In thy channel, in thy channel,
Choak'd with ooze and grav'lly stones,
Deep immersed and unhearsed,
Lies young Edward's corse: his bones
Ever whitening, ever whitening,
As thy waves against them dash;
What thy torrent, in the current,
Swallow'd, now it helps to wash.
As if senseless, as if senseless
Things had feeling in this case;
What so blindly, and unkindly,
It destroy'd, it now does grace.
THE FIRST OF APRIL
"Tell me what is the reason you hang down your head;
From your blushes I plainly discern,
You have done something wrong. Ere you go up to bed,
I desire that the truth I may learn."
"O mamma, I have long'd to confess all the day
What an ill-natured thing I have done;
I persuaded myself it was only in play,
But such play I in future will shun.
"The least of the ladies that live at the school,
Her whose eyes are so pretty and blue,
Ah! would you believe it? an April fool
I have made her, and call'd her so too.
"Yet the words almost choak'd me; and, as I spoke low,
I have hopes that she might them not hear.
I had wrapt up some rubbish in paper, and so,
The instant the school-girls drew near,
"I presented it with a fine bow to the child,
And much her acceptance I press'd;
When she took it, and thank'd me, and gratefully smil'd,
I never felt half so distress'd.
"No doubt she concluded some sweetmeats were there,
For the paper was white and quite clean,
And folded up neatly, as if with great care.
O what a rude boy I have been!
"Ever since I've been thinking how vex'd she will be,
Ever since I've done nothing but grieve.
If a thousand young ladies a walking I see,
I will never another deceive."
CLEANLINESS
Come my little Robert near—
Fie! what filthy hands are here—
Who that e'er could understand
The rare structure of a hand,
With its branching fingers fine,
Work itself of hands divine,
Strong, yet delicately knit,
For ten thousand uses fit,
Overlaid with so clear skin
You may see the blood within,
And the curious palm, disposed
In such lines, some have supposed
You may read the fortunes there
By the figures that appear—
Who this hand would chuse to cover
With a crust of dirt all over,
Till it look'd in hue and shape
Like the fore-foot of an Ape?
Man or boy that works or plays
In the fields or the highways
May, without offence or hurt,
From the soil contract a dirt,
Which the next clear spring or river
Washes out and out for ever—
But to cherish stains impure,
Soil deliberate to endure,
On the skin to fix a stain
Till it works into the grain,
Argues a degenerate mind,
Sordid, slothful, ill inclin'd,
Wanting in that self-respect
Which does virtue best protect.
All-endearing Cleanliness,
Virtue next to Godliness,
Easiest, cheapest, needful'st duty,
To the body health and beauty,
Who that's human would refuse it,
When a little water does it?
THE LAME BROTHER
My parents sleep both in one grave;
My only friend's a brother.
The dearest things upon the earth
We are to one another.
A fine stout boy I knew him once,
With active form and limb;
Whene'er he leap'd, or jump'd, or ran,
O I was proud of him!
He leap'd too far, he got a hurt,
He now does limping go.—
When I think on his active days,
My heart is full of woe.
He leans on me, when we to school
Do every morning walk;
I cheer him on his weary way,
He loves to hear my talk:
The theme of which is mostly this,
What things he once could do.
He listens pleas'd—then sadly says,
"Sister, I lean on you."
Then I reply, "Indeed you're not
Scarce any weight at all.—
And let us now still younger years
To memory recall.
"Led by your little elder hand,
I learn'd to walk alone;
Careful you us'd to be of me,
My little brother John.
"How often, when my young feet tir'd,
You've carried me a mile!—
And still together we can sit,
And rest a little while.
"For our kind master never minds,
If we're the very last;
He bids us never tire ourselves
With walking on too fast."
GOING INTO BREECHES
Joy to Philip, he this day
Has his long coats cast away,
And (the childish season gone)
Puts the manly breeches on.
Officer on gay parade,
Red-coat in his first cockade,
Bridegroom in his wedding trim,
Birthday beau surpassing him,
Never did with conscious gait
Strut about in half the state,
Or the pride (yet free from sin)
Of my little MANIKIN:
Never was there pride, or bliss,
Half so rational as his.
Sashes, frocks, to those that need 'em—
Philip's limbs have got their freedom—
He can run, or he can ride,
And do twenty things beside,
Which his petticoats forbad:
Is he not a happy lad?
Now he's under other banners,
He must leave his former manners;
Bid adieu to female games,
And forget their very names,
Puss in Corners, Hide and Seek,
Sports for girls and punies weak!
Baste the Bear he now may play at,
Leap-frog, Foot-ball, sport away at,
Show his skill and strength at Cricket,
Mark his distance, pitch his wicket,
Run about in winter's snow
Till his cheeks and fingers glow,
Climb a tree, or scale a wall,
Without any fear to fall.
If he get a hurt or bruise,
To complain he must refuse,
Though the anguish and the smart
Go unto his little heart,
He must have his courage ready,
Keep his voice and visage steady,
Brace his eye-balls stiff as drum,
That a tear may never come,
And his grief must only speak
From the colour in his cheek.
This and more he must endure,
Hero he in miniature!
This and more must now be done
Now the breeches are put on.
NURSING
O hush, my little baby brother;
Sleep, my love, upon my knee.
What though, dear child, we've lost our mother;
That can never trouble thee.
You are but ten weeks old to-morrow;
What can you know of our loss?
The house is full enough of sorrow.
Little baby, don't be cross.
Peace, cry not so, my dearest love;
Hush, my baby-bird, lie still.—
He's quiet now, he does not move,
Fast asleep is little Will.
My only solace, only joy,
Since the sad day I lost my mother,
Is nursing her own Willy boy,
My little orphan brother.
THE TEXT
One Sunday eve a grave old man,
Who had not been at church, did say,
"Eliza, tell me, if you can,
What text our Doctor took to-day?"
