THE SMALL PEOPLE A LITTLE BOOK OF VERSE ABOUT CHILDREN FOR THEIR ELDERS CHOSEN, EDITED & ARRANGED BY THOMAS BURKE ' And He took a little child and set him in the midst of them " LONDON CHAPMAN AND HALL, LIMITED First published, 1910 Printed by Ballantyne &> Co. Limited Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, London TO MY MOTHER These pleasant songs the poets bring To Childhood and its sweet brief span. In older ears do sweetly ring. These pleasant songs the poets bring ! But lullabies you used to sing To us are ever dearer than These pleasant songs the poets bring To Childhood and its sweet brief span ! INTRODUCTION The scope of this little volume is sufficiently indicated by its title as to render unnecessary more than a brief word of introduction. It is a little collection of the poetry inspired by our dearest treasures, our small people. While anthologies of poetry for these small people are to be found in scores, few attempts have been made to collect those poems whose theme is the child from the parents' view — the child in sleep, in play, in mischief, and in the thousand sweet and self-revealing phases of the eternal mystery of Childhood. Here are gathered such poems, from the patronising note of the early writers to the note of adoration most noticeable in the child-poems of "E. Nesbit," Mr. H. H. Bashford, and Mr. Alfred Noyes ; with, in con- clusion, a little scrip of consolation for those in whose ears the patter of small feet is now only the music of a dream. Much of the most pleasant verse of children and child- life belongs to the last fifty years, and from the poetry of this period I have made as wide a selection as was, in the circumstances, practicable. Certain fine and familiar poems necessarily have had to be omitted, owing to vii Introduction copyright difficulties, but much of the best work of our modern poets I have been enabled to include, and I offer my thanks and appreciation to the following authors and publishers for generous permission accorded for the use of their copyright work : To Miss Laurence Alma-Tadema for " A Lullaby," " A Blessing for the Blessed," and " Little Girls." To Mr. H. H. Bashford for "At the Gate," "Cradle Song," " Little April," and " Parliament Hill " ; and to the editors of Country Life and the Spectator for conform- ing this permission. To Messrs. George Bell and Sons for " Fay," by Thomas Ashe, and " Toys," by Coventry Patmore. To Mrs. Hubert Bland (E. Nesbit), for "Mother Song," "To a Child," and "Birthday Talk for a Child." To the Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis, for " Little Orphant Annie," by James Whitcomb Riley. To Messrs. David Bryce and Sons, Glasgow, for "Baby Bell," by Thomas Bailey Aldrich. To Mr. Austin Dobson for " Little Blue Ribbons." To Mr. Norman Gale for " Bartholomew." To Mr. Edmund Gosse for " To My Daughter." To Mr. Ford Madox Hueffer for "To Christina at Nightfall." To Mr. E. V. Lucas for "Ad Dorotheam." To Messrs. Macmillan and Co., Ltd., for the Dedica- tion to "Alice in Wonderland," the Dedication to " Through the Looking-Glass," and the pendant verses to the latter story, viii Introduction To Miss Christabel Massey for " Within a Mile " and " Our Wee White Rose," by the late Gerald Massey. These poems are taken from her father's book, " My Lyrical Life," a few remaining copies of which are still obtainable from Miss Massey at " Redcot," South Norwood Hill, Surrey. To Mr. William Meredith for "The Orchard and the Heath," by the late George Meredith. To Mr. Alfred Noyes for "Little Boy Blue," the Prelude, and " The Splendid Secret " from " The Forest of Wild Thyme." To Miss Hester Isobel Radford for " The Child." To Messrs. George Routledge and Sons, for " Little Breeches," by John Hay. To Mr. Owen Seaman for the two poems, "To Christine." To Mr. Joseph Thorp for " The Pilot Bark." I have taken the liberty of including three copyright poems the authors of which I have been unable to trace. I trust that they will pardon my having used their work without permission, and accept my apologies, as well as thanks. THOMAS BURKE Craigton Road Eltham, Kent IX CONTENTS PAGE Introduction vii Prefatory Little Boy Blue. Alfred Noyes xlx The Child. Hester Isabel Radford xx The Spirit of Childhood Infant Joy. William Blake 3 Gay hope is theirs. Thomas Gray 3 The Age of Children Happiest. Surrey 4 The Retreat. Henry Vaughan 5 Childhood. Henry Vaughan 6 Piping down the Valleys. William Blake 6 On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture. William Cowper Address to my Infant Daughter. William Wordsworth 11 To . William Wordsworth 13 Ode on Intimations of Immortality. William Wordsworth 16 To an Infant. Samuel Taylor Coleridge 22 Childhood. Hartley Coleridge 23 xi Contents PAGE Childhood. Charles Lamb 23 I Remember. Thomas Hood 24 A Retrospective Review. Thomas Hood 25 Little Children. Mary Hozvitt 28 Childhood and his Visitors. Winthrop Mackworth Praed 30 School and Schoolfellows. Winthrop Mackworth Traed 32 To a Child. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 35 My Lost Youth. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 40 Children. Henry Wadszvorth Longfellow 43 Weariness. Henry Wadszvorth Longfellow 45 Child-Songs. John Greenlcaf Whittier 46 There was a Child. Walt Whitman 48 Brother and Sister. George Eliot 50 At the Gate. H. H. Baskford 51 Little Girls. Laurence Alma Tadema 52 The Old School. Thomas Burke 53 Small People in the Nursery Golden Slumbers. Thomas T)ekker 57 The Little People. John Greenleaf Whittier 57 There he lay. E. B. Brozvning 5 8 To Charlotte Pulteney. Ambrose Thillips 59 Cradle Song. George Wither 60 Lullaby. Richard Rozo lands 61 Cradle Song. William Blake 62 Cradle Song. William Blake 63 xii Contents PAGE Nurse's Song. William Blake 64 Characteristics of a Child. William Wordsworth 64. Parental Recollections. Mary Lamb 65 The New-born Infant. Mary Lamb 66 The Mother's Return Dorothy Wordsworth 67 The Cottager to her Infant. Dorothy Wordsworth 69 " Of such is the Kingdom." Hartley Coleridge 69 The Sabbath Day's Child. Hartley Coleridge 70 Lullaby of an Infant Chief. Sir Walter Scott 73 On my dear Love Isabella. Marjorie Fleming 73 In bed. Marjorie Fleming 74 Golden-tressed Adelaide. Barry Cornzvall 74 Lullaby. Barry Cornwall 75 The Fairy Queen. Thomas Hood 75 To a Sleeping Child. John Wilson 77 Sketch of a Young Lady. Winthrop Mackwortk Praed 77 The Castle-builder. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 79 Wee Willie Winkie. William Miller 80 Sleeping and Watching. E. B. Browning 8 1 A Child Asleep. E. B. Browning 83 Sweet and Low. Alfred Tentiyson 85 Philip my King. Dinah Mulock Craik 86 To a Sleeping Child. Arthur Hugh Clough 87 The Toys. Coventry Patmore 88 Creep afore ye gang. James Ballantine 89 The Unknown Tongue. Joaquin Miller go Lullaby. William Barnes 91 xiii Contents PAGE Baby May. William Bennett 91 Song to a Babe. Jean Ingelow 93 Fay. Thomas Ashe 93 A Lullaby. Laurence Alma Tadema 94 A Blessing for the Blessed. Laurence Alma Tadema 95 Bartholomew. Norman Gale 96 Mother Song. E. Nesbit 97 To a Child. E. Nesbit 97 To Christina at Nightfall. Ford Madox Hueffer 99 Cradle Song. H. H. Bashford 100 Parliament Hill. H. H, Bashford 101 The Pilot Bark. Joseph Thorp 101 The Dream-Child. Thomas Burke 102 Small People Here and There The Little Ones. Anon. 107 A Little Child. S. T. Coleridge 108 To a Child of Quality, Matthew Prior 109 A Song on Miss Harriet Hanbury. Charles Williams no On the Birthday of a Young Lady. William Whitehead III The Babes in the Wood. Anon. 112 To a Child. Nathaniel Cotton 1 17 The Picture of Little T. C. Andrew Marvell 118 The Schoolboy. William Blake 119 Holy Thursday. William Blake 120 The Sister. William Wordsworth 121 xiv Contents PAGE We are Seven. William Wordsworth 122 To H. C. William Wordsworth 1 24 A Boy's Song. James Hogg 125 Rosina. W. S. Latidor 126 A Parental Ode. Thomas Hood 127 To J. H. Leigh Hunt 129 The Wonderfu' Wean. William Miller 130 The Children's Hour. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1 3 1 In School-days. John Greenleaf Whittier 133 Red Riding Hood. John Greenleaf Whittier 134 The Barefoot Boy. John Greenleaf Whittier 136 A Song for the Ragged Schools. E. B. Browning 139 My Child. E. B. Browning 144 The Romance of the Swan's Nest. E. B. Browning 145 A Portrait. E. B. Browning 148 The Cry of the Children. E. B, Browning 151 Neighbour Nelly. Robert B rough 156 God's Gifts. Adelaide Anne Proctor 157 Children's Thankfulness. John Keble 159 To a very Young Lady. Mortimer Collins 161 A Child's Smile. Dinah Mulock Craik 162 Monsieur et Mademoiselle. Dinah Mulock Craik 163 To Alice. Lewis Carroll 164 To Alice. Lewis Carroll 166 Farewell Verses. Lewis Carrod 167 Little Orphant Annie. James Whitcomb Riiey 168 Little Breeches. John Hay xjo xv Contents PAGB The Orchard and the Heath. George Meredith 172 Birthday Talk for a Child. E. Nesbit 174 Little Blue Ribbons. Austin Dobson 1 74 To my Daughter. Edmund Gosse 176 Ad Dorotheam. E. V. Lucas 177 To Christine. Owen Seaman 178 To Christine. Owen Seaman 181 Little April. H. H. Bashford 183 Children of Toil. Thomas Burke 184 "Grown Tired of Play" A Lost Child. Anon. On my Son. "John Beaumont Lucy. William Wordsworth Lucy Gray. William Wordsworth O Sleep, my Babe. Sara Coleridge Threnody. Ralph Waldo Emerson Resignation. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow The Open Window. