; 
 
 And if you '11 let it live, 
 The best half of my bread and milk 
 
 I will unto it give." 
 The doctor at that very time 
 
 Entered the cottage door, 
 As, with her arms around her lamb, 
 
 She sat upon the floor.
 
 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 THE PET LAMB. PART THE THIED. 
 
 " WHY do you weep, my pretty girl V 1 
 
 The doctor then did say. 
 " Because I love my little lamb, 
 
 Which must be sold to-day ; 
 It lies beside my bed at night, 
 
 And, oh, it is so still, 
 It never made a bit of noise 
 
 When father was so ill. 
 
 " Oh, do not let them sell my lamb, 
 And then I '11 go to bed, 
 
 And never ask for aught to eat 
 But a small piece of bread." 
 
 " I '11 buy the lamb and give it you," 
 The kind good doctor said, 
 
 c*
 
 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 " And with the money that I pay 
 Your father can buy bread. 
 
 " As for the bill, that can remain 
 
 Until another year." 
 He paid the money down, and said, 
 
 " The lamb is yours my dear ; 
 You have a kind and gentle heart, 
 
 And God who made us all, 
 He loveth well those who are kind 
 
 To creatures great and small ; 
 
 " And while I live, my little girl, 
 
 Your lamb shall not be sold, 
 But play with you upon the moor, 
 
 And sleep within the fold." 
 And so the white pet lamb was saved, 
 
 And played upon the moor, 
 Ajid after little Mary ran 
 
 About the cottage floor. 
 
 It fed upon the cowslips tall, 
 
 And ate the grass so sweet. 
 And on the little garden walk 
 
 Pattered its pretty feet ; 
 And with its head upon her lap 
 
 The little lamb would lay 
 Asleep beneath the elm-tree's shade. 
 
 Upon the summer's day, 
 While she twined flowers around its neck, 
 
 And called it her " Sweet May."
 
 
 THE DROWNED BOY. 
 
 THE simple story I relate 
 
 Is very sad, but very true ; 
 And it is of a schoolboy's fate, 
 
 A merry lad, whom well I knew, 
 That I this sorrowful story tell, 
 Which on his thirteenth birthday fell. 
 
 I well remember on that day 
 
 His widowed mother's pleasant smile, 
 How ere we started off to play, 
 
 By Ashcroft's green and willowy isle, 
 To lure us back in time for tea, 
 The large plum-cake she let us see. 
 
 And good advice she to us gave, 
 
 Which we aside did reckless throw. 
 
 One only promise did she crave, 
 Into the river not to go. 
 
 We gave that promise, went away, 
 
 Alas ! that we should disobey.
 
 THE DROWNED BOY. 
 
 We left the vale and hills behind, 
 
 The wooden mill, and common wide. 
 
 Then did by circling footpaths wind 
 Our way up to the river's side. 
 
 Now in, now out, now seen, now hidden, 
 
 We came unto that spot forbidden. 
 
 Brightly the rippling river run, 
 
 In light and shadow here and there. 
 
 And quivered in the summer sun, 
 
 A golden pathway shining clear, 
 
 That seemed to stretch out far away, 
 
 As if to reach the gates of day. 
 
 " Let 's bathe," said one ; " the day is warm, 
 We know there is no danger here." 
 
 So we agreed, and thought no harm, 
 For oft before we had bathed there 
 
 He was the first to lead the way, 
 
 Whose birth we welcomed on that day 
 
 There was no danger near the shore, 
 While within depth we did remain, 
 
 Nor ventured where the eddies tore 
 The jetty round, then met again ; 
 
 'T was said no bottom could be found, 
 
 Where they went ever boiling round. 
 
 We who could swim went far away, 
 
 Some plashed beneath the willows dank. 
 
 Others upon the greensward lay, 
 
 Or idly gazed from off the bank, 
 
 Until a shrill cry rent the air, 
 
 Which made our very hearts despair.
 
 THE DKOWNED BOY. 
 
 THE DROWNED BOY. PART THE SECOND. 
 
 ALTHOUGH 'tis many years ago, 
 
 I feel my conscience still upbraid, 
 
 That I deceived his mother so, 
 
 And her strict orders disobeyed. 
 
 And I would warn you for his sake, 
 
 Never your solemn word to break. 
 
 Amid the eddies' boiling roar, 
 
 We saw his head move round and round, 
 And as his eyes turned to the shore, 
 
 He sank within that gulph profound. 
 On rolled the water as before, 
 Where he had sunk to rise no more. 
 
 Mute, horror-struck, we stood aghast ! 
 Looking where the deep eddies lay.
 
 THE DROWNED EOT. 
 
 And one poor boy exclaimed at last, 
 
 " Oh, what will his dear mother say V' 
 Another said, " His birthday too ! 
 Oh, what will his poor mother do 1" 
 
 And who will to his mother dear 
 
 The tidings of his death convey, 
 
 And home those empty garments bear 1 
 
 (His Sunday-clothes worn on that day.) 
 
 Who '11 enter that low cottage door, 
 
 And say, " he will return no more ?' 
 
 No more, no more Oh, never more ! 
 
 Thou 'It hear his merry footstep tread 
 Upon that white and sanded floor. 
 