She hung her head, she blush'd for shame,
One single word she did not know,
Nor verse nor chapter she could name,
Her silent blushes told him so.
Again said he, "My little maid,
What in the sermon did you hear;
Come tell me that, for that may aid
Me to find out the text, my dear."
A tear stole down each blushing cheek,
She wish'd she better had attended;
She sobbing said, when she could speak,
She heard not till 'twas almost ended.
"Ah! little heedless one, why what
Could you be thinking on? 'tis clear
Some foolish fancies must have got
Possession of your head, my dear.
"What thoughts were they, Eliza, tell,
Nor seek from me the truth to smother."—
"O I remember very well,
I whisper'd something to my brother.
"I said, 'Be friends with me, dear Will;'
We quarrell'd, Sir, at the church door,—
Though he cried, 'Hush, don't speak, be still,'
Yet I repeated these words o'er
"Sev'n or eight times, I have no doubt.
But here comes William, and if he
The good things he has heard about
Forgets too, Sir, the fault's in me."
"No, Sir," said William, "though perplext
And much disturbed by my sister,
I in this matter of the text,
I thank my memory, can assist her.
"I have, and pride myself on having,
A more retentive head than she."—
Then gracefully his right hand waving,
He with no little vanity
Recited gospel, chapter, verse—
I should be loth to spoil in metre
All the good words he did rehearse,
As spoken by our Lord to Peter.
But surely never words from heaven
Of peace and love more full descended;
That we should seventy times seven
Forgive our brother that offended.
In every point of view he plac'd it,
As he the Doctor's self had been,
With emphasis and action grac'd it:
But from his self-conceit 'twas seen
Who had brought home the words, and who had
A little on the meaning thought;
Eliza now the old man knew had
Learn'd that which William never caught.
Without impeaching William's merit,
His head but served him for the letter,
Hers miss'd the words, but kept the spirit;
Her memory to her heart was debtor.
THE END OF MAY
"Our Governess is not in school,
So we may talk a bit;
Sit down upon this little stool,
Come, little Mary, sit:
"And, my dear play-mate, tell me why
In dismal black you're drest?
Why does the tear stand in your eye?
With sobs why heaves your breast?
"When we're in grief, it gives relief
Our sorrows to impart;
When you've told why, my dear, you cry,
'Twill ease your little heart."
"O, it is trouble very bad
Which causes me to weep;
All last night long we were so sad,
Not one of us could sleep.
"Beyond the seas my father went,
'Twas very long ago;
And he last week a letter sent
(I told you so, you know)
"That he was safe in Portsmouth bay,
And we should see him soon,
Either the latter end of May,
Or by the first of June.
"The end of May was yesterday,
We all expected him;
And in our best clothes we were drest,
Susan, and I, and Jim.
"O how my poor dear mother smil'd,
And clapt her hands for joy;
She said to me, 'Come here, my child,
And Susan, and my boy.
"'Come all, and let us think,' said she,
'What we can do to please
Your father, for to-day will he
Come home from off the seas.
"'That you have won, my dear young son,
A prize at school, we'll tell,
Because you can, my little man,
In writing all excel;
"'And you have made a poem, nearly
All of your own invention:
Will not your father love you dearly,
When this to him I mention?
"'Your sister Mary, she can say
Your poetry by heart;
And to repeat your verses may
Be little Mary's part,
"'Susan, for you, I'll say you do
Your needlework with care,
And stitch so true the wristbands new,
Dear father's soon to wear!'
"'O hark!' said James; 'I hear one speak;
'Tis like a seaman's voice.'—
Our mother gave a joyful shriek;
How did we all rejoice!
"'My husband's come!' 'My father's here!
But O, alas, it was not so;
It was not as we said:
A stranger seaman did appear,
On his rough cheek there stood a tear,
For he brought to us a tale of woe,
Our father dear was dead."
FEIGNED COURAGE
Horatio, of ideal courage vain,
Was flourishing in air his father's cane,
And, as the fumes of valour swell'd his pate,
Now thought himself this Hero, and now that:
"And now," he cried, "I will Achilles be;
My sword I brandish; see, the Trojans flee.
Now I'll be Hector, when his angry blade
A lane through heaps of slaughter'd Grecians made!
And now by deeds still braver I'll evince,
I am no less than Edward the Black Prince.—
Give way, ye coward French:—" as thus he spoke,
And aim'd in fancy a sufficient stroke
To fix the fate of Cressy or Poictiers;
(The Muse relates the Hero's fate with tears)
He struck his milk-white hand against a nail,
Sees his own blood, and feels his courage fail.
Ah! where is now that boasted valour flown,
That in the tented field so late was shown!
Achilles weeps, Great Hector hangs the head,
And the Black Prince goes whimpering to bed.
THE BROKEN DOLL
An infant is a selfish sprite;
But what of that? the sweet delight
Which from participation springs,
Is quite unknown to these young things.
We elder children then will smile
At our dear little John awhile,
And bear with him, until he see
There is a sweet felicity
In pleasing more than only one
Dear little craving selfish John.
He laughs, and thinks it a fine joke,
That he our new wax doll has broke.
Anger will never teach him better;
We will the spirit and the letter
Of courtesy to him display,
By taking in a friendly way
These baby frolics, till he learn
True sport from mischief to discern.
Reproof a parent's province is;
A sister's discipline is this,
By studied kindness to effect
A little brother's young respect.
What is a doll? a fragile toy.
What is its loss? if the dear boy,
Who half perceives he's done amiss,
Retain impression of the kiss
That follow'd instant on his cheek;
If the kind loving words we speak
Of "Never mind it," "We forgive,"
If these in his short memory live
Only perchance for half a day—
Who minds a doll—if that should lay
The first impression in his mind
That sisters are to brothers kind?
For thus the broken doll may prove
Foundation to fraternal love.
THE DUTY OF A BROTHER
Why on your sister do you look,
Octavius, with an eye of scorn,
As scarce her presence you could brook?—
Under one roof you both were born.