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Vesta. John GreenleaJ Whittier The Changeling, fames Russell Lowell Within a Mile. Gerald Massey Our Wee White Rose. Gerald Massey Baby Bell. Thomas Bailey Aldrich Hush ! if you remember. Alfred Noyes The Splendid Secret. Alfred Noyes xvi PREFATORY "LITTLE BOY BLUE" (From « The Forest of Wild Thyme") Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn, Summon the day of deliverance in : We are weary of bearing the burden of scorn As we yearn for the home that we never shall win ; For here there is weeping and sorrow and sin, And the poor and the weak are a spoil for the strong ! Ah ! when shall the song of the ransomed begin ? The world is grown weary with waiting so long. Little Boy Blue, you are gallant and brave. There was never a doubt in those clear bright eyes ; Come, challenge the grim dark Gates of the Grave As the skylark sings to those infinite skies ! This world is a dream, say the old and the wise, And its rainbows arise o'er the false and the true ; But the mists of the morning are made of our sighs — Ah, shatter them, scatter them, Little Boy Blue Little Boy Blue, if the child-heart knows, Sound but a note as a little one may ; And the thorns of the desert shall bloom with the rose, And the Healer shall wipe all tears away. Little Boy Blue, we are all astray, The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn, Ah, set the world right, as a little one may ; Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn ! Alfred Noyes XIX THE CHILD You can gaze fearless in God's face ; But we, so loud our conscience cries, Dare not look up, lest we should trace Our souls reflected in his eyes. Hester Isobel Radford xx THE SPIRIT OF CHILDHOOD THE SPIRIT OF CHILDHOOD INFANT JOT " J HAVE no name ; / am but two days old." What shall I call thee ? " / happy am y Joy is my name" Sweet joy befall thee ! Pretty joy ! Sweet joy ', but two days old. Sweet joy I call thee ; Thou dost smile, I sing the while ; Sweet joy befall thee ! William Blake f^lAY hope is theirs by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest ; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast ; Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new, tAnd lively cheer, of vigour born ; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light That fly tl\ approach of morn. Thomas Gray THE AGE OF CHILDREN HATTIEST T AID in my quiet bed in study as I were, I saiv ivithin my troubled head a heap of thoughts "i '????'?' |^ - appear, tAnd every thought did show so lively in mine eyes, That now I sighed, and then I smiled, as cause of thoughts did rise. I saw the little boy in thought, how oft that he Did wish of God, to 'scape the rod, a tall young man to be ; The young man eke that feels his bones with pain opprest, How he would be a rich old man, to live and be at re it ! The rich old man that sees his end draw on so sore, How would he be a boy again to live so much the more. Whereat full oft I smiled, to see how all those three, From boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and change ? degree. Surrey The Spirit of Childhood THE %ETREAT HAPPY those early days, when I Shined in my angel-infancy ! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy aught But a white, celestial thought ; When yet I had not walked above A mile or two, from my first love, And looking back — at that short space — Could see a glimpse of His bright face ; When on some gilded cloud or flower, My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity ; Before I taught my tongue to wound My conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to every sense, But felt through all this fleshy dress Bright shoots of everlastingness. O how I long to travel back And tread again that ancient track ! That I might once more reach that plain Where first I left my glorious train ; From whence the enlightened spirit sees That shady City of palm trees ! But ah ! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way ! Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move ; And when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return. Henry Vaughan The Small People CHILDHOOD I CANNOT reach it ; and my striving eye Dazzles at it, as at eternity. Were now that chronicle alive, Those white designs which children drive, And the thoughts of each harmless hour, With them content too, in my power, Quickly would I make my path even And by mere playing go to heaven. Dear, harmless age ! the short, swift span Where weeping virtue parts with man ; Where love without lust dwells, and bends What way we please without self-ends. An age of mysteries ! which he Must live twice that would God's face see ; Which angels guard and with it play ; Angels which foul men drive away. How do I study now, and scan Thee more than e'er I study man, And only see through a long night Thy edges and thy bordering light ! O for thy centre and mid-day ! For sure that is the narrow way. Henry Vaughan T1T1NG DOWN THE VALLEYS WILD PIPING down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me : The Spirit of Childhood " Pipe a song about a Lamb ! " So I piped with merry cheer. " Piper, pipe that song again ; " So I piped : he wept to hear. " Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe ; Sing thy songs of happy cheer ! ' So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear. "Piper, sit thee down and write In a book that all may read." So he vanished from my sight ; And I plucked a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear. William Blake ON THE 'RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S 'PICTURE OUT OF DiQRFOLK OH that those lips had language ! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, " Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away ! " The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the Art that can immortalise, — The Art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. The Small People Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, welcome guest, though unexpected, here ! Who bidst me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long, 1 will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own : And while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, — Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss j Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — " Yes." I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such ? — It was. — Where thou art gone Adieux and farewells are a sound unknown ; May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived ; By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, 8 The Spirit of Childhood Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; And where the gardener, Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum ; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed : All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks, That humour interposed too often makes ; And all this legible in Memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may ; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile), Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ? I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 9 The Small People Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might — But no — what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee, to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; — So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore, " Where tempests never beat nor billows roar ; " And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life, long since has anchored by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distressed — Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he ! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduced my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth j But higher far my proud pretensions rise — The son of parents passed into the skies. And now, Farewell. — Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. By Contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine; And while the wings of Fancy still are free, 10 The Spirit of Childhood And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft — Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. William Cowper ADDRESS TO aiT INFANT "DAUGHTER ON "BEING REMINDED THAT SHE IV AS A MONTH OLD ON THAT SCHOOLFELLOWS TWELVE years ago I made a mock Of filthy trades and traffics, I wonder'd what they meant by stock ; I wrote delightful sapphics : I knew the streets of Rome and Troy, I supp'd with Fates and Furies, — Twelve years ago I was a boy, A happy boy, at Drury's. Twelve years ago ! — how many a thought Of faded pains and pleasures Those whisper'd syllables have brought From memory's hoarded treasures ! The fields, the farms, the bats, the books, The glories and disgraces, The voices of dear friends, the looks Of old familar faces ! Kind Mater smiles again to me, As bright as when we parted ; I seem again the frank, the free Stout-limb'd, and simple-hearted ! Pursuing every idle dream, And shunning every warning ; With no hard work but Bovney stream, No chill except Long Morning : Now stopping Harry Vernon's ball That rattled like a rocket ; Now hearing Wentworth's " Fourteen all And striking for the pocket ; The Spirit of Childhood Now feasting on a cheese and flitch, — Now drinking from the pewter ; Now leaping over Chalvey ditch, Now laughing at my tutor. Where are my friends ? I am alone ; No playmate shares my beaker ; Some lie beneath the churchyard stone, And some — before the Speaker ; And some compose a tragedy, And some compose a rondo ; And some draw sword for liberty, And some draw pleas for John Doe. Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes Without the fear of sessions; Charles Medlar loathed false quantities, As much as false professions, Now Mill keeps order in the land, A magistrate pedantic ; And Medlar's feet repose unscann'd Beneath the wide Atlantic. Wild Nick, whc se oaths made such a din, Does Dr. Martext's duty ; And Mullion, with that monstrous chin, Is married to a Beauty ; And Darrel studies, week by week, His Mant, and not his Manton ; And Ball, who was but poor at Greek, Is very rich at Canton. And I am eight-and-twenty now ; — The world's cold chains have bound me ; And darker shades are on my brow, And sadder scenes around me : c The Small People In Parliament I fill my seat, With many other noodles ; And lay my head in Jermyn Street, And sip my hock at Boodle's. But often, when the cares of life Have set my temples aching, When visions haunt me of a wife, When duns await my waking, When Lady Jane is in a pet, Or Hoby in a hurry, When Captain Hazard wins a bet. Or Beaulieu spoils a curry, — For hours and hours I think and talk Of each remember' d hobby ; I long to lounge in Poet's Walk, To shiver in the Lobby ; I wish that I could run away From House, and Court, and Levee, Where bearded men appear to-day Just Eton boys grown heavy, — That I could bask in childhood's sun And dance o'er childhood's ruses, And find huge wealth in one pound one, Vast wit in broken noses, And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, And call the milkmaids Houris, — That I could be a boy again, — A happy boy, — at Drury's. WlNTHROP MACKWORTH PrAED 34 The Spirit of Childhood TO J: CHILT> DEAR child ! how radiant on thy mother's knee, With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles, Whose figures grace, With many a grotesque form