 Pillowed is now his curly head 
 Deep down upon that sandy soil, 
 O'er which the eddies roar and boil. 
 
 Sobbing, we bore his clothes away, 
 For each a mournful portion took, 
 
 His hat, his boots, the branch of May, 
 
 Which he from the old hawthorn broke ; 
 
 And with eyes bent upon the ground, 
 
 We walked along in grief profound. 
 
 We reached the whitewashed village school, 
 And to the master told our tale, 
 
 How, 'mid the eddies' dark whirlpool, 
 Below the bend of Ashcroft vale, 
 
 Deep drowned our little playmate lay. 
 
 He sighed, and turned his head away. 
 
 He walked along in awe and dread, 
 And unto her the tidings told.
 
 THE DROWNED BOY. 
 
 She sat beside his empty bed 
 
 All night, until the morning cold. 
 They said, 'twas pitiful to see 
 That woman in her misery. 
 
 The mother, broken-hearted, died 
 
 Upon the day her boy was found, 
 
 And they were buried side by side, 
 
 The Sunday after he was drowned. 
 
 Then children all, mind what I say. 
 
 Nor once your parents disobey.* 
 
 * I scarcely need tell my little readers, that this is a true 
 tale ; that I was present when the poor boy was drowned in the 
 river Trent, that I carried some portion of his clothes to the 
 schoolmaster, and followed his remains to the grave.
 
 THE SUN. 
 
 SOMEWHERE it is always light ; 
 
 For when, 't is morning here, 
 In some far distant land 't is night, 
 
 And the bright moon shines there. 
 
 When you 're undressed and going to bed, 
 
 They are just rising there, 
 And morning on the hills doth spread, 
 
 When it is evening here. 
 
 And other distant lands there be, 
 
 Where it is always night ; 
 For weeks and weeks they never see 
 
 The sun, nor have they light. 
 
 For it is dark both night and day, 
 But what 's as wondrous quite, 
 
 The darkness it doth pass away, 
 And then for weeks 't is light. 
 
 Yes, while you sleep the sun shines bright, 
 
 The sky is blue and clear ; 
 For weeks and weeks there is no night, 
 
 But always daylight there.
 
 WORD PICTURES. 
 
 SILENTLY the green grass groweth, 
 Rapidly the river floweth, 
 Over the sea the wild wind bloweth 
 Loud and fearfully. 
 
 Low and sweet' the throstle singeth, 
 Sad and deep the death-bell ringeth, 
 While to the grave the mother bringeth 
 Her dead mournfully. 
 
 High above the eagle soareth, 
 Far below the torrent roareth, 
 While a wailing voice deploreth 
 
 The loved one mourningly.
 
 WOED PICTURES. 
 
 The raven in his sleep complaineth, 
 The pale moon in the dark sky waneth, 
 Heavily the black cloud raineth 
 Black and heavily. 
 
 On the dark sea the captain steereth, 
 And the sunken rocks he feareth : 
 When the morning light appeareth 
 Eight glad is he. 
 
 O'er the wave the sea-mew screameth : 
 When the golden dawning beameth, 
 Then secure, the captain dreameth, 
 Homeward wandering. 
 
 On the hearth the old cat thrummeth, 
 Round the flower the black bee hummeth, 
 O'er the sea the swallow cometh 
 
 With returning Spring.
 
 DAISIES. 
 
 THE daisy smileth everywhere, 
 No matter if there's no one near, 
 It looks up quite as pleasantly, 
 As if a thousand did it see. 
 No vanity no courting praises, 
 Will you find amongst the daisies. 
 Look upon its honest face : 
 In its features you may trace 
 Open-eyed sincerity. 
 
 Let's go out in windy weather, 
 
 When millions of them move together,
 
 DAISIES. 
 
 Nodding heads, and changing places, 
 As if they were running races. 
 Straining on across the field, 
 Not one at all inclined to yield. 
 The wind blows off, we look again, 
 Each in its place doth still remain, 
 Though all moved so merrily. 
 
 Sometimes the daisies, hand in hand, 
 Go stretching over miles of land ; 
 Like children filling the highway, 
 When they break up for holiday. 
 Sometimes they play at hide-and-seek, 
 And with the breeze have many a freak, 
 While they hide their heads so small 
 Underneath the grasses tall, 
 
 Where bees murmur pleasantly. 
 
 Bill, that scarce can run, can easy 
 Crawl on his knees, and reach the daisy. 
 And poor limping Ned, the cripple, 
 Seeing them tries to hop and hippie ; 
 For they are flowers of old renown, 
 And grow up close beside the town. 
 Children they love to see and greet 'em, 
 So at the town-end come to meet 'em, 
 Far as they can for company. 
 
 At night they bend their silver heads, 
 And there the snow-white lambs find beds. 
 And when the morning gilds the skies, 
 Daisies and lambs together rise.
 
 DAISIES. 
 
 If they o'er-sleep themselves, the lark 
 Springs up, and cries aloud, " Hark, hark, 
 The gates of morning they 're unbarring, 
 Night's lamps are out, there's not a star in 
 All heaven's broad blue canopy." 
 