Why, when she gently proffers speech,
Do you ungently turn your head?
Since the same sire gave life to each;
With the same milk ye both were fed.
Such treatment to a female, though
A perfect stranger she might be,
From you would most unmanly show;
In you to her 'tis worse to see.
When any ill-bred boys offend her,
Showing their manhood by their sneers,
It is your business to defend her
'Gainst their united taunts and jeers.
And not to join the illiberal crew
In their contempt of female merit;
What's bad enough in them, from you
Is want of goodness, want of spirit.
What if your rougher out-door sports
Her less robustious spirits daunt;
And if she join not the resorts,
Where you and your wild playmates haunt:
Her milder province is at home;
When your diversions have an end,
When over-toil'd from play you come,
You'll find in her an in-doors friend.
Leave not your sister to another;
As long as both of you reside
In the same house, who but her brother
Should point her books, her studies guide?
If Nature, who allots our cup,
Than her has made you stronger, wiser;
It is that you, as you grow up,
Should be her champion, her adviser.
It is the law that Hand intends,
Which fram'd diversity of sex;
The man the woman still defends,
The manly boy the girl protects.
WASPS IN A GARDEN
The wall-trees are laden with fruit;
The grape, and the plum, and the pear,
The peach, and the nect'rine, to suit
Ev'ry taste in abundance, are there.
Yet all are not welcome to taste
These kind bounties of nature; for one
From her open-spread table must haste,
To make room for a more favour'd son:
As that wasp will soon sadly perceive,
Who has feasted awhile on a plum;
And, his thirst thinking now to relieve,
For a sweet liquid draught he is come.
He peeps in the narrow-mouth'd glass,
Which depends from a branch of the tree;
He ventures to creep down,—alas!
To be drown'd in that delicate sea.
"Ah say," my dear friend, "is it right,
These glass bottles are hung upon trees:
'Midst a scene of inviting delight,
Should we find such mementoes as these?"
"From such sights," said my friend, "we may draw
A lesson, for look at that bee;
Compar'd with the wasp which you saw,
He will teach us what we ought to be.
"He in safety industriously plies
His sweet honest work all the day,
Then home with his earnings he flies;
Nor in thieving his time wastes away."—
"O hush, nor with fables deceive,"
I replied; "which, though pretty, can ne'er
Make me cease for that insect to grieve,
Who in agony still does appear.
"If a simile ever you need,
You are welcome to make a wasp do;
But you ne'er should mix fiction indeed
With things that are serious and true."
WHAT IS FANCY?
SISTER
I am to write three lines, and you
Three others that will rhyme.
There—now I've done my task.
BROTHER
Three stupid lines as e'er I knew.
When you've the pen next time,
Some Question of me ask.
SISTER
Then tell me, brother, and pray mind,
Brother, you tell me true:
What sort of thing is fancy?
BROTHER
By all that I can ever find,
'Tis something that is very new,
And what no dunces can see.
SISTER
That is not half the way to tell
What fancy is about;
So pray now tell me more.
BROTHER
Sister, I think 'twere quite as well
That you should find it out;
So think the matter o'er.
SISTER
It's what comes in our heads when we
Play at "Let's make believe,"
And when we play at "Guessing."
BROTHER
And I have heard it said to be
A talent often makes us grieve,
And sometimes proves a blessing.
ANGER
Anger in its time and place
May assume a kind of grace.
It must have some reason in it,
And not last beyond a minute.
If to further lengths it go,
It does into malice grow.
'Tis the difference that we see
'Twixt the Serpent and the Bee.
If the latter you provoke,
It inflicts a hasty stroke,
Puts you to some little pain,
But it never stings again.
Close in tufted bush or brake
Lurks the poison-swelled snake,
Nursing up his cherish'd wrath.
In the purlieus of his path,
In the cold, or in the warm,
Mean him good, or mean him harm,
Whensoever fate may bring you,
The vile snake will always sting you.
BLINDNESS
In a stage-coach, where late I chanc'd to be,
A little quiet girl my notice caught;
I saw she look'd at nothing by the way,
Her mind seem'd busy on some childish thought.
I with an old man's courtesy address'd
The child, and call'd her pretty dark-eyed maid
And bid her turn those pretty eyes and see
The wide extended prospect. "Sir," she said,
"I cannot see the prospect, I am blind."
Never did tongue of child utter a sound
So mournful, as her words fell on my ear.
Her mother then related how she found
Her child was sightless. On a fine bright day
She saw her lay her needlework aside,
And, as on such occasions mothers will,
For leaving off her work began to chide.
"I'll do it when 'tis day-light, if you please;
I cannot work, Mamma, now it is night."
The sun shone bright upon her when she spoke,
And yet her eyes receiv'd no ray of light.
THE MIMIC HARLEQUIN
"I'll make believe, and fancy something strange:
I will suppose I have the power to change
And make all things unlike to what they were,
To jump through windows and fly through the air,
And quite confound all places and all times,
Like Harlequins we see in Pantomimes.
These thread-papers my wooden sword must be,
Nothing more like one I at present see.
And now all round this drawing-room I'll range
And every thing I look at I will change.
Here's Mopsa, our old cat, shall be a bird;
To a Poll Parrot she is now transferr'd.
Here's Mamma's work-bag, now I will engage
To whisk this little bag into a cage;
And now, my pretty Parrot, get you in it,
Another change I'll shew you in a minute."
"O fie, you naughty child, what have you done?
There never was so mischievous a son.
You've put the cat among my work, and torn
A fine lac'd cap that I but once have worn."
WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF A CHILD'S MEMORANDUM-BOOK
My neat and pretty book, when I thy small lines see,
They seem for any use to be unfit for me.
My writing, all misshaped, uneven as my mind,
Within this narrow space can hardly be confin'd.