and face, The ancient chimney of thy nursery ! The lady with the gay macaw, The dancing girl, the grave bashaw With bearded lip and chin ; And, leaning idly o'er his gate, Beneath the imperial fan of state, The Chinese mandarin. With what a look or proud command Thou shakest in thy little hand The coral rattle with its silver bells, Making a merry tune ! Thousands of years in Indian seas That coral grew, by slow degrees, Until some deadly and wild monsoon Dashed it on Coromandel's sand ! Those silver bells Reposed of yore, As shapeless ore, Far down in the deep-sunken wells Of darksome mines, In some obscure and sunless place Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, Or Potosi's o'erhanging pines ! And thus for thee, O little child, Through many a danger and escape, The tall ships passed the stormy cape ; 35 The Small People For thee in foreign lands remote, Beneath a burning tropic clime, The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, Himself as swift and wild, In falling clutched the frail arbute, The fibres of whose shallow root, Uplifted from the soil, betrayed The silver veins beneath it laid, The buried treasures of the miser Time. But lo ! thy door is left ajar ! Thou hearest footsteps from afar ! And, at the sound Thou turnest round With quick and questioning eyes, Like one who, in a foreign land, Beholds on every hand Some source of wonder and surprise ! And, restlessly, impatiently, Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. The four walls of thy nursery Are now like prison walls to thee. No more thy mother's smiles, No more the painted tiles, Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor. That won thy little beating heart before ; Thou strugglest for the open door. Through these once solitary halls Thy pattering footstep falls. The sound of thy merry voice Makes the old walls Jubilant, and they rejoice With the joy of thy young heart, O'er the light of whose gladness No shadows o f sadness 36 The Spirit of Childhood From the sombre background of memory start. Once, ah once, within these walls, One whom memory oft recalls, The Father of his Country, dwelt. And yonder meadows broad and damp The fires of the besieging camp Encircled with a burning belt. Up and down these echoing stairs. Heavy with the weight of cares, Sounding his majestic tread ; Yes, within this very room Sat he in those hours of gloom, Weary both in heart and head. But what are these grave thoughts to thee ? Out, out ! into the open air ! Thy only dream is liberty, Thou carest little how or where. I see thee eager at thy play, Now shouting to the apples on the tree, With cheeks as round and red as they ; And now among the yellow stalks, Among the flowering shrubs and plants, As restless as the bee. Along the garden walks The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace ; And see at every turn how they efface Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, That rise like golden domes Above the cavernous and secret homes Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, Who, with thy dreadful reign, Dost persecute and overwhelm These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm ! 37 The Small People What ! tired already ! with those suppliant looks, And voice more beautiful than a poet's books, Or murmuring sound of water as it flows, Thou comest back to parley with repose ! This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, With its o'erhanging golden canopy Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, And shining with the argent light of dews, Shall for a season be our place of rest. Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest, From which the laughing birds have taken wing, By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. Dream-like the waters of the river gleam ; A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. child ! O new-born denizen Of life's great city ! on thy head The glory of the morn is shed, Like a celestial benison ! Here at the portal thou dost stand, And with thy little hand Thou openest the mysterious gate Into the future's undiscovered land. 1 see its valves expand, As at the touch of Fate ! Into those realms of love and hate, Into that darkness blank and drear, By some prophetic feeling taught, I launch the bold, adventurous thought, Freighted with hope and fear ; As upon subterranean streams, In caverns unexplained and dark, Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, Laden with flickering fire, 38 The Spirit of Childhood And watch its swift-receding beams, Until at length they disappear, And in the distant dark expire. By what astrology of fear or hope Dare I to cast thy horoscope ! Like the new moon thy life appears ; A little strip of silver light, And widening outward into night The shadowy disk of future years ; And yet upon its outer rim, A luminous circle, faint and dim, And scarcely visible to us here, Rounds and completes the perfect sphere ; A prophecy and intimation, A pale and feeble adumbration, Of the great world of light that lies Behind all human destinies. Ah ! if thy fate, with anguish fraught. Should be to wet the dusty soil With the hot tears and sweat of toil, — To struggle with imperious thought, Until the overburdened brain, Weary with labour, faint with pain, Like a jarred pendulum, retain Only its motion, not its power, — Remember, in that perilous hour, When most afflicted and oppressed, From labour there shall come forth rest. And if a more auspicious fate On thy advancing steps await, Still let it ever be thy pride To linger by the labourer's side ; 39 The Small People With words of sympathy or song To cheer the dreary march along Of the great army of the poor, O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor Nor to thyself the task shall be Without reward ; for thou shalt learn The wisdom early to discern True beauty in utility : As great Pythagoras of yore, Standing beside the blacksmith's door, And hearing the hammers, as they smote The anvils with a different note, Stole from the varying tones that hung Vibrant on every iron tongue, The secret of the sounding wire, And formed the seven-chorded lyre. Enough ! I will not play the Seer ; I will no longer strive to ope The mystic volume, where appear The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. Thy destiny remains untold : For, like Acestes' shaft of old, The swift thought kindles as it flies, And burns to ashes in the skies. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (MY LOST YOUTH OFTEN I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea ; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, 40 The Spirit of Childhood And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still : " A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still : " A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free ; And the Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still : "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill ; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still : " A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 41 The Small People I remember the sea-fight far away, How it thundered o'er the tide ! And the dead captains, as they lay In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay, Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill : "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering's Woods ; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with the sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighbourhoods. And the verse of that old sweet song, It flutters and murmurs still : " A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the schoolboy's brain ; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still : " A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." There are things of which I may not speak ; There are dreams that cannot die ; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. 42 The Spirit of Childhood And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill : "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town ; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still : " A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still : "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." Henry Wadsworth Longfellow QHILDR SN COME to me, O ye children ! For I hear you at your play, And the questions that perplexed me Have vanished quite away 43 The Small People Ye open the eastern windows, That look towards the sun, Where thoughts are singing swallows, And the brooks of morning: run. In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, In your thoughts the brooklet's flow, But in mine is the wind of Autumn, And the first fall of the snow. Ah ! what would the world be to us If the children were no more ? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before. What the leaves are to the forest, With light and air for food, Ere their sweet and tender juices Have been hardened into wood, — That to the world are children ; Through them it feels the glow Of a brighter and sunnier climate Than reaches the trunks below. Come to me, O ye children ! And whisper in my ear What the birds and the winds are singing In your sunny atmosphere. For what are all our contrivings, And the wisdom of our books, When compared with your caresses, And the gladness of your looks. 44 The Spirit of Childhood Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said ; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow WEARINESS O LITTLE feet ! that such long yeais Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load ; I, nearer to the wayside inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your load ! O little hands ! that, weak or strong, Have still to serve or rule so long Have still so long to give or ask ; I, who so much with book and pen Have toiled among my fellow-men, Am weary, thinking of your task. O little hearts ! that throb and beat With such impatient, feverish heat, Such limitless and strong desires ; Mine that so long has glowed and burned With passions into ashes turned, Now covers and conceals its fires. O little souls ! as pure and white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source divine ; Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine ! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 45 The Small People CH1LT>-S0NGS STILL linger in our noon of time And our Saxon tongue The echoes of the home-born hymns The Aryan mothers sung. And childhood had its litanies In every age and clime ; The earliest cradles of the race Were rocked to poet's rhyme. Nor sky, nor wave, nor tree, nor flower, Nor green earth's virgin sod, So moved the singer's heart of old As these small ones of God. The mystery of unfolding life Was more than dawning morn, Than opening flower or crescent moon — The human soul new-born ! And still to childhood's sweet appeal The heart of genius turns, And more than all the sages teach From lisping voices learns, — The voices loved of him who sang, Where Tweed and Teviot glide, That sound to-day on all the winds That blow from Rydal side, — Heard in the Teuton's household songs, And folk-lore of the Finn, Where'er to holy Christmas hearths The Christ-child enters in ! 4 6 The Spirit of Childhood Before life's sweetest mystery still The heart in reverence kneels j The wonder of the primal birth The latest mother feels. We need love's tender lessons taught As only weakness can ; God hath his small interpreters ; The child must teach the man. We wander wide through evil years, Our eyes of faith grow dim ; But he is freshest from his hands And nearest unto Him ! And haply, pleading long with Him For sin-sick hearts and cold, The angels of our childhood still The Father's face behold. Of such the kingdom ! — Teach thou us, O Master most divine, To feel the deep significance Of these wise words of thine ! The haughty eye shall seek in vain What innocence beholds ; No cunning finds the keys of heaven, No strength its gate unfolds. Alone to guilelessness and love That gate shall open fall ; The mind of pride is nothingness, The childlike heart is all ! John Greenleaf Whittier 47 The S m all People THERE JVAS J: CHILT> JFENT FORTH THERE was a child went forth every day ; And the first object he looked upon, that object he became ; And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of the day, or for many years, or stretching cycles of years. The early lilacs became part of this child. And grass, and white and red "morning-glories," and white and red clover, and the song of the phcebe-bird, And the Third-month lambs, and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the mare's foal, and the cow's calf, And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-side, And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there — and the beautiful curious liquid, And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads — all became part of him. The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part of him ; Winter-grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and the esculent roots of the garden, And the apple-trees covered with blossoms, and the fruit afterward, and wood-berries, and the commonest weeds by the road ; And the old drunkard staggering home from the out- house of the tavern, whence he had lately risen, And the schoolmistress that passed on her way to the school, And the friendly boys that passed — and the quarrelsome boys, And the tidy and fresh-cheeked girls — and the bare-foot negro boy and girl, And the changes of city and country, wherever he went. 48 The Spirit of Childhood His own parents, He that had fathered him, and she that had conceived him in her womb, and birthed him, They gave this child more of themselves than that ; They gave him afterward every day — they became part of him. The mother at home, quietly placing the dishes on the supper-table ; The mother with mild words — clean her cap and gown, a wholesome odour falling off her person and clothes as she walks by ; The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, angered, unjust ; The blow, the quick long word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure, The family usages, the language, the company, the fur- niture — the yearning and swelling heart, Affection that will not be gainsaid — the sense of what is real — the thought if, after all, it should prove unreal, The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time — the curious whether and how, Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks ? Men and women crowding fast in the streets — if they are not flashes and specks, what are they ? The streets themselves, and the facades of houses, and goods in the windows, Vehicles, teams, the heavy-planked wharves — the huge crossing at the ferries, The village on the highland, seen from afar at sunset — the river between, Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of white and brown, three miles off, The schooner near by, sleepily droppmg down the tide — the little boat slack-towed astern, d 49 The Small People The hurrying tumbling waves quick-broken crests slapping, The strata of coloured clouds, the long bar of maroon- tint, away solitary by itself — the spread of purity it lies motionless in, The horizon's edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt-marsh and shore-mud j These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will always go forth every day. Walt Whitman 'BROTHER *ANT> SISTER I I CANNOT choose but think upon the time When our two lives grew like two buds that kiss At lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime, Because one so near the other is. He was the elder, and a little man Of forty inches, bound to show no dread, And I the girl that, puppy-like, now ran, Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread. I held him wise, and when he talked to me Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the best, I thought his knowledge marked the boundary Where men grow blind, though angels knew the rest. If he said " Hush ! " I tried to hold my breath ; Whenever he said " Come ! " I stepped in Jaith. II School parted us ; we never found again That childish world where our two spirits mingled Like scents from varying roses that remain One sweetness, nor can evermore be singled ; 50 The Spirit of Childhood Yet the twin habit of that early time Lingered for long about the heart and tongue : We had been natives of one happy clime And its dear accent to our utterance clung : Till the dire years whose awful name is Change Had grasped our souls still yearning in divorce. And, pitiless, shaped them into two forms that range, Two elements which sever their life's course. But were another childhood world my share, I would be born a little sister there. George Eliot *4T THE QATE BEYOND the gate I see a hand, It beckons me and I must go, The garden plot grows small, and I Must rise and travel forth and know- Ah, little son, 'tis but the wide road winding Across the green hills out towards the sea ; Wouldst find it hard to tread, and the sun blinding, Ah, little son, look not, stay thou with me. Beyond the gate I hear a song, The bravest song I ever heard, Come out — it cries — and tarry not, Thou craven heart that hast not stirred. Ah, little son, 'tis but the old world calling, And all the years gone by and yet to be, But an old song of dawn and the sands falling, Ah, little son, heed not, rest thou with me. 51 The Small People Beyond the gate the world is wide, And I have tarried all too long, And look, the least touch lifts the latch, That welcomes me to strife and song. Ah, little son, thou shouldst not so have hastened To leave thy tender garden bare to me, Too soon the years had crowned thee, old and chastened, Ah, little son, faint not, God go with thee. H. H. Bashford LITTLE QIRLS IF no one ever marries me, — And I don't see why they should, For nurse says I'm not pretty, And I'm seldom very good — If no one ever marries me I shan't mind very much, I shall buy a squirrel in a cage, And a little rabbit-hutch ; I shall have a cottage near a wood, And a pony all my own, And a little lamb, quite clean and tame, That I can take to town j And when I'm getting really old, — At twenty-eight or nine — I shall buy a little orphan girl And bring her up as mine. Laurence Alma Tadema 52 The Spirit of Childhood THE OLT) SCHOOL (L.O.J.) HERE where the white owl sweeps and cries, And dim fields fade as if in flight, And evening trembles into night, And roads like wavy ribbons rise, And hills encircle, fold in fold — Her pensive, purple towers loom ; And from a depth of melting gloom Leap out her windows sparked with gold. Upon the air soft voices go — Faint echoes of a lovelier day When life was ours, and life was May, When the first shrinking violets blow. And all the sadness of the years, And all the pains of old desire Revive, and, like a smouldering fire, Burn deeper for the rain of tears. Yet are the dead not wholly gone ; They bore her name by land and sea ; Their higher parts were hers, and she, When all is done, reclaims her own. So as her festal windows glow, Within their castellated frame, Each light becomes the ardent flame Of some young soul of long ago. Thomas Burke 53 SMALL PEOPLE IN THE NURSERY SMALL PEOPLE IN THE NURSERY f^OLDEN slumbers kiss your eyes. Smiles awake you when you rise. Sleepy pretty wantons ; do not cry, tAnd I will sing a lullaby : Rock them, rock them, lullaby. Care is heavy, therefore sleep you ; Tou are care, and care must keep you. Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, tAnd I will sing a lullaby : Rock them, rock them, lullaby. Thomas Dekker THE LITTLE TEOPLE J DREARY place would this earth be Were there no little people in it ; The song of life would lose its mirth, Were there no children to begin it ; 3^0 little forms, like buds to grow, tAnd make the admiring heart surrender ; D^o little hands on breast and brow, To keep the thrilling love-chords tender. The sterner souls would grow more stern, Unfeeling nature more inhuman, tAnd man to stoic coldness turn, tAnd woman would be less than woman. 