 Go see the daisy shut at night, 
 When it folds its frill of white ; 
 What cares it for wind or rain, 
 It is then a bud again ; 
 For it doth a green hood wear, 
 Which covers up its silvery hair ; 
 Drops its round head and goes to sleep, 
 Until the new-born day doth peep 
 In its velvet dormitory.
 
 DISTANT WORLDS. 
 
 ABOUT this earth, above the sky, 
 
 Worlds beyond worlds unnumbered lie ; 
 
 And each around its own bright sun 
 
 Year after year its course doth run, 
 
 True as the dial to the day, 
 
 Each moves in its allotted way. 
 
 Uranus hangs so far from earth, 
 
 That on the morn of Moses' birth 
 
 Had a race-horse from it started, 
 
 And through the cloud and sunshine darted, 
 
 And never halted in its flight, 
 
 But ever galloped day and night, 
 
 Without pausing, without sleeping, 
 
 Ever onward, downward sweeping,
 
 DISTANT WOBLDS. 
 
 Not half its journey would be done, 
 
 Not half the distance now be run, 
 
 Had it set out for this earth 
 
 On the morn of Moses' birth. 
 
 Oft glittering like the light of noon, 
 
 Are seen the mountains in the moon, 
 
 On whose tops the sunbeams glow, 
 
 While gloomy shadows sleep below ; 
 
 We see mount Tycho's towering height 
 
 Throw back the sun's reflected light ; 
 
 Through Rosse's telescope while gazing, 
 
 Some have seen vast volcanoes blazing, 
 
 And reddening wide the valleys deep, 
 
 Which round the moon's piled mountains sleep. 
 
 Comets that travel wide and far, 
 
 Perchance have passed by every star, 
 
 By every world beyond our sight 
 
 They move with half the speed of light ; 
 
 Yet oft some planet's mighty force 
 
 Will twist them from their onward course, 
 
 Or hurl them quick as lightning's pace 
 
 'Mid the immensity of space ; 
 
 The sun in Mercury doth appear 
 
 Six times larger than seen here, 
 
 And it shineth six times brighter, 
 
 And makes that planet six times lighter 
 
 Than this earth on which we dwell. 
 
 Such brilliancy no tongue can tell ; 
 
 The stars that hang in Syrian skies 
 
 Glitter like gems of richest dyes, 
 
 Blazing on high they there are seen, 
 
 In ruby, purple, gold, and green ; 
 
 Those bright and shooting stars we see 
 
 Are still to us a mystery :
 
 EVENING. 
 
 Rushing by each golden star, 
 Which on us shineth from afar, 
 Whence they come, or whither go, 
 Mortal man may never know. 
 Angels may all God's wonders tell, 
 When in eternity we dwell. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 IN WORDS OF Oi\E SYLLABLE. 
 
 THE day is past, the sun is set, 
 
 And the white stars are in the sky ; 
 
 While the long grass with dew is wet, 
 
 And through the air the bats now fly.
 
 EVENING. 
 
 The lambs have now lain down to sleep, 
 
 The birds have long since sought their nests ; 
 
 The air is still ; and dark, and deep 
 
 On the hill side the old wood rests. 
 
 Yet of the dark I have no fear, 
 
 But feel as safe as when 't is light ; 
 
 For I know God is with me there, 
 
 And he will guard me through the night. 
 
 For God is by me when I pray, 
 
 And when I close mine eyes in sleep, 
 
 I know that He will with me stay, 
 
 And will all night watch by me keep. 
 
 For He who rules the stars and sea, 
 
 Who makes the grass and trees to grow, 
 
 Will look on a poor child like me, 
 
 When on my knees I to Him bow. 
 
 He holds all things in His right hand, 
 
 The rich, the poor, the great, the small ; 
 
 When we sleep, or sit, or stand, 
 Is with us, for He loves us all.
 
 THE OLD CHAEWOMAN. 
 
 Do you hear that knock at the door 1 ? Hark! hark! 
 It is the poor old Charwoman come in the dark, 
 The little girl's mother I mentioned before, 
 Who in the court waits on the step of the door ; 
 You remember that court, and the high dead wall, 
 On which the bright sun never shineth at all. 
 Her mother has come here to scour and clean, 
 In an old faded brown bonnet she 's seen, 
 And her shawl's stained by the wind and the 
 
 weather, 
 That she wonders herself how it still holds 
 
 together. 
 Till the servant comes down on the door-step 
 
 she '11 stand, 
 
 With two odd old pattens held fast in her hand ; 
 While under her arm a coarse apron she brings, 
 Which she kneels on to scrub amid all sorts of 
 
 things :
 
 THE OLD CHARWOMAN. 
 
 In dark cupboards and closets where black-beetles 
 
 run, 
 
 And cellars which never are lit by the sun ; 
 Under the grates, and under the sinks, 
 She rubs and she scrubs, she winks and she blinks ; 
 And she shades her dim eyes when she reaches the 
 
 light, 
 
 And seems like a bat that can see best at night. 
 Each dark hole and corner she rummages out, 
 And the mice, no doubt, wonder what she 's about, 
 As they hear her hard brush go scrub, scrub, scrub, 
 And then her large floor-cloth go rub, rub, rub ; 
 While down all sorts of holes the black-beetles dash, 
 When in the cellar they hear her splash, splash. 
 As from the dark nooks she oftentimes brings, 
 Dead mice or dead crickets, and all sorts of things. 
 The old cat seems ever to be her friend, 
 And up stairs and down stairs doth on her attend ; 
 He sticks up his tail, and he goes purring round, 
 Rubbing her with his nose while she kneels on the 
 
 ground. 
 
