Alas! the grat.i.tude of men Has oftner left me mourning.
ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS SHEWING HOW THE ART OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT.
I have a boy of five years old, His face is fair and fresh to see; His limbs are cast in beauty"s mould, And dearly he loves me.
One morn we stroll"d on our dry walk, Our quiet house all full in view, And held such intermitted talk As we are wont to do.
My thoughts on former pleasures ran; I thought of Kilve"s delightful sh.o.r.e, My pleasant home, when spring began, A long, long year before.
A day it was when I could bear To think, and think, and think again; With so much happiness to spare, I could not feel a pain.
My boy was by my side, so slim And graceful in his rustic dress!
And oftentimes I talked to him, In very idleness.
The young lambs ran a pretty race; The morning sun shone bright and warm; "Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place, "And so is Liswyn farm.
"My little boy, which like you more,"
I said and took him by the arm-- "Our home by Kilve"s delightful sh.o.r.e, "Or here at Liswyn farm?"
"And tell me, had you rather be,"
I said and held him by the arm, "At Kilve"s smooth sh.o.r.e by the green sea, "Or here at Liswyn farm?"
In careless mood he looked at me, While still I held him by the arm, And said, "At Kilve I"d rather be "Than here at Liswyn farm."
"Now, little Edward, say why so; My little Edward, tell me why;"
"I cannot tell, I do not know,"
"Why this is strange," said I.
"For, here are woods and green-hills warm; "There surely must some reason be "Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm "For Kilve by the green sea."
At this, my boy, so fair and slim, Hung down his head, nor made reply; And five times did I say to him, "Why? Edward, tell me why?"
His head he raised--there was in sight, It caught his eye, he saw it plain-- Upon the house-top, glittering bright, A broad and gilded vane.
Then did the boy his tongue unlock, And thus to me he made reply; "At Kilve there was no weather-c.o.c.k, "And that"s the reason why."
Oh dearest, dearest boy! my heart For better lore would seldom yearn, Could I but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I learn.
WE ARE SEVEN.
A simple child, dear brother Jim, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage girl, She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That cl.u.s.ter"d round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad; Her eyes were fair, and very fair, --Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little maid, "How many may you be?"
"How many? seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me.
"And where are they, I pray you tell?"
She answered, "Seven are we, "And two of us at Conway dwell, "And two are gone to sea.
"Two of us in the church-yard lie, "My sister and my brother, "And in the church-yard cottage, I "Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell, "And two are gone to sea, "Yet you are seven; I pray you tell "Sweet Maid, how this may be?"
Then did the little Maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; "Two of us in the church-yard lie, "Beneath the church-yard tree."
"You run about, my little maid, "Your limbs they are alive; "If two are in the church-yard laid, "Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother"s door, "And they are side by side.
"My stockings there I often knit, "My "kerchief there I hem; "And there upon the ground I sit-- "I sit and sing to them.
"And often after sunset, Sir, "When it is light and fair, "I take my little porringer, "And eat my supper there.
"The first that died was little Jane; "In bed she moaning lay, "Till G.o.d released her of her pain, "And then she went away.
"So in the church-yard she was laid, "And all the summer dry, "Together round her grave we played, "My brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white with snow, "And I could run and slide, "My brother John was forced to go, "And he lies by her side."
"How many are you then," said I, "If they two are in Heaven?"
The little Maiden did reply, "O Master! we are seven."
"But they are dead; those two are dead!
"Their spirits are in heaven!"
"Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it griev"d my heart to think What man has made of man.
Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trail"d its wreathes; And "tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopp"d and play"d: Their thoughts I cannot measure, But the least motion which they made, It seem"d a thrill of pleasure.