Yet I will strive to make my hand less aukward look;
I would not willingly disgrace thee, my neat book!
The finest pens I'll use, and wond'rous pains I'll take,
And I these perfect lines my monitors will make.
And every day I will set down in order due,
How that day wasted is; and should there be a few
At the year's end that shew more goodly to the sight,
If haply here I find some days not wasted quite,
If a small portion of them I have pass'd aright,
Then shall I think the year not wholly was misspent,
And that my Diary has been by some good Angel sent.
MEMORY
"For gold could Memory be bought,
What treasures would she not be worth!
If from afar she could be brought,
I'd travel for her through the earth!"
This exclamation once was made
By one who had obtain'd the name
Of young forgetful Adelaide:
And while she spoke, lo! Memory came.
If Memory indeed it were,
Or such it only feign'd to be—
A female figure came to her,
Who said, "My name is Memory:
"Gold purchases in me no share,
Nor do I dwell in distant land;
Study, and thought, and watchful care,
In every place may me command.
"I am not lightly to be won;
A visit only now I make:
And much must by yourself be done,
Ere me you for an inmate take.
"The only substitute for me
Was ever found, is call'd a pen:
The frequent use of that will be
The way to make me come again."
THE REPROOF
Mamma heard me with scorn and pride
A wretched beggar boy deride.
"Do you not know," said I, "how mean
It is to be thus begging seen?
If for a week I were not fed,
I'm sure I would not beg my bread."
And then away she saw me stalk
With a most self-important walk.
But meeting her upon the stairs,
All these my consequential airs
Were chang'd to an entreating look.
"Give me," said I, "the Pocket Book,
Mamma, you promis'd I should have."
The Pocket Book to me she gave;
After reproof and counsel sage,
She bade me write in the first page
This naughty action all in rhyme;
No food to have until the time,
In writing fair and neatly worded,
The unfeeling fact I had recorded.
Slow I compose, and slow I write;
And now I feel keen hunger bite.
My mother's pardon I entreat,
And beg she'll give me food to eat.
Dry bread would be received with joy
By her repentant Beggar Boy.
THE TWO BEES
But a few words could William say,
And those few could not speak plain.
Yet thought he was a man one day;
Never saw I a boy so vain.
From what could vanity proceed
In such a little lisping lad?
Or was it vanity indeed?
Or was he only very glad?
For he without his maid may go
To the heath with elder boys,
And pluck ripe berries where they grow:
Well may William then rejoice.
Be careful of your little charge;
Elder boys, let him not rove;
The heath is wide, the heath is large,
From your sight he must not move.
But rove he did: they had not been
One short hour the heath upon,
When he was no where to be seen;
"Where," said they, "is William gone?"
Mind not the elder boys' distress;
Let them run, and let them fly.
Their own neglect and giddiness
They are justly suffering by.
William his little basket fill'd
With his berries ripe and red;
Then, naughty boy, two bees he kill'd,
Under foot he stamp'd them dead.
William had cours'd them o'er the heath,
After them his steps did wander;
When he was nearly out of breath,
The last bee his foot was under.
A cruel triumph, which did not
Last but for a moment's space,
For now he finds that he has got
Out of sight of every face.
What are the berries now to him?
What the bees which he hath slain?
Fear now possesses every limb,
He cannot trace his steps again.
The poor bees William had affrighted
In more terror did not haste,
Than he from bush to bush, benighted
And alone amid the waste.
Late in the night the child was found:
He who these two bees had crush'd
Was lying on the cold damp ground,
Sleep had then his sorrows hush'd.
A fever follow'd from the fright,
And from sleeping in the dew;
He many a day and many a night
Suffer'd ere he better grew.
His aching limbs while sick he lay
Made him learn the crush'd bees' pain;
Oft would he to his mother say,
"I ne'er will kill a bee again."
THE JOURNEY FROM SCHOOL AND TO SCHOOL
O what a joyous joyous day
Is that on which we come
At the recess from school away,
Each lad to his own home!
What though the coach is crammed full,
The weather very warm;
Think you a boy of us is dull,
Or feels the slightest harm?
The dust and sun is life and fun;
The hot and sultry weather
A higher zest gives every breast,
Thus jumbled all together.
Sometimes we laugh aloud aloud,
Sometimes huzzah, huzzah.
Who is so buoyant, free, and proud,
As we home-travellers are?
But sad, but sad is every lad
That day on which we come,
That last last day on which away
We all come from our home.
The coach too full is found to be:
Why is it crammed thus?
Now every one can plainly see
There's not half room for us.
Soon we exclaim, O shame, O shame,
This hot and sultry weather,
Who but our master is to blame,
Who pack'd us thus together!
Now dust and sun does every one
Most terribly annoy;
Complaints begun, soon every one
Elbows his neighbour boy.
Not now the joyous laugh goes round,
We shout not now huzzah;
A sadder group may not be found
Than we returning are.
THE ORANGE
The month was June, the day was hot,
And Philip had an orange got.
The fruit was fragrant, tempting, bright,
Refreshing to the smell and sight;
Not of that puny size which calls
Poor customers to common stalls,
But large and massy, full of juice,
As any Lima can produce.
The liquor would, if squeezed out,
Have fill'd a tumbler thereabout—
The happy boy, with greedy eyes,
Surveys and re-surveys his prize.
He turns it round, and longs to drain,
And with the juice his lips to stain.
His throat and lips were parch'd with heat;
The orange seem'd to cry, Come eat.
He from his pocket draws a knife—
When in his thoughts there rose a strife,
Which folks experience when they wish,
Yet scruple to begin a dish,
And by their hesitation own
It is too good to eat alone.
But appetite o'er indecision
Prevails, and Philip makes incision.
The melting fruit in quarters came—
Just then there passed by a dame—
One of the poorer sort she seem'd,
As by her garb you would have deem'd—
Who in her toil-worn arms did hold
A sickly infant ten months old;
That from a fever, caught in spring,
Was slowly then recovering.