 And when her work's done in the kitchen she's seen, 
 Telling Betty "how bad her rheumatics have been, 
 How this arm has pained her, how bad was that 
 
 knee," 
 
 All the while she's enjoying her "nice dish of tea." 
 But for the old charwoman coming to clean, 
 The house at times would not be fit to be seen ; 
 For if she did n't scour the closets and shelves, 
 We must lay by all pride and do them ourselves ; 
 The lady must kneel down and scrub her own floor, 
 And do her own charring if there were no poor. 
 That we help one another, bear ever in mind, 
 And that those serve us best to whom we are kind.
 
 INDUSTRY OF ANIMALS. 
 
 THE lute-voiced birds rise with the light, 
 Their nestling young to feed, 
 
 Pursue the insects in their flight, 
 Or pluck the feathery seed. 
 
 The golden-belted humming bee 
 Goes toiling hour by hour, 
 
 Over the moor and distant lea, 
 Wherever grows a flower. 
 
 With weary journeys up and down, 
 He home his honey brings, 
 
 From gardens in the distant town, 
 And while he labours sings. 
 
 The long-tailed field-mouse to the wood 
 Makes journeys many a score, 
 
 And in a granary piles his food, 
 And hoards his wintry store.
 
 INDTJSTBY OF ANIMALS. 
 
 Within the hollow of a tree 
 The nimble squirrel hides 
 
 His meat and nuts right cunning ly, 
 And for the cold provides. 
 
 His home the mole makes underground, 
 With runs and chambers crossed, 
 
 And galleries circling round and round, 
 In which you would be lost. 
 
 Although the swallow in her nest 
 Displays such art and skill, 
 
 She has no tools save her white breast, 
 And small sharp-pointed bill. 
 
 There's not an insect crawls or flies 
 But what has work to do, 
 
 And the same God their want supplies 
 Who watcheth over you. 
 
 No single thing did God create, 
 
 But he for it gave food, 
 And whether it be small or great, 
 
 " He saw that it was good."
 
 LINCOLN LANE. 
 
 THE MARRIAGE OF THE FROG AND THE MOUSE. 
 
 A VERY OLD NURSERY RHYME. 
 
 THERE was a frog lived in a well, 
 
 Fa la, Lincoln Lane. 
 And a merry mouse lived in a mill, 
 
 Faddy O, fa, Lincoln Lane. 
 
 This froggy would a wooing go, 
 
 Fa la, &c. 
 But could 'nt walk for the corn on his toe, 
 
 Faddy O, fa, &c. 
 
 So he mounted, and away did ride, 
 
 Fa la, &c. 
 With a sword and a pistol by his side. 
 
 Faddy O, fa, &c. 
 
 He rode till he came to Miss Mouse's hall, 
 
 Fa la, &c. 
 And then he did both knock and call. 
 
 Faddy O, fa, &c. 
 
 " Pray, Miss Mouse, are you within T 
 
 Fa la, &c. 
 " Oh, yes, kind sir, and going to spin." 
 
 Faddy O, fa, &c. 
 
 " Pray, Miss Mouse, will you marriage make 
 
 Fa la, &c. 
 With a young frog that 's tall and straight 1" 
 
 Faddy O, fa, &c.
 
 LINCOLN LANE. 
 
 " My uncle rat went out this morn, 
 
 Fa la, &c. 
 And I won't consent till his return." 
 
 Faddy O, fa, &c. 
 
 Her uncle rat he did come home, 
 
 Fa la, &c. 
 Saying, " Who's been here since I've been gone V' 
 
 Faddy O, fa, &c. 
 
 " There 's been a noble, tall, straight man, 
 
 Fa la, &c. 
 Who vows he 11 marry me if he can." 
 
 Faddy O, fa, &c. 
 
 " We '11 have the wedding in the mill." 
 
 Fa la, &c. 
 " Oh, yes, kind uncle, so we will." 
 
 Faddy O, fa, &c. 
 
 Now while they all at dinner sat, 
 
 Fa la, &c. 
 In came the kitten and the cat. 
 
 Faddy O, fa, &c. 
 
 The cat seized uncle rat by the crown, 
 
 Fa la, &c. 
 The kitten pulled the poor wife down. 
 
 Faddy O, fa, &c. 
 
 The frog he did run up the wall, 
 
 Fa la, &c. 
 And said, " Oh dear ! they '11 kill us all." 
 
 Faddy O, fa, &c.
 
 LINCOLN LANE. 
 
 The frog he did run up the brook, 
 
 Fa la, &c. 
 And there he met with a hungry duck. 
 
 Faddy O, fa, &c. 
 
 The duck, he swallowed him down his throat, 
 
 Fa la, &c. 
 Saying, " there 's an end of these fine folk." 
 