57 Life's song, indeed, would lose its charm, Were there no habits to begin it ; e/f doleful place this world would be, Were there no little people in it. John Greenleaf Whittier ^1 HERE he lay upon his back, The yearling creature, warm and moist with life To the bottom of his dimples — to the ends Of the lovely tumbled curls about his face ', For since he had been covered over much To keep him from the light glare, both his cheeks Were hot and scarlet as the first live rose The shepherd's heart-blood ebbed away into The faster for his love. *And love was here eAs instant ; in the pretty baby mouth Shut close as if for dreaming that it sucked, The little naked feet, drawn up the way Of nested birdlings ; everything so soft Jtnd tender — to the tiny holdfast hands, Which, closing on a finger into sleep Had kept the mould of it. Elizabeth Barrett Browning 5* In the Nursery TO CHARLOTTE TULTENET TIMELY blossom, infant fair, Fondling of a happy pair, Every morn and every night, Their solicitous delight ; Sleeping, waking, still at ease, Pleasing, without skill to please. Little gossip, blithe and hale, Tattling many a broken tale, Singing many a tuneless song, Lavish of a heedless tongue. Simple maiden void of art, Babbling out the very heart, Yet abandoned to thy will, Yet imagining no ill, Yet too innocent to blush. Like the linnet in the bush, To the mother-linnet's note Moduling her slender throat ; Chirping forth thy petty joys, Wanton in the change of toys ; Like the linnet green, in May Flitting to each bloomy spray : Wearied then, and glad of rest, Like the linnet in the nest. This thy present happy lot — This, in time, will be forgot: Other pleasures, other cares, Ever-busy Time prepares ; And thou shalt in thy daughter see, This picture, once, resembled thee. Ambrose Phillips 59 6o The Small People CRADLE SONQ SLEEP, baby, sleep ! what ails my dear ? What ails my darling thus to cry ? Be still, my child, and lend thine ear To hear me sing thy lullaby. My pretty lamb, forbear to weep ; Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep ! When God with us was dwelling, here, In little babes He took delight ; Such innocents as thou, my dear, Are ever precious in His sight. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep ! A little infant once was He ; And strength in weakness then was laid Upon His virgin mother's knee, That power to thee might be convey'd. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep ! In this thy frailty and thy need He friends and helpers doth prepare, Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed, For of thy weal they tender are. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep ! The King of Kings, when He was born, Had not so much for outward ease ; By Him such dressings were not worn, Nor such-like swaddling-clothes as these. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep ! In the Nursery Within a manger lodged thy Lord, Where oxen lay, and asses fed ; Warm rooms we do to thee afford, An easy cradle for a bed. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep ! The wants that He did then sustain Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee ; And by His torments and His pain, Thy rest and ease secured be. My baby, then, forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep ! Thou hast, yet more, to perfect this, A promise and an earnest got Of gaining everlasting bliss, Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep ! George Wither LULLABY UPON my lap my sovereign sits And sucks upon my breast ; Meantime his love maintains my life And gives my sense her rest. Sing lullaby, my little boy ; Sing lullaby, mine only joy ! When thou hast taken thy repast, Repose, my babe, on me. So may thy mother and thy nurse Thy cradle also be. Sing lullaby, my little boy ; Sing lullaby, mine only joy ! 61 The Small People I grieve that duty doth not work All that my wishing would, Because I would not be to thee But in the best I should. Sing lullaby, my little boy ; Sing lullaby, mine only joy ! Yet as I am, and as I may, I must and will be thine, Though all too little for thy self Vouchsafing to be thine. Sing lullaby, my little boy ; Sing lullaby, mine only joy ! Richard Rowlands CRADLE SONQ SWEET dreams, form a shade O'er my lovely infant's head ! Sweet dreams of pleasant streams By happy, silent, moony beams ! Sweet sleep with soft down Weave thy brows an infant crown ! Sweet sleep, angel mild, Hover o'er my happy child ! Sweet smiles, in the night Hover over my delight ! Sweet smiles, mother's smile, All the livelong night beguile. Sweet moans, dovelike sighs, Chase not slumber from thine eyes ! Sweet moans, sweeter smile, All the dovelike moans beguile. 62 In the Nursery Sleep, sleep, happy child ! All creation slept and smiled. Sleep, sleep, happy sleep, While o'er thee doth mother weep. Sweet babe, in thy face Holy image I can trace ; Sweet babe once like thee Thy Maker lay, and wept for me : Wept for me, for thee, for all, When He was an infant small. Thou His image ever see, Heavenly face that smiles on thee ! Smiles on thee, on me, on all, Who became an infant small ; Infant smiles are His own smiles : Heaven and earth to peace beguiles. William Blake CRADLE SONQ SLEEP, sleep, beauty bright, Dreaming in the joys of night ; Sleep, sleep ; in thy sleep Little sorrows sit and weep. Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace, Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles. As thy softest limbs I feel, Smiles as of the morning steal O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast Where thy little heart doth rest. 63 The Small People Oh, the cunning wiles that creep In thy little heart asleep ; When thy little heart doth wake, Then the dreadful light shall break. William Blake CURSE'S SONQ WHEN the voices of children are heard on the green, And laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast, And everything else is still. " Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, And the dews of night arise ; Come, come, leave off play, and let us away, Till the morning appears in the skies." " No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, And we cannot go to sleep ; Besides, in the sky the little birds fly, And the hills are all covered with sheep." " Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed." The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed, And all the hills echoed. William Blake CHARACTERISTICS OF Jl CHILT> THREE TEARS OLD LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild ; And innocence hath privilege in her To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes ; And feats of cunning ; and the pretty round Of trespasses, affected to provoke 64 In the Nursery Mock-chastisement and partnership in play. And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth, Not less if unattended and alone Than when both young and old sit gathered round And take delight in its activity, Even so this happy creature of herself Is all-sufficient ; solitude to her Is blithe society, who fills the air With gladness and involuntary songs. Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched ; Unthought of, unexpected, as the stir Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow flowers ; Or from before it chasing wantonly The many-coloured images impressed Upon the bosom of a placid lake. William Wordsworth TARENTAL RECOLLECTIONS 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 reasons would control ; That would have mocked the sense of pain Out of a grieved soul. Thou struggler into loving arms, Young climber up of knees ! When I forget thy thousand ways, Then life and all shall cease. Mary Lamb 65 The Small Peopl THE U^EJF- ( BORN INFANT WHETHER beneath sweet beds of roses, As foolish little Ann supposes, The spirit of a babe reposes Before it to the body come ; Or, as philosophy more wise Thinks, it descendeth from the skies, We know the babe's now in the room. And that is all which is quite clear Even to philosophy, my dear. The God that made us can alone Reveal from whence a spirit's brought Into young life, to light, and thought ; And this the wisest man must own. We'll talk now of the babe's surprise When first he opens his new eyes, And first receives delicious food. Before the age of six or seven, To mortal children is not given Much reason, else I think he would (And very naturally) wonder What happy star he was born under, That he should be the only care Of the dear, sweet, food-giving lady Who fondly calls him her own baby, Her darling hope, her infant heir. Mary Lamb 66 In the Nursery THE MOTHER'S RETURN A MONTH, sweet little ones, is passed Since your dear mother went away,- And she to-morrow will return ; To-morrow is the happy day. Oh, blessed tidings ! thought of joy ! The eldest heard with steady glee ; Silent he stood ; then laughed amain, And shouted, " Mother, come to me ! " Louder and louder did he shout, With witless hope to bring her near ; "Nay, patience ! patience, little boy ! Your tender mother cannot hear." I told of hills, and far-off towns And long, long vales to travel through ; — He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed, But he submits ; what can he do ? No strife disturbs his sister's breast : She wars not with the mystery Of time and distance, night and day, The bonds of our humanity. Her joy is like an instinct, joy Of kitten, bird, or summer fly ; She dances, runs without an aim, She chatters in her ecstasy. Her brother now takes up the note, And echoes back his sister's glee ; They hug the infant in my arms, As if to force his sympathy. 6? The Small People Then, settling into fond discourse, We rested in the garden bower ; While sweetly shone the evening sun In his departing hour. We told o'er all that we had done, — Our rambles by the swift brook's side Far as the willow-skirted pool, Where two fair swans together glide. We talked of change, of winter gone, Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray, Of birds that build their nests and sing, And "all since mother went away." To her these tales they will repeat, To her our new-born tribes will show, The goslings green, the ass's colt, The lambs that in the meadow go. — But, see, the evening star comes forth ! To bed the children must depart ; A moment's heaviness they feel, A sadness at the heart : 'Tis gone — and in a merry fit They run upstairs in gamesome race ; I, too, infected by their mood, I could have joined the wanton chase. Five minutes past — and, oh, the change ! Asleep upon their beds they lie ; Their busy limbs in perfect rest, And closed the sparkling eye. Dorothy Wordsworth 68 In the Nursery THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT THE days are cold, the nights are long, The North wind sings a doleful song ; Then hush again upon my breast ; All merry things are now at rest, Save thee, my pretty love ! The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, The crickets long have ceased their mirth ; There's nothing stirring in the house Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse, Then why so busy thou ? Nay ! start not at the sparkling light ; 'Tis but the moon that shines so bright On the