The child, attracted by the view
Of that fair orange, feebly threw
A languid look—perhaps the smell
Convinc'd it that there sure must dwell
A corresponding sweetness there,
Where lodg'd a scent so good and rare—
Perhaps the smell the fruit did give
Felt healing and restorative—
For never had the child been grac'd
To know such dainties by their taste.
When Philip saw the infant crave,
He straitway to the mother gave
His quarter'd orange; nor would stay
To hear her thanks, but tript away.
Then to the next clear spring he ran
To quench his drought, a happy man!
THE YOUNG LETTER-WRITER
Dear Sir, Dear Madam, or Dear Friend,
With ease are written at the top;
When those two happy words are penn'd,
A youthful writer oft will stop,
And bite his pen, and lift his eyes,
As if he thinks to find in air
The wish'd-for following words, or tries
To fix his thoughts by fixed stare.
But haply all in vain—the next
Two words may be so long before
They'll come, the writer, sore perplext,
Gives in despair the matter o'er;
And when maturer age he sees
With ready pen so swift inditing,
With envy he beholds the ease
Of long-accustom'd letter-writing.
Courage, young friend; the time may be,
When you attain maturer age,
Some young as you are now may see
You with like ease glide down a page.
Ev'n then when you, to years a debtor,
In varied phrase your meanings wrap,
The welcom'st words in all your letter
May be those two kind words at top.
THE THREE FRIENDS
(Text of 1818)
Three young maids in friendship met;
Mary, Martha, Margaret.
Margaret was tall and fair,
Martha shorter by a hair;
If the first excell'd in feature,
Th' other's grace and ease were greater;
Mary, though to rival loth,
In their best gifts equall'd both.
They a due proportion kept;
Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept;
Margaret joy'd when any good
She of Martha understood;
And in sympathy for either
Mary was outdone by neither.
Thus far, for a happy space,
All three ran an even race,
A most constant friendship proving,
Equally belov'd and loving;
All their wishes, joys, the same;
Sisters only not in name.
Fortune upon each one smil'd,
As upon a fav'rite child;
Well to do and well to see
Were the parents of all three;
Till on Martha's father crosses
Brought a flood of worldly losses,
And his fortunes rich and great
Chang'd at once to low estate;
Under which o'erwhelming blow
Martha's mother was laid low;
She a hapless orphan left,
Of maternal care bereft,
Trouble following trouble fast,
Lay in a sick bed at last.
In the depth of her affliction
Martha now receiv'd conviction,
That a true and faithful friend
Can the surest comfort lend.
Night and day, with friendship tried,
Ever constant by her side
Was her gentle Mary found,
With a love that knew no bound;
And the solace she imparted
Sav'd her dying' broken-hearted.
In this scene of earthly things
Not one good unmixed springs.
That which had to Martha proved
A sweet consolation, moved
Different feelings of regret
In the mind of Margaret.
She, whose love was not less dear,
Nor affection less sincere
To her friend, was, by occasion
Of more distant habitation,
Fewer visits forc'd to pay her,
When no other cause did stay her;
And her Mary living nearer,
Margaret began to fear her,
Lest her visits day by day
Martha's heart should steal away.
That whole heart she ill could spare her,
Where till now she'd been a sharer.
From this cause with grief she pined,
Till at length her health declined.
All her chearful spirits flew,
Fast as Martha gather'd new;
And her sickness waxed sore,
Just when Martha felt no more.
Mary, who had quick suspicion
Of her alter'd friend's condition,
Seeing Martha's convalescence
Less demanded now her presence,
With a goodness, built on reason,
Chang'd her measures with the season;
Turn'd her steps from Martha's door,
Went where she was wanted more;
All her care and thoughts were set
Now to tend on Margaret.
Mary living 'twixt the two,
From her home could oft'ner go,
Either of her friends to see,
Than they could together be.
Truth explain'd is to suspicion
Evermore the best physician.
Soon her visits had the effect;
All that Margaret did suspect,
From her fancy vanish'd clean;
She was soon what she had been,
And the colour she did lack
To her faded cheek came back.
Wounds which love had made her feel,
Love alone had power to heal.
Martha, who the frequent visit
Now had lost, and sore did miss it,
With impatience waxed cross,
Counted Margaret's gain her loss:
All that Mary did confer
On her friend, thought due to her.
In her girlish bosom rise
Little foolish jealousies,
Which into such rancour wrought,
She one day for Margaret sought;
Finding her by chance alone,
She began, with reasons shown,
To insinuate a fear
Whether Mary was sincere;
Wish'd that Margaret would take heed
Whence her actions did proceed.
For herself, she'd long been minded
Not with outsides to be blinded;
All that pity and compassion,
She believ'd was affectation;
In her heart she doubted whether
Mary car'd a pin for either.
She could keep whole weeks at distance,
And not know of their existence,
While all things remain'd the same;
But, when some misfortune came,
Then she made a great parade
Of her sympathy and aid,—
Not that she did really grieve,
It was only make-believe,
And she car'd for nothing, so
She might her fine feelings shew,
And get credit, on her part,
For a soft and tender heart.
With such speeches, smoothly made,
She found methods to persuade
Margaret (who, being sore
From the doubts she'd felt before,
Was prepared for mistrust)
To believe her reasons just;
Quite destroy'd that comfort glad,
Which in Mary late she had;
Made her, in experience' spite,
Think her friend a hypocrite,
And resolve, with cruel scoff,
To renounce and cast her off.
See how good turns are rewarded!
She of both is now discarded,
Who to both had been so late
Their support in low estate,
All their comfort, and their stay—
Now of both is cast away.
But the league her presence cherish'd,
Losing its best prop, soon perish'd;
She, that was a link to either,
To keep them and it together,
Being gone, the two (no wonder)
That were left, soon fell asunder;—
Some civilities were kept,
But the heart of friendship slept;
Love with hollow forms was fed,
But the life of love lay dead:—
A cold intercourse they held
After Mary was expell'd.