 Faddy O, fa la, Lincoln Lane. 
 
 I beg to inform you, my most respected little masters and 
 mistresses, that this merry song was a great favourite in the 
 nurseries of the midland counties of England, above a cen- 
 tury and a half ago ; and was known to many of your great- 
 great-grandmothers. Having never seen it in print, I humbly 
 beg to be allowed to place it at your very little feet ; also to 
 assure you that I have heard it chanted hundreds of times, 
 to the very soothing and drowsy air of " Fa la ! Lincoln 
 Lane."
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD, 
 
 A NEW VERSION OF THE OLD BALLAD. 
 
 THE pitying tears of childhood are 
 
 The happiest tears we shed, 
 And through them (trembling ere they fell), 
 
 The story I first read 
 Of the pretty babes, who in the wood, 
 
 " Went wandering up and down, 
 But never more they saw the man 
 
 Approaching from the town." 
 
 I knew the oaken chamber well 
 
 In which those parents lay, 
 And o'er the diamond window-panes 
 
 Saw the green ivy stray ;
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 Saw the dark shadows of the leaves, 
 
 That quivered on the floor, 
 And the sunlight from the lattice fall 
 
 Upon the wardrobe door. 
 
 That antique bed's rude tapestry 
 
 Oft rose before my eyes, 
 Its curtains were embroidered with 
 
 Meek Abel's sacrifice. 
 Though Cain was there with lowering brow, 
 
 He seemed not to remain ; 
 So oft that cruel uncle came, 
 
 And filled the place of Cain. 
 
 I knew that father's sorrowing face, 
 He wore a pointed beard, 

 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 And when he to his brother spoke, 
 These words I overheard : 
 
 " God knows what will become of them 
 When I am dead and gone !" 
 
 For as he spoke, his dying eyes 
 Those children fell upon. 
 
 Something the dying father felt, 
 
 But what I could not tell, 
 Though I noticed at the moment how 
 
 The uncle's shadow fell 
 Dark on the children as they knelt, 
 
 Dark on the counterpane, 
 Dark upon Abel's sacrifice ; 
 
 Darker on frowning Cain.
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 I watched that uncle's countenance, 
 
 He had two cruel eyes, 
 And a low and crafty forehead, full 
 
 Of treachery and lies ; 
 And when he on those children looked, 
 
 Their little hearts would quake, 
 And fluster, like a frightened bird's 
 
 Before a glittering snake. 
 
 I saw the mother's cold wan face, 
 
 The damp curls on her cheek, 
 Her thin and white uplifted hands, 
 
 And faintly did she speak, 
 Then with her lips " as cold as stone" 
 
 She kissed her children small, 
 Then turned her streaming eyes away 
 
 Towards the silent wall. 
 
 And when the uncle answer made, 
 
 His glance fell on the floor, 
 And his voice faltered when he wished 
 
 He ne'er might prosper more, 
 If he unto those children dear 
 
 His pledge did not fulfil : 
 And then I knew that they were dead. 
 
 The chamber was so still. 
 
 I knew that they had often prayed 
 In the same hour to die, 
 
 And that within the self-same grave 
 Together they might lie.
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 And to those full-blown roses, Death 
 Came like a gentle wind, 
 
 And scattered all their leaves at once, 
 But left the buds behind. 
 
 I often saw the old churchyard 
 
 In which those parents sleep ; 
 The chequering shadows of the elm 
 
 Across their green graves sweep ; 
 The grey sun-dial near the porch, 
 
 Lettered with rustic rhyme ; 
 The glass, and scythe, and outstretched wings, 
 
 Emblems of fleeting time. 
 
 I knew those childish features well ; 
 
 He had his father's face, 
 But in his mild and gentle eyes, 
 
 I could the mother trace ;
 
 IHE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 Jane like a little angel looked 
 Who here had come astray, 
 
 And fain to Heaven would wander back, 
 But could not ask her way. 
 
 Weeping I saw them led from home, 
 
 And when the uncle tried 
 To soothe them with his hollow words, 
 
 More bitterly they cried ; 
 He fawned on them when strangers came, 
 
 " And much of them he made," 
 But all the kindness was deceit, 
 
 Which he to them displayed. 
 
 -hs 
 
 Within the large old orchard, where 
 The children used to play, 
 
 I saw them cease their gambols, if 
 The Uncle came that way,
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 Look pale and speak in whispers, then 
 Each other's hand would seize, 
 
 And hide themselves, till he was gone, 
 Among the apple-trees. 
 
 Somehow they felt they loved him not, 
 
 Although they knew not why, 
 But there was something in his voice, 
 
 And in his snake-like eye, 
 Which seemed to fill their little hearts 
 
 With such instinctive dread 
 As makes the stock-dove tremble, when 
 
 The hawk is overhead. 
 
 I know when he had planned the deed 
 
 What dark misgivings came, 
 Remembrance of that death-bed scene 
 
 Which shook his very frame. 
 And that when oft he did desire 
 
 To take their lives away, 
 His conscience wandered to the bed 
 
 In which their parents lay. 
 