window-pane bedropped with rain : Then, little darling ! sleep again, And wake when it is day. Dorothy Wordsworth "OF SUCH IS TFIE KJNGT>031 OF QOT>" IN stature perfect, and in every gift Which God would on His favourite work bestow, Did our great Parent his pure form uplift, And sprang from earth, the Lord of all below. But Adam fell before a child was born, And want and weakness with his fall began ; So his first offspring was a thing forlorn, In human shape, without the strength of man 69 The Small People So, Heaven has doomed that all of Adam's race, Naked and helpless, shall their course begin — E'en at their birth confess their need of grace — And weeping, wail the penalty of sin. Yet sure the babe is in the cradle blest, Since God Himself a baby deign'd to be — And slept upon a mortal mother's breast, And steep'd in baby tears — His Deity. O sleep, sweet infant, for we all must sleep — And wake like babes, that we may wake with Him, Who watches still His own from harm to keep, And o'er them spreads the wings of cherubim. Hartley Coleridge THE SABBATH TfAT'S CHILT> PURE, precious drop of dear mortality, Untainted fount of life's meandering stream, Whose innocence is like the dewy beam Of morn, a visible reality, Holy and quiet as a hermit's dream : Unconscious witness to the promised birth Of perfect good, that may not grow on earth, Nor be computed by the worldly worth And stated limits of morality ; Fair type and pledge of full redemption given, Through Him that saith, " Of such is the kingdom of Heaven ! " Sweet infant, whom thy brooding parents love For what thou art, and what they hope to see thee, Unhallow'd sprites and earth-born phantoms flee thee ; Thy soft simplicity, a hovering dove, 70 In the Nursery That still keeps watch from blight and bane to free thee. With its weak wings, in peaceful care outspread, Fanning invisibly thy pillow'd head, Strikes evil powers with reverential dread, Beyond the sulphurous bolts of fabled Jove, Or whatsoe'er of amulet or charm Fond Ignorance devised to save poor souls from harm. To see thee sleeping on thy mother's breast, It were indeed a lovely sight to see — Who would believe that restless sin can be In the same world that holds such sinless rest ? Happy art thou, sweet babe, and happy she Whose voice alone can still thy baby cries, Now still itself; yet pensive smiles, and sighs, And the mute meanings of a mother's eyes Declare her thinking, deep felicity : A bliss, my babe, how much unlike to thine, Mingled with earthly fears, yet cheer'd with hope divine. Thou breathing image of the life of Nature ! Say rather, image of a happy death — For the vicissitudes of vital breath, Of all infirmity the slave and creature, That by the act of being perisheth, Are far unlike that slumber's perfect peace Which seems too absolute and pure to cease, Or suffer diminution, or increase, Or change of hue, proportion, shape, or feature ; A calm, it seems, that is not, shall not be, Save in the silent depths of calm eternity. A star reflected in a dimpling rill That moves as slow it hardly moves at all ; The shadow of a white-robed waterfall Seen in the lake beneath when all is still ; 71 The Small People A wandering cloud, that with its fleecy pall Whitens the lustre of an autumn moon, A sudden breeze that cools the cheek of noon, Not marlc'd till miss'd — so soft it fades, and soon — Whatever else the fond inventive skill Of fancy may suggest cannot apply Fit semblance of the sleeping life of infancy. Calm art thou as the blessed Sabbath eve, The blessed Sabbath eve when thou wast born ; Yet sprightly as a summer Sabbath morn, When surely 'twere a thing unmeet to grieve : When ribbons gay the village maids adorn, And Sabbath music, on the swelling gales, Floats to the farthest nooks of winding vales, And summons all the beauty of the dales. Fit music this a stranger to receive, And, lovely child, it rang to welcome thee, Announcing thy approach with gladsome minstrelsy. So be thy life — a gentle Sabbath, pure From worthless strivings of the work-day earth : May time make good the omen of thy birth, Nor worldly care thy growing thoughts immure, Nor hard-eyed thrift usurp the throne of mirth On thy smooth brow. And though fast coming years Must bring their fated dower of maiden fears, Of timid blushes, sighs, and fertile tears, Soft sorrow's sweetest offspring, and her cure ; May every day of thine be good and holy, And thy worst woe a pensive Sabbath melancholy. Hartley Coleridge 72 In the Nursery LULLABY OF LE SONQ Ford Madox Hueffer THE little yachts swing lanterns at their bows, The little yachts like stars to harbour creep, The little yachts, they fold their tired sails, Their baby hulls, how fast they fall asleep. So let my heart thy harbour be, so let Thy little lamp, held safe awhile from sea, Rock here at rest, oh babe of mine, and drop, For this one hour, its starshine into me. H. H. Bashford IOO In the Nursery PARLIAMENT HILL HAVE you seen the lights of London how they twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, Yellow lights, and silver lights, and crimson lights and blue ? And there among the other lights is Daddy's little lantern-light, Bending like a finger-tip and beckoning to you. Never was so tall a hill for tiny feet to scramble up, Never was so strange a world to startle little eyes ; Half of it as black as ink, with ghostly feet to fall on it, And half of it all filled with lamps and cheerful sounds and cries. Lamps in golden palaces, and station-lamps, and steamer lamps, Very nearly all the lamps that Mother ever knew, And there among the other lamps is Daddy's little lantern-lamp, Bending like a finger-tip and beckoning to you. H. H. Bashford THE PILOT "BARK EACH cradle a ship — white-sailed, divinely planned, On the quiet harbour bosom gently set With brave hopes freighted for some splendid land Beyond the clamorous passage of the bar, Where the wild waters are. And yet, Though wrought so frail, Resistless flasheth by the slender sail, ioi The Small People With the soft breath of ministrant angel-wings Silently filled, Riding unshocked — where broader vessels quail Spent with far wanderings, Broken with storm, or stilled If the winds should fail. And haply in some stress of night and doubt Of such tired mariners reckless of their way, Their guiding stars blurred out ; To worn eyes straining through the wild storm-spray, Gleams from the pitiless dark A heartening ray — The white sail of the cradle pilot-bark! Joseph Thorp THE "DREAM-CHILD (From " The Happy Hearth ") DEAR dream-maiden, demure and fearless, Facing gravely a world yet tearless, Eager to follow and careless to capture, Shy as a dove, as divinely free — Who shall unfold thine inmost dreamings, Track to their source thine April beamings, Child of a fleeting moment's rapture, That art for ever yet never will be ? Her face is clear as midsummer weather, Lips meet light as a falling feather, Dark her hair is, trembling to ringlets, Her very voice is a tune sung low ; And I think she is come so late from Heaven, The grace of her soul is as seven times seven, White as the flash of a sea-bird's winglets, Strange as a story of long ago. 102 In the Nursery In rose-winged dreams her heart is enfoklen, As was mine in a happy olden Golden summer when life was laughter, — Was it long years, or yesterday ? — Now shadowy memories sullenly darken The pearl-dewed portals ; and ever I hearken To vexing voices following after, Whisp'ring — " Here is an end of May ! " Softly I fancy she sleeps in the musky Scents that are borne to her lips by the dusky Night as it flows to the marge of morning, Cloaking the garden silverly blue. . . . Ah, heart-of-mine, I have love to lavish, Love like a maid's, as a maid's is, slavish, Love that a maid might pass in scorning — Dream-child dear, it is thine : Thou art true ! Thomas Burke 103 SMALL PEOPLE HERE AND THERE SMALL PEOPLE HERE AND THERE THE LITTLE ONES CJ^HET have such tiny feet. They have gone so short way to meet The years which are required to break Their steps to evenness, and make Them go more sure and slow. They are such little hands ! Be kind ; things are so new, and life but stands A step beyond the doorway. All around New days have found Such tempting things to shine upon ; and so The hands are tempted oft, you know. They are such fond clear eyes ! That widen to surprise nAt every turn ! They are so often held To sun or showers ; showers soon dispelled By looking in our face. Love asks for these much grace. They are such fair, frail gifts. Uncertain as the rifts Of light that lie along the sky. They may not be here by-and-by. Give them not love, but more above tAnd harder, patience with the love. Anon. 107 A LITTLE child, a Umber elf, Singing, (lancing to itself, tA fairy thing with red round cheeks, That always finds and never seeks, Makes such a vision to the sight tAs fills a father's eyes with light ; {THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY) ORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, Were summoned by her high command, To show their passions by their letters. My pen amongst the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obey'd. Nor quality, nor reputation Forbids me yet my flame to tell, Dear five-years-old befriends my passion, And I may write till she can spell. For while she makes her silkworms' beds With all the tender things I swear ; Whilst all the house my passion reads In papers round her baby's hair ; She may receive and own my flame, For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet. Then too, alas ! when she shall tear The rhymes some younger rival sends ; She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends. For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it !) That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it. Matthew Prior 109 The Small People e/f SONQ UTON 3HSS HARRIET HJNBURT (ADDRESSED TO THE REV. MR. BIRT) DEAR Doctor of St. Mary'?, In the hundred of 'Bergavenny, I've seen such a lass With a shape and a face, As never was match'd by any. Such wit, such bloom, and such beauty Has this girl of Ponty-Pool, sir, With eyes that would make The toughest heart ache, And the wisest man a fool, sir. At our fair t'other day she appear'd, sir, And the Welshmen all flock'd and view'd her ; And all of them said, She was fit to have been made A wife for Owen Tudor. They would ne'er have been tired of gazing, And so much her charms did