Two long years did intervene
Since they'd either of them seen,
Or, by letter, any word
Of their old companion heard,—
When, upon a day, once walking,
Of indifferent matters talking,
They a female figure met;—
Martha said to Margaret,
"That young maid in face does carry
A resemblance strong of Mary."
Margaret, at nearer sight,
Own'd her observation right:
But they did not far proceed
Ere they knew 'twas she indeed.
She—but ah! how chang'd they view her
From that person which they knew her!
Her fine face disease had scarr'd,
And its matchless beauty marr'd:—
But enough was left to trace
Mary's sweetness—Mary's grace.
When her eye did first behold them,
How they blush'd!—but, when she told them
How on a sick bed she lay
Months, while they had kept away,
And had no inquiries made
If she were alive or dead;—
How, for want of a true friend,
She was brought near to her end,
And was like so to have died,
With no friend at her bed-side;—
How the constant irritation,
Caus'd by fruitless expectation
Of their coming, had extended
The illness, when she might have mended,—
Then, O then, how did reflection
Come on them with recollection!
All that she had done for them,
How it did their fault condemn!
But sweet Mary, still the same,
Kindly eas'd them of their shame;
Spoke to them with accents bland,
Took them friendly by the hand;
Bound them both with promise fast,
Not to speak of troubles past;
Made them on the spot declare
A new league of friendship there;
Which, without a word of strife,
Lasted thenceforth long as life.
Martha now and Margaret
Strove who most should pay the debt
Which they ow'd her, nor did vary
Ever after from their Mary.
ON THE LORD'S PRAYER
I have taught your young lips the good words to say over,
Which form the petition we call the Lord's Pray'r,
And now let me help my dear child to discover
The meaning of all the good words that are there.
"Our Father," the same appellation is given
To a parent on earth, and the parent of all—
O gracious permission, the God that's in heaven
Allows his poor creatures him Father to call.
To "hallow his name," is to think with devotion
Of it, and with reverence mention the same;
Though you are so young, you should strive for some notion
Of the awe we should feel at the Holy One's name.
His "will done on earth, as it is done in heaven,"
Is a wish and a hope we are suffer'd to breathe,
That such grace and favour to us may be given,
Like good angels on high we may live here beneath.
"Our daily bread give us," your young apprehension
May well understand is to pray for our food;
Although we ask bread, and no other thing mention,
God's bounty gives all things sufficient and good.
You pray that your "trespasses may be forgiven,
As you forgive those that are done unto you;"
Before this you say to the God that's in heaven,
Consider the words which you speak. Are they true?
If any one has in the past time offended
Us angry creatures who soon take offence,
These words in the prayer are surely intended
To soften our minds, and expel wrath from thence.
We pray that "temptations may never assail us,"
And "deliverance beg from all evil" we find;
But we never can hope that our pray'r will avail us,
If we strive not to banish ill thoughts from our mind.
"For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory,
For ever and ever," these titles are meant
To express God's dominion and majesty o'er ye:
And "Amen" to the sense of the whole gives assent.
"SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN, AND FORBID THEM NOT, TO COME UNTO ME"
To Jesus our Saviour some parents presented
Their children—what fears and what hopes they must feel!
When this the disciples would fain have prevented,
Our Saviour reprov'd their unseas'nable zeal.
Not only free leave to come to him was given,
But "Of such" were the blessed words Christ our Lord spake,
"Of such is composed the kingdom of heaven:"
The disciples, abashed, perceiv'd their mistake.
With joy then the parents their children brought nigher,
And earnestly begg'd that his hands he would lay
On their heads; and they made a petition still higher,
That he for a blessing upon them would pray.
O happy young children, thus brought to adore him,
To kneel at his feet, and look up in his face;
No doubt now in heaven they still are before him,
Children still of his love, and enjoying his grace.
For being so blest as to come to our Saviour,
How deep in their innocent hearts it must sink!
'Twas a visit divine; a most holy behaviour
Must flow from that spring of which then they did drink.
THE MAGPYE'S NEST OR A LESSON OF DOCILITY
A FABLE
When the arts in their infancy were,
In a fable of old 'tis exprest,
A wise Magpye constructed that rare
Little house for young birds, call'd a nest.
This was talk'd of the whole country round,
You might hear it on every bough sung,
"Now no longer upon the rough ground
Will fond mothers brood over their young.
"For the Magpye with exquisite skill
Has invented a moss-cover'd cell,
Within which a whole family will
In the utmost security dwell."
To her mate did each female bird say,
"Let us fly to the Magpye, my dear;
If she will but teach us the way,
A nest we will build us up here.
"It's a thing that's close arch'd over head,
With a hole made to creep out and in;
We, my bird, might make just such a bed,
If we only knew how to begin."
To the Magpye soon every bird went,
And in modest terms made their request,
That she would be pleas'd to consent
To teach them to build up a nest.
She replied, "I will shew you the way,
So observe every thing that I do.
First two sticks cross each other I lay—"
"To be sure," said the Crow; "why, I knew,
"It must be begun with two sticks,
And I thought that they crossed should be."
Said the Pye, "Then some straw and moss mix,
In the way you now see done by me."
"O yes, certainly," said the Jack Daw,
"That must follow of course, I have thought;
Though I never before building saw,
I guess'd that without being taught."
"More moss, straw, and feathers, I place,
In this manner," continued the Pye.
"Yes, no doubt, Madam, that is the case;
Though no builder myself, even I,"
Said the Starling, "conjectur'd 'twas so;
It must of necessity follow:
For more moss, straw, and feathers, I know,
It requires, to be soft, round, and hollow."
Whatever she taught them beside,
In his turn every bird of them said,
Though the nest-making art he ne'er tried,
He had just such a thought in his head.