 That the wealth which they inherited 
 
 Was ever in his head, 
 That he thought about it waking, 
 
 And dreamed of it in bed ; 
 And would have done the deed himself, 
 
 Nor trusted to another, 
 Had he not in their faces seen 
 
 The likeness of his brother.
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 I knew the dark deep pond, and saw 
 
 Him often walk around, 
 Knew that he would have drowned them there, 
 
 But feared they might be found 
 
 Feared that the whole wide neighbourhood 
 Would be searched far and near, 
 
 For all who knew them (save himself) 
 Did love those children dear. 
 
 When but a child, I often saw 
 
 Two ruffians by my bed, 
 And to evade their looks I drew 
 
 The clothes above my head : 
 One had a face in which at times 
 
 Something like mercy gleamed, 
 The other had a shaggy brow, 
 
 With guilty furrows seamed.
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 'Twas in that very orchard where 
 
 The children used to play, 
 He " bargained" with those " ruffians rude" 
 
 To take their lives away ; 
 And while he counted out the gold, 
 
 He shook with guilty fear, 
 For in the rustling leaves he seemed 
 
 His brother's voice to hear. 
 
 The horses I oft pictured, as 
 
 They stood before the door ; 
 The very costume, and the arms 
 
 Those hired ruffians wore ; 
 Heard the last kiss which, Judas-like, 
 
 He to those children gave, 
 While in his heart that uncle wished 
 
 They were within the grave.
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 And in my dreams I saw their nurse, 
 
 And bitterly she cried, 
 That all the way from Norfolk up 
 
 To London they must ride ; 
 And when they had some distance gone, 
 
 I seemed to hear her call, 
 And bid the horseman take great care 
 
 Her darlings did not fall. 
 
 I heard that fair boy's merry voice, 
 
 Urging the horse to go, 
 And though his heels scarce reached its sides, 
 
 Saw them move to and fro ; 
 And when his dear hands touched the reins, 
 
 He turned his head aside, 
 As if to bid the ruffian look 
 
 How ably he could ride.
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 Before the other horseman sat 
 
 That pretty angel, Jane, 
 Weeping as if her little heart 
 
 Would break with inward pain ; 
 It might be parting from her nurse, 
 
 Or thinking of her mother, 
 But most she cried to ride upon 
 
 The horse which bore her brother. 
 
 Weeping I saw her ride along, 
 
 And still remember well, 
 How, on the ruffian's bridle-hand, 
 
 Two of her bright tears fell ; 
 And how he, with a sudden jerk 
 
 Which turned his horse's head, 
 Shook off the tears, as if they were 
 
 Big drops of scalding lead.
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 For out upon a lonesome road, 
 
 That crossed a moorland wide, 
 I saw the horses move abreast, 
 
 The horsemen side by side ; 
 Those children then so " pleasantly" 
 
 Did " prattle" on the way, 
 The ruffians at each other looked, 
 
 But nothing did they say. 
 
 And he who was of " mildest mood," 
 
 Although he spoke no word, 
 Showed by his very looks how much 
 
 The deed his soul abhorred. 
 Some motion of the elbow made 
 
 The other chink his gold, 
 And then he knit his brow again, 
 
 And on the children scowl'd. 
 
 They prattled on, and the boy said 
 
 That " God was everywhere ;" 
 Jane pointed to a silver cloud, 
 
 And asked if God was there ; 
 He said their parents were in heaven, 
 
 And then they looked on high, 
 And turned their pretty faces to 
 
 The blue autumnal sky. 
 
 The ruffians in their saddles writhed, 
 And one his forehead smote, 
 
 And wished the gold he had was then 
 Forced down their uncle's throat ;
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 Said he, " I cannot do this deed, 
 They could but kneel and cry ; 
 
 In battle, where 't is man to man, 
 You conquer or you die." 
 
 The other said, " I hate the work 
 
 Which soldiers glory call ; 
 Where, for a whole day's murdering, 
 
 The wages are so small. 
 Give me a job like this, in which 
 
 No danger 's to be found, 
 No backward-stroke one blow, and then 
 
 A hole within the ground." 
 
 " That shall not be while I look on," 
 
 Said he of mildest mood, 
 Just as the horses entered on 
 
 An " unfrequented wood," 
 " The sword I've for my country drawn 
 
 Is still a soldier's blade ; 
 Your's looks as if it were, alone, 
 
 For little children made." 
 
 " I but call him chicken-hearted," 
 
 The sterner man replied, 
 " Who shirks the work for which he's paid, 
 
 Whatever may betide. 
 As for the metal of my sword, 
 
 That you can soon essay, 
 In the first open spot we reach 
 
 Along this wooded way."
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 On, through that wood of ancient growth 
 
 They went, past aged trees, 
 Such as had stood and seen the fall 
 
 Of mighty monarchies ; 
 Had echoed back the wolfs long howl 
 
 E're Norman kings rode there 
 With whoop and haloo, horn and hound, 
 
 To chase the fallow deer. 
 