please, sir, That all of them sat Till their ale grew flat, And cold was their toasted cheese, sir. How happy the lord of the manor, That shall be of her possest, sir ; For all must agree Who my Harriet shall see, She's a Harriet of the best, sir. I 10 Here and There Then pray make a ballad about her ; We know you have wit If you'd show it, Then don't be ashamed, You can never be blamed, — For a prophet is often a poet ! " But why don't you make one yourself, then ? ' I suppose I by you shall be told, sir ! This beautiful piece Of Eve's flesh is my niece — And besides, she's but five years old, sir ! But tho', my dear friend, she's no older, In her face it may plainly be seen, sir, That this angel of five, Will, if she's alive, Be a goddess at fifteen, sir. Charles Williams ON THE BIRTHDAY OF A YOUNG LADY FOUR YEARS OLD OLD creeping time, with silent tread, Has stol'n four years o'er Molly's head : The rosebud opens on her cheek, The meaning eyes begin to speak ; And in each smiling look is seen The innocence which plays within. Nor is the faltering tongue confined To lisp the dawning of the mind, But firm and full her words convey The little all they have to say ; And each fond parent, as they fall, Finds volumes in that little all, in The Small People May every charm which now appears Increase and brighten with her years ! And may that same old creeping time Go on till she has reached her prime, Then, like a master of his trade, Stand still, nor hurt the work he made. William Whitehead THE BABES IN THE WOOD NOW ponder well, you parents dear, These words which I shall write ; A doleful story you shall hear In time brought forth to light. A gentleman of good account In Norfolk dwelt of late, Who did in honour far surmount Most men of his estate. Sore sick he was and like to die, No help his life could save ; His wife by him as sick did lie, And both possest one grave. No love between these two was lost, Each was to other kind ; In love they lived, in love they died, And left two babes behind : The one a fine and pretty boy Not passing three years old, The other a girl more young than he, And framed in beauty's mould. The father left his little son, As plainly did appear, When he to perfect age should come, Three hundred pounds a-year. 112 Here and There And to his little daughter Jane, Five hundred pounds in gold, To be paid down on marriage-day, Which might not be controll'd. But if the children chance to die Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possess their wealth ; For so the will did run. " Now, brother," said the dying man, " Look to my children dear, Be good unto my boy and girl, No friends else have they here : To God and you I recommend My children dear this day ; But little while be sure we have Within this world to stay. " You must be father and mother both, And uncle, all in one ; God knows what will become of them When I am dead and gone." With that bespake their mother dear : " O brother kind," quoth she, " You are the man must bring our babes To wealth or misery. " And if you keep them carefully, Then God will you reward ; But if you otherwise should deal, God will your deeds regard." With lips as cold as any stone They kiss'd their children small : " God bless you both, my children dear ! " With that the tears did fall. H 113 The Small People These speeches then their brother spake To this sick couple there : "The keeping of your little ones, Sweet sister, do not fear ; God never prosper me nor mine, Nor aught else that I have, If I do wrong your children dear When you are laid in grave ! " The parents being dead and gone, The children home he takes, And brings them straight into his house, Where much of them he makes. He had not kept these pretty babes A twelvemonth and a day, But, for their wealth, he did devise To make them both away. He bargain'd with two ruffians strong, Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children young And slay them in a wood. He told his wife an artful tale : He would the children send To be brought up in London town With one that was his friend. Away then went those pretty babes Rejoicing at that tide, Rejoicing with a merry mind They should on cock-horse ride. They prate and prattle pleasantly, As they ride on the way, To those that should their butchers be, And work their lives' decay ; 114 Here andThere So that the pretty speech they had Made murder's heart relent ; And they that undertook the deed Full sore did now repent. Yet one of them, more hard of heart, Did vow to do his charge, Because the wretch that hired him Had paid him very large. The other won't agree thereto, So here they fall to strife : With one another they did fight About the children's life : And he that was of mildest mood Did slay the other there, Within an unfrequented wood ; The babes did quake for fear ! He took the children by the hand, Tears standing in their eye, And bade them straightway follow him, And look they did not cry ; And two long miles he led them on, While they for food complain : "Stay here," quoth he ; "I'll bring you bread When I come back again." These pretty babes, with hand in hand, Went wandering up and down ; But never more could see the man Approaching from the town. Their pretty lips with blackberries Were all besmear'd and dyed ; And when they saw the darksome night, They sat them down and cried. 115 The Small People Thus wander'd these poor innocents, Till death did end their grief; In one another's arms they died, As wanting due relief: No burial this pretty pair From any man receives, Till Robin Redbreast piously Did cover them with leaves. And now the heavy wrath of God Upon their uncle fell ; Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house — His conscience felt an hell : His barns were fired, his goods consumed, His lands were barren made, His cattle died within the field, And nothing with him stay'd. And in a voyage to Portugal Two of his sons did die ; And, to conclude, himself was brought To want and misery : He pawn'd and mortgaged all his land Ere seven years came about, And now at last this wicked act Did by this means come out : The fellow that did take in hand These children for to kill, Was for a robbery judged to die — Such was God's blessed will : Who did confess the very truth, As here hath been display'd : The uncle having died in jail, Where he for debt was laid. 116 Here and Ther You that executors be made, And overseers eke, Of children that be fatherless, And infants mild and meek, Take you example by this thing, And yield to each his right, Lest God with such-like misery Your wicked minds requite. Anon. TO *A CHILD FIFE TEARS OLD FAIREST flower, all flowers excelling, Which in Milton's page we see ; Flowers of Eve's embower'd dwelling Are, my fair one, types of thee. Mark, my Polly, how the roses Emulate thy damask cheek ; How the bud "its sweets discloses — Buds thy opening bloom bespeak. Lilies are by plain direction. Emblems of a double kind : Emblems of thy fair complexion, Emblems of thy fairer mind. But, dear girl, both flowers and beauty Blossom, fade, and die away ; Then pursue good sense and duty, Evergreens, which ne'er decay. Nathaniel Cotton 117 The Small People THE TICTURE OF LITTLE T. C. IN THE HEATH I CHANCED upon an early walk to spy A troop of children through an orchard gate : The boughs hung low, the grass was high ; They had but to lift hands or wait For fruits to fill them ; fruits were all their sky. They shouted, running on from tree to tree, And played the game the wind plays, on and round. 'Twas visible invisible glee Pursuing ; and a fountain's sound Of laughter spouted, pattering fresh on me. I could have watched them till the daylight fled, Their pretty bower made such a light of day. A small one tumbling sang, " Oh, head ! " The rest to comfort her straightway Siezed on a branch and thumped down apples red. The tiny creature flashing through green grass, And laughing with her feet and eyes among Fresh apples, while a little lass Over as o'er breeze-ripples hung ; That sight I saw, and passed as aliens pass. 172 Here and There My footpath left the pleasant farms and lanes, Soft cottage-smoke, straight cocks a-crow, gay flowers ; Beyond the wheel-ruts of the wains, Across a heath I walked for hours, And met its rival tenants, rays and rains. Still in my view mile-distant firs appeared, When, under a patched channel-bank enriched With foxglove whose late bells drooped seared, Behold, a family had pitched Their camp, and labouring the low tent upreared. Here, too, were many children, quick to scan A new thing coming ; swarthy cheeks, white teeth : In many-coloured rags they ran, Like iron runlets of the heath. Dispersed lay broth-pot, sticks, and drinking-can. Three girls with shoulders like a boat at sea Tipped sideways by the wave (their clothing slid From either ridge unequally), Lean, swift and voluble, bestrid A starting-point, unfrocked to the bent knee. They raced ; their brothers yelled them on, and broke In act to follow, but as one they snuffed Wood-fumes, and by the fire that spoke Of provender, its pale flame puffed, And rolled athwart dwarf furzes grey-blue smoke. Soon on the dark edge of a ruddier gleam, The mother-pot perusing, all, stretched flat, Paused for its bubbling-up supreme : A dog upright in circle sat, And oft his nose went with the flying steam. J 73 The Small People I turned and looked on heaven awhile, where now The moor-faced sunset broaden'd with red light ; Threw high aloft a golden bough, And seemed the desert of the night Far down with mellow orchards to endow. George Meredith BIRTHDAY TALK FOR d CHILD {IRIS) DADDY dear, I'm only four And I'd rather not be more : Four's the nicest age to be — Two and two, or one and three. All I love is two and two, Mother, Fabian, Paul and you ; All you love is one and three, Mother, Fabian, Paul and me. Give your little girl a kiss Because she learned and told you this. E. Nesbit LITTLE 'BLUE RIBBONS LITTLE Blue Ribbons" ; we call her that From the ribbons she wears in her favourite hat ; For may not a person be only five, And yet have the neatest of taste alive ? As a matter of fact, this one has views Of the strictest sort as to frocks and shoes ; And we never object to a sash or a bow, When Little Blue Ribbons prefers it so. T 74 Here and There Little Blue Ribbons has eyes of blue, And an arch little mouth, which the teeth peep through ; And her primitive look is wise and