Still the Pye went on shewing her art,
Till a nest she had built up half way;
She no more of her skill would impart,
But in anger went flutt'ring away.
And this speech in their hearing she made,
As she perched o'er their heads on a tree,
"If ye all were well skill'd in my trade,
Pray, why came ye to learn it of me?"—
When a scholar is willing to learn,
He with silent submission should hear.
Too late they their folly discern;
The effect to this day does appear:
For whenever a Pye's nest you see,
Her charming warm canopy view,
All birds' nests but hers seem to be
A Magpye's nest just cut in two.
THE BOY AND THE SKY-LARK
A FABLE
"A wicked action fear to do,
When you are by yourselves; for though
You think you can conceal it,
A little bird that's in the air
The hidden trespass shall declare,
And openly reveal it."
Richard this saying oft had heard,
Until the sight of any bird
Would set his heart a quaking;
He saw a host of winged spies
For ever o'er him in the skies,
Note of his actions taking.
This pious precept, while it stood
In his remembrance, kept him good
When nobody was by him;
For though no human eye was near,
Yet Richard still did wisely fear
The little bird should spy him.
But best resolves will sometimes sleep;
Poor frailty will not always keep
From that which is forbidden;
And Richard one day, left alone,
Laid hands on something not his own,
And hop'd the theft was hidden.
His conscience slept a day or two,
As it is very apt to do
When we with pain suppress it;
And though at times a slight remorse
Would raise a pang, it had not force
To make him yet confess it.
When on a day, as he abroad
Walk'd by his mother, in their road
He heard a sky-lark singing;
Smit with the sound, a flood of tears
Proclaim'd the superstitious fears
His inmost bosom wringing.
His mother, wond'ring, saw him cry,
And fondly ask'd the reason why;
Then Richard made confession,
And said, he fear'd the little bird
He singing in the air had heard
Was telling his transgression.
The words which Richard spoke below,
As sounds by nature upwards go,
Were to the sky-lark carried;
The airy traveller with surprise
To hear his sayings, in the skies
On his mid journey tarried.
His anger then the bird exprest:
"Sure, since the day I left the nest,
I ne'er heard folly utter'd
So fit to move a sky-lark's mirth,
As what this little son of earth
Hath in his grossness mutter'd.
"Dull fool! to think we sons of air
On man's low actions waste a care,
His virtues or his vices;
Or soaring on the summer gales,
That we should stoop to carry tales
Of him or his devices!
"Our songs are all of the delights
We find in our wild airy flights,
And heavenly exaltation;
The earth you mortals have at heart
Is all too gross to have a part
In sky-lark's conversation.
"Unless it be in what green field
Or meadow we our nest may build,
Midst flowering broom, or heather;
From whence our new-fledg'd offspring may
With least obstruction wing their way
Up to the walks of ether.
"Mistaken fool! man needs not us
His secret merits to discuss,
Or spy out his transgression;
When once he feels his conscience stirr'd,
That voice within him is the bird
That moves him to confession."
THE MEN AND WOMEN, AND THE MONKEYS
A FABLE
When beasts by words their meanings could declare,
Some well-drest men and women did repair
To gaze upon two monkeys at a fair:
And one who was the spokesman in the place
Said, in their count'nance you might plainly trace
The likeness of a wither'd old man's face.
His observation none impeach'd or blam'd,
But every man and woman when 'twas nam'd
Drew in the head, or slunk away asham'd.
One monkey, who had more pride than the other,
His infinite chagrin could scarcely smother;
But Pug the wiser said unto his brother:
"The slights and coolness of this human nation
Should give a sensible ape no mort'fication;
'Tis thus they always serve a poor relation."
LOVE, DEATH, AND REPUTATION
A FABLE
Once on a time, Love, Death, and Reputation,
Three travellers, a tour together went;
And, after many a long perambulation,
Agreed to part by mutual consent.
Death said: "My fellow tourists, I am going
To seek for harvests in th' embattled plain;
Where drums are beating, and loud trumpets blowing,
There you'll be sure to meet with me again"
Love said: "My friends, I mean to spend my leisure
With some young couple, fresh in Hymen's bands;
Or 'mongst relations, who in equal measure
Have had bequeathed to them house or lands."
But Reputation said: "If once we sever,
Our chance of future meeting is but vain:
Who parts from me, must look to part for ever,
For Reputation lost comes not again."
THE SPARROW AND THE HEN
A Sparrow, when Sparrows like Parrots could speak,
Addressed an old Hen who could talk like a Jay:
Said he, "It's unjust that we Sparrows must seek
Our food, when your family's fed every day.
"Were you like the Peacock, that elegant bird,
The sight of whose plumage her master may please,
I then should not wonder that you are preferr'd
To the yard, where in affluence you live at your ease.
"I affect no great style, am not costly in feathers,
A good honest brown I find most to my liking,
It always looks neat, and is fit for all weathers,
But I think your gray mixture is not very striking.
"We know that the bird from the isles of Canary
Is fed, foreign airs to sing in a fine cage;
But your note from a cackle so seldom does vary,
The fancy of man it cannot much engage.
"My chirp to a song sure approaches much nearer,
Nay, the Nightingale tells me I sing not amiss;
If voice were in question I ought to be dearer;
But the Owl he assures me there's nothing in this.
"Nor is it your proneness to domestication,
For he dwells in man's barn, and I build in man's thatch,
As we say to each other—but, to our vexation,
O'er your safety alone man keeps diligent watch."
"Have you e'er learned to read?" said the Hen to the Sparrow.
"No, Madam," he answer'd, "I can't say I have,"
"Then that is the reason your sight is so narrow,"
The old Hen replied, with a look very grave.
"Mrs. Glasse in a Treatise—I wish you could read—
Our importance has shown, and has prov'd to us why
Man shields us and feeds us: of us he has need
Ev'n before we are born, even after we die."
WHICH IS THE FAVOURITE?