 The paths by which those hunters old, 
 
 In early days had gone, 
 Thick barriers of underwood 
 
 Had long since closed upon. 
 And, where the open spaces stretched, 
 
 Through which the eye could sweep, 
 Bramble and bush, and gorse, and fern, 
 
 Full saddle-girth lay deep.
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 Here black and bowery hollows went 
 
 From gloom to darker gloom ; 
 Like chambers in the pyramids, 
 
 Each but a deeper tomb. 
 And there the aged holly grew, 
 
 And clustering yew trees frowned, 
 While centuries of ivy hemmed 
 
 The hoary trunks around. 
 
 And there an awful silence slept, 
 
 So still, and so unbroken, 
 It sent the blood back to the heart, 
 
 If but a word was spoken. 
 They rode along, and reached a glade 
 
 Beside the forest-mere, 
 When one said briefly, " Let's dismount, 
 
 We will decide it here." 
 
 The water of the mere was blue 
 
 As the clear autumn sky, 
 And in its chrystal depths I saw 
 
 Surrounding shadows lie. 
 The berries of the mountain ash 
 
 Upon the surface hung, 
 Like crimson curtains carelessly 
 
 Around a mirror flung. 
 
 I could not bear to see them fight, 
 So turned my head aside, 
 
 To where, amid the withering fern, 
 Those children sat and cried.
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 I heard the clashing of their swords, 
 And then a deep, deep groan, 
 
 And then a plash within the mere, 
 As of a heavy stone. 
 
 And then I heard those children raise 
 
 A wild and fearful scream : 
 And when I looked around again, 
 
 It all seemed like a dream. 
 But where the crimson berries lay 
 
 Reflected hi the mere, 
 I saw upon the water's edge 
 
 A trail of blood appear. 
 
 I saw the spot on which they fought, 
 'Mid tall white grass unmown,
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 The heather, and the fox-glove tall, 
 Which they had trampled down ; 
 
 The footmarks slippery with gore 
 Beside the heath-flower bell, 
 
 When, with the sword-point through his heart, 
 Into the mere he fell. 
 
 And then the slayer wiped his sword 
 
 Upon his horse's mane, 
 Then from the mossy bough unbound 
 
 Once more his bridle rein, 
 And, throwing it across his arm, 
 
 Walked on in sullen mood, 
 Leading those children by the hand 
 
 Deeper into the wood.
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 I heard him bid them " not to cry," 
 
 And bitterly he spoke, 
 And when they asked him for some bread, 
 
 He pointed to an oak ; 
 And on the banks its boughs o'erhung, 
 
 He bade them to remain, 
 And sternly said, " I'll bring you bread 
 
 When I do come again." 
 
 And then he rode away, as though 
 
 He would outstrip the wind, 
 As if remembrance of that deed 
 
 He would leave far behind. 
 And once he checked his foam-neched steed, 
 
 And pressed his guilty brain, 
 And I had hopes that he would fetch 
 
 Those children back again.
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 At last their tears like April showers, 
 
 Were dried, and blown away, 
 And, though he sighed, I saw the boy 
 
 With his sweet sister play. 
 He pulled for her ripe blackberries, 
 
 And hummed a childish song ; 
 And when she wept again, he said, 
 
 " Don't cry, he'll not be long." 
 
 He made for her a little feast 
 
 In the acorn cups he found, 
 And then he placed a large dock-leaf 
 
 For table, on the ground. 
 This berry he a custard called, 
 
 And that a dainty pie, 
 And " their pretty lips with blackberries, 
 
 They did besmear and dye."
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 And when the shadows of the trees 
 
 Longer and darker grew, 
 And to the thickets of the woods 
 
 The black rooks homeward flew, 
 While slow the sun behind the oaks 
 
 Sunk ominous and red, 
 Speechless, within their little hearts, 
 
 Lay Hope, for ever dead. 
 
 Onward, through the deep underwood 
 
 They wandered hand in hand, 
 Then, by the bole of some huge oak, 
 
 I saw them listening stand. 
 They wandered through the dewy grass, 
 
 And through the bracken brown, 
 " But never more they saw the man 
 
 Approaching from the town." 
 
 Then, o'er that gloomy land of trees 
 
 The lingering daylight died, 
 " And when they saw the darksome night, 
 
 They sat them down and cried." 
 I saw the twilight o'er them close, 
 
 I heard the red fox bark ; 
 Then faint and fainter came their sobs 
 
 Low-sounding through the dark. 
 
 Poor children ! many since, like them 
 
 In life's entangling wood, 
 Have waited sad and patiently, 
 
 With aching hearts, for food.
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 Have wandered hopeless, hand in hand, 
 
 Along life's forest wide, 
 Until Despair's deep night came on, 
 
 Then laid them down, and died. 
 
 I heard the deep-voiced night-wind rise, 
 
 And bitterly it blew, 
 The leaves along the forest paths 
 
 Like routed armies flew. 
 And with it came a killing frost, 
 
 Such as, in autumn time, 
 Hangs the black bean-sheaves in the fields 
 
 With flakes of hoary rime. 
 
 All night I heard the wild wind blow, 
 
 And as it rose and fell, 
 It seemed to peal upon mine ear 
 
 Like a deep funeral bell. 
 And from the gloomy glens and dells 
 
 The darkness circled round, 
 The gusty eddies ever brought 
 
 A sad, low wailing sound. 
 