grave With a sense of the weight of the word " behave " ; Though now and again she may condescend To a radiant smile for a private friend ; But to smile for ever is weak, you know, And Little Blue Ribbons regards it so. She's a staid little woman ! And so as well Is her ladyship's doll, Miss Bonnibelle ; But I think what at present the most takes up The thoughts of her heart is her last new cup ; For the object thereon, be it understood, Is "The Robins that buried the Babes in the Wood." It is not in the least like a robin though, But Little Blue Ribbons declares it so. Little Blue Ribbons believes, I think, That the rain comes down for the birds to drink ; Moreover, she holds, in a cab you'd get To the spot where the suns of yesterday set ; And I know that she fully expects to meet With a lion or wolf in Regent Street ! We may smile and deny as we like — But no, For Little Blue Ribbons believes it so ! Dear Little Blue Ribbons ! She tells us all That she never intends to be great and tall ; (For how could she ever contrive to sit In her own, own chair, if she grew one bit ?) And, further, she says, she intends to stay In her darling home till she gets quite gray ; Alas, we are gray ; and we doubt, you know, But Little Blue Ribbons will have it so ! Austin Dobson x 75 : 7 6 The Small People TO MT "DAUGHTER THOU hast the colours of the Spring, The gold of king-cups triumphing, The blue of wood-bells wild ; But winter-thoughts thy spirit fill, And thou art wandering from us still, Too young to be our child. Yet have thy fleeting smiles confessed, Thou dear and much-desired guest, That home is near at last ; Long lost in high mysterious lands, Close by our door thy spirit stands, Its journey well-nigh past. Oh sweet bewildered soul, I watch The fountains of thine eyes, to catch New fancies bubbling there, To feel our common light, and lose The flush of strange ethereal hues Too dim for us to share ; Fade, cold immortal lights, and make This creature human for my sake, Since I am nought but clay ; An angel is too fine a thing To sit beside my chair and sing, And cheer my passing day. I smile, who could not smile, unless The air of rapt unconsciousness Passed, with the fading hours ; I joy in every childish sign That proves the stranger less divine And much more meekly ours. Here and There I smile, as one by night who sees, Through mist of newly-budded trees, The clear Orion set, And knows that soon the dawn will fly In fire across the riven sky, And gild the woodlands wet. Edmund Gosse *AT> TiOROTHEAM [Mr. Gladstone — to whom the following verses have frequently been attributed — is supposed to be addressing his little grand-daughter, Miss Dorothy Drew.] I KNOW where there is honey in a jar, Meet for a certain little friend of mine ; And Dorothy, I know where daisies are That only wait small hands to intertwine A wreath for such a golden head as thine. The thought that thou art coming makes all glad ; The house is bright with blossoms high and low, And many a little lass and little lad Expectantly are running to and fro ; The fire within our hearts is all aglow. We want thee, child, to share in our delight On this high day, the holiest and best. Because 'twas then ere youth had taken flight, Thy grandmamma, of women loveliest, Made me of men most honoured and most blest. That naughty boy that led thee to suppose He was thy sweetheart, has, I grieve to tell, Been seen to pick the garden's choicest rose And toddle with it to another belle, Who does not treat him altogether well. M lyy The Small People But mind not that, or let it teach thee this — To waste no love on any youthful rover : (All youths are rovers, I assure thee, miss.) No, if thou wouldst true constancy discover — Thy grandpapa is perfect as a lover. So come, thou playmate of my closing day, The latest treasure life can offer me, And with thy baby laughter make us gay. Thy fresh young voice shall sing, my Dorothy, Songs that shall bid the feet of Sorrow flee. E. V. Lucas TO CHRISTINE CHILD of the silk-soft golden hair, The sweet grave face, the hazel eyes, Mother of dolls, a constant care That makes you prematurely wise ; (Although your brother, younger yet, Adopts an independent tone, And begs you will not always set Your wisdom up against his own) — I take delight to touch with you On divers themes, and well I may; It is your charming habit to Believe exactly what I say. When you inquire with thoughtful brow What any given object is, Why it was made, and when, and how, And other cognate mysteries j l 7 8 Here and There When by your manner you imply That nothing known to mortal men, Or even angels up the sky, Eludes my penetrating ken ; Forgotten hopes renew their bloom ; I feel I have not wholly failed ; " There still is one," I say, " from whom My awful ignorance is veiled. " As yet no disillusion saps A faith pathetically stout ; And several seasons must elapse Before she gets to find me out." So from our converse I abstract A sentiment akin to joy, Fleeting, I own, and, as a fact, Not unencumbered with alloy. For memory probes an ancient sore Connected with my distant youth ; I, too, should like to be once more A quiet searcher after truth ; Once more to learn in various schools The things rejected by-and-by, When I discovered certain rules Which the exceptions stultify : Found Nature with herself at strife (To take a single case) and woke To the depressing view that life Must be regarded as a joke. *79 The Small People A blight possessed my eager soul ; My fancies took a fatal twist ; And I assumed the chronic role Of what is called a humorist. For you such fears are far away ; Your faith and your digestion thrive ; But then I'm forty, if a day, And you, of course, are only five. Still, here's the best I can in rhyme ; And when (how rare the angels' calls !) You come again at Christmas-time To greet the dear familiar walls, You'll take my verse for what's its worth, And, though you find it barely sane, You'll raise a decent show of mirth To spare the author needless pain ; And lift your tiny silver mug, Graven with mine, the giver's, name, And toast my health, and bid me hug The patient hope of coming fame ; And I shall answer, " Dear, you see, My future lies behind my back ; But here's your immortality In Mr. Punch's Almanack ! " Owen Seaman i 80 Here and There TO CHRISTINE MY dear, when you were half your age, (2's into 10 ?) a good while back, I wrote about you on a page Of Mr. Punch's Almanack. How you are gaining on me quick ! Your years were then \ of mine, But Time, who does arithmetic, Has made the ratio 2 to 9 ! And now that o'er your shining head This second lustre (if you know What lustres are) has been and fled Into the Land of Longago — And since you somehow failed to get Those earlier verses ofF by heart, I'll make you up another set. So that's the Preface. Here we start ! Dear, as I see you nice and small, Agile of leg and sound of lung, And rather wistfully recall What it was like to feel so young, When grown-ups seemed, in taste and size, Removed from me immensely far — I often ask with vague surmise How old you think we really are. Sometimes I fancy you behave As if you found us past repair — One foot already in the grave, The other very nearly there ! 181 The Small People Then you are wrong, and you must try To take a more enlightened view ; You're not so much more young than I, Nor I so much more old than you. For, though you have the supple joints That go so well with childhood's mirth, In certain elemental points You are the age of Mother Earth. And while it's true I've ceased to hop Out of my bed at .peep of dawn, Have lost the weasel's power to pop, Nor can outrun the light-foot fawn, Yet otherwise I'm far from old ; The words I use, so long and queer, My manner, stern, abrupt and cold — All this is just pretence, my dear. As when you act your nursery plays, And ape your elders' talk and looks, So I have copied grown-up ways Either from life or else from books. But in my heart, its hopes and fears, Its need of love, its faith in men, I yet may be, for all my years, As young as little girls of ten. Owen Seaman 182 Here and There LITTLE trfPRIL LITTLE April, in between Blushing bride and tomboy, Half a hoyden, half a queen, Who's to win the day ? Tears for leaving lusty March, Finger-tips for May then, Little April in between, Must she really say ? Little April, in between, April undecided, Half she is for folded hands, Half for hands at play, Half to run with rumpled hair, Half for tresses braided. Little April, in between, Must she really say ? Little April, down the days Pages stand to greet you, Maidens with a starry veil Wait beside the way, Little April, in between, April, and you choose not, Father Time must take your hand — Someone's got to say ! H. H. Bash ford '83 The Small People CHILDREN OF TOIL (LONDON ORPHAN tdSTLUM) BREAKING from the lap of the lowland pasture, Sudden as a foam-crest single on a sea : Dreamy in the rich noon, the old grey school-house Palisades the heavens with spires slim and free. Creeper-clad, the walls breathe rippling crimson, Fiery as Youth all athirst for its day. . . . Ah, that the day might be such an one that sunset Comes neither feared nor reproached for delay ! Fleeing from the school-room's velvet coolness, Light, lulling croons to the hill's head are spun ; Upward to the teacher demure little pupils Turn timid faces, as buds to April sun. Cheerily they pass through the merry lanes and meadows, Sombre are their dresses, their faces are as bright. Dreamy, gleamy springtime is in their eyes, but shadows Hover in their going to strangle their delight. When to the moon she unfolds her gardens, Starred through and through with the pale passion flower ; Then on the night hangs the life-breath of childhood. . . . Move with the spent leaf; it is her little hour. Soon shall her sweetness be yielded to the moonlight — Ay, the melting moonlight soon alone shall know Hopes and fears and fancies, for swallow-swift the years Early toil is their s, poor joy and petty woe ! Thomas Burke 184 "GROWN TIRED OF PLAY" " GROWN TIRED OF PLAY" *A LOST CHILD /^OULD you have seen the violets That blossomed in her eyes ; Could you have kissed that golden hair Jlnd drunk those holy sighs, Tou would have been her tiring-maid Co. Limited Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, London UC SOUTHERN HEGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A 000 030 935 1