Brothers and sisters I have many:
Though I know there is not any
Of them but I love, yet I
Will just name them all; and try,
As one by one I count them o'er,
If there be one a little more
Lov'd by me than all the rest.
Yes; I do think, that I love best
My brother Henry, because he
Has always been most fond of me.
Yet, to be sure, there's Isabel;
I think I love her quite as well.
And, I assure you, little Ann,
No brother nor no sister can
Be more dear to me than she.
Only, I must say, Emily,
Being the eldest, it's right her
To all the rest I should prefer.
Yet after all I've said, suppose
My greatest fav'rite should be Rose.
No, John and Paul are both more dear
To me than Rose, that's always here,
While they are half the year at school;
And yet that neither is no rule.
I've nam'd them all, there's only seven;
I find my love to all so even,
To every sister, every brother,
I love not one more than another.
THE BEGGAR-MAN
Abject, stooping, old, and wan,
See yon wretched beggar man;
Once a father's hopeful heir,
Once a mother's tender care.
When too young to understand
He but scorch'd his little hand,
By the candle's flaming light
Attracted, dancing, spiral, bright,
Clasping fond her darling round,
A thousand kisses heal'd the wound.
Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,
No mother tends the beggar man.
Then nought too good for him to wear,
With cherub face and flaxen hair,
In fancy's choicest gauds array'd,
Cap of lace with rose to aid,
Milk-white hat and feather blue,
Shoes of red, and coral too
With silver bells to please his ear,
And charm the frequent ready tear.
Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,
Neglected is the beggar man.
See the boy advance in age,
And learning spreads her useful page;
In vain! for giddy pleasure calls,
And shews the marbles, tops, and balls.
What's learning to the charms of play?
The indulgent tutor must give way.
A heedless wilful dunce, and wild,
The parents' fondness spoil'd the child;
The youth in vagrant courses ran;
Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,
Their fondling is the beggar man.
CHOOSING A PROFESSION
A Creole boy from the West Indies brought,
To be in European learning taught,
Some years before to Westminster he went,
To a Preparatory School was sent.
When from his artless tale the mistress found,
The child had not one friend on English ground,
She, ev'n as if she his own mother were,
Made the dark Indian her peculiar care.
Oft on her fav'rite's future lot she thought;
To know the bent of his young mind she sought,
For much the kind preceptress wish'd to find
To what profession he was most inclin'd,
That where his genius led they might him train;
For nature's kindly bent she held not vain.
But vain her efforts to explore his will;
The frequent question he evaded still:
Till on a day at length he to her came,
Joy sparkling in his eyes; and said, the same
Trade he would be those boys of colour were,
Who danc'd so happy in the open air.
It was a troop of chimney-sweeping boys,
With wooden music and obstrep'rous noise,
In tarnish'd finery and grotesque array,
Were dancing in the street the first of May.
BREAKFAST
A dinner party, coffee, tea,
Sandwich, or supper, all may be
In their way pleasant. But to me
Not one of these deserves the praise
That welcomer of new-born days,
A breakfast, merits; ever giving
Cheerful notice we are living
Another day refresh'd by sleep,
When its festival we keep.
Now although I would not slight
Those kindly words we use "Good night,"
Yet parting words are words of sorrow,
And may not vie with sweet "Good morrow,"
With which again our friends we greet,
When in the breakfast-room we meet,
At the social table round,
Listening to the lively sound
Of those notes which never tire,
Of urn, or kettle on the fire.
Sleepy Robert never hears
Or urn, or kettle; he appears
When all have finish'd, one by one
Dropping off, and breakfast done.
Yet has he too his own pleasure,
His breakfast hour's his hour of leisure;
And, left alone, he reads or muses,
Or else in idle mood he uses
To sit and watch the vent'rous fly,
Where the sugar's piled high,
Clambering o'er the lumps so white,
Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.
WEEDING
As busy Aurelia, 'twixt work and 'twixt play,
Was lab'ring industriously hard
To cull the vile weeds from the flow'rets away,
Which grew in her father's court-yard;
In her juvenile anger, wherever she found,
She pluck'd, and she pull'd, and she tore;
The poor passive suff'rers bestrew'd all the ground;
Not a weed of them all she forbore.
At length 'twas her chance on some nettles to light
(Things, till then, she had scarcely heard nam'd);
The vulgar intruders call'd forth all her spite;
In a transport of rage she exclaim'd,
"Shall briars so unsightly and worthless as those
Their great sprawling leaves thus presume
To mix with the pink, the jonquil, and the rose,
And take up a flower's sweet room?"
On the odious offenders enraged she flew;
But she presently found to her cost
A tingling unlook'd for, a pain that was new,
And rage was in agony lost.
To her father she hastily fled for relief,
And told him her pain and her smart;
With kindly caresses he soothed her grief,
Then smiling he took the weed's part.
"The world, my Aurelia, this garden of ours
Resembles: too apt we're to deem
In the world's larger garden ourselves as the flow'rs,
And the poor but as weeds to esteem.
"But them if we rate, or with rudeness repel,
Though some will be passive enough,
From others who're more independent 'tis well
If we meet not a stinging rebuff."
PARENTAL RECOLLECTIONS
A child's a plaything for an hour;
Its pretty tricks we try
For that or for a longer space;
Then tire, and lay it by.
But I knew one, that to itself
All seasons could controul;
That would have mock'd the sense of pain
Out of a grieved soul.
Thou, straggler into loving arms,
Young climber up of knees,
When I forget thy thousand ways,
Then life and all shall cease.
THE TWO BOYS
I saw a boy with eager eye
Open a book upon a stall,
And read as he'd devour it all:
Which when the stall-man did espy,
Soon to the boy I heard him call,
"You, Sir, you never buy a book,
Therefore in one you shall not look."
The boy pass'd slowly on, and with a sigh
He wish'd he never had been taught to read,
Then of the old churl's books he should have had no need.