 And sometimes o'er the tall tree tops, 
 
 Seen by the starlight dim, 
 Low voices ever came and went, 
 
 Chaunting a heavenly hymn. 
 Then bending o'er those children small, 
 
 I in my dream descried 
 Two forms which bore the semblance of 
 
 Their parents that had died.
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 I wept myself to sleep, nor woke 
 
 Until the dawn of day, 
 Then, dead within each other's arms, 
 
 I saw those children lay. 
 Cold, wan, and marble-like they looked, 
 
 Their hands and faces bare, 
 While the frost like a silver braid, 
 
 Hung on their silky hair. 
 
 They like two little angels looked, 
 
 Who had lain down to rest, 
 She, as if shrinking from the cold, 
 
 Reclined upon his breast ; 
 While one arm, like the woodbine sweet, 
 
 That does the rose bedeck, 
 Lay motionless where it had twined 
 
 So fondly round his neck.
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 Half buried in the heather-bloom 
 
 His placid face was laid, 
 While, o'er the whiteness of his brow, 
 
 The brown fern threw a shade. 
 A milk white doe with gentle eyes, 
 
 Peeped through the underwood, 
 And, till a band of Robins came, 
 
 Mute as a mourner stood. ' 
 
 Those birds went hopping round and round, 
 
 And sometimes one drew near, 
 And, pausing with its head aside, 
 
 Looked on those children dear ; 
 Then one began a low, sweet song, 
 
 Another soon replied, 
 As if they asked each other how 
 
 Those pretty children died.
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 And one which had a ruby breast, 
 
 That would the rose outshame, 
 Bearing a leaf within his beak, 
 
 Close to the children came ; 
 And, looking down so pitiful, 
 
 Did for a moment stand, 
 Then gently he the leaf let fall 
 
 On little Jane's cold hand. 
 
 Upon the ground he hopped again, 
 
 And 'quickly brought another, 
 And that as gently dropped upon 
 
 The cold cheek of her brother. 
 Then on the fern he perched himself, 
 
 And warbled low his grief, 
 And while he sang the Robins came, 
 
 And each one bore a leaf,
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 And dropped it on those children dead, 
 
 Then back again they flew, 
 And every time they went and came, 
 
 The pile of leaves up-grew ; 
 I scarcely could the red leaves tell 
 
 From the Red-robins' breasts, 
 So quickly they flew to and fro, 
 
 Nor halted once to rest. 
 
 And on and o'er those children dear, 
 
 As lightsomely they stept, 
 As when they settled on the nest 
 
 In which their young ones slept. 
 They left on neither face or hand 
 
 The imprint of their feet, 
 But "painfully" did cover them, 
 
 And well their work complete.
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 They all the richest treasures brought 
 
 From autumn's gorgeous hall, 
 And wove them with their little beaks 
 
 Into a funeral pall. 
 Leaves of all hues, red, green, and gold, 
 
 Ruins of Summer-bowers, 
 A thousand times more beautiful 
 
 Than all her rarest flowers. 
 
 And when their solemn work was done, 
 
 Loudly the old wood rang. 
 As, perched on the surrounding boughs, 
 
 They all like angels sang. 
 And then I paused and shut the book, 
 
 And soft the page did fold, 
 Fearful the rustling leaves might break 
 
 That superstition old. 
 
 And sometimes I a vision saw 
 
 Of one who beat his breast, 
 And shook his head, and wrung his hands, 
 
 And sought in vain for rest ; 
 Who never seemed to be alone, 
 
 When up, nor when in bed ; 
 For faces round him crowding came, 
 
 Faces, as of the dead. 
 
 And childish voices through his ears 
 Seemed ever sounding shrill ; 
 
 But mostly in the silent night, 
 When all beside was still.
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 Then pattering, as of little feet 
 Came sounding on the stair, 
 
 And as he listened, all an end 
 Stood up his grisly hair. 
 
 That was the uncle, on whom fell 
 
 The heavy wrath of God ; 
 Whom Justice, with unerring aim, 
 
 Smote with an iron rod ; 
 Whose haggard cheek and furrowed brow 
 
 (As all who looked could see) 
 Were graven o'er with hopeless guilt, 
 
 And " extreme misery." 
 
 A murrain on his cattle seized, 
 
 They died in fold and field, 
 And all his " lands were barren made," 
 
 No produce would they yield. 
 The lightning fired his house and barns 
 
 One sultry summer night, 
 And, as they blazed, for miles around 
 
 They threw an angry light. 
 
 " And on the voyage to Portugal," 
 
 (While he in prison lay) 
 He heard how both his sons had died 
 
 Upon the self-same day 
 And how the ruffian who survived, 
 
 (Beneath the gallows tree) 
 Before he died, confession made 
 
 Of all his villany.
 
 THE BABES IN IHE WOOD. 
 
 " And " (thus) " the heavy wrath of God, 
 
 Upon their uncle fell," 
 While in his heart and in his brain 
 
 He ever "felt a hell." 
 
 And on the night when he was found 
 
 Dead on the prison floor, 
 Such dreadful shrieks and sounds were heard, 
 
 As ne'er were heard before.
 
 UGSB LIBKAKY
 
 
 
 A 000 605 225 2