The lambs play always, they know no better, — O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing You were bright, ah bright! but your light is failing,— You Moon, have you done something wrong in heaven, I hope if you have, you will soon be forgiven, O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow; O columbine, open your folded wrapper, And show me your nest, with the young ones in it, I will not steal it away; I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet,- LITTLE things On little wings Bear little souls to Heaven. MY LITTLE LADY. T. B. WESTWOOD. THE queen is proud on her throne, And oh! she flouts me, she flouts me! And spurns, and scorns, and scouts me! She is seven by the calendar, A lily's almost as tall; But oh! this little lady's by far The proudest lady of all! It's her sport and pleasure to flout me! To spurn and scorn and scout me! But ah! I've a notion it's naught but play, And that, say what she will and feign what she may, She can't well do without me! For at times, like a pleasant tune, A sweeter mood o'ertakes her; Oh! then she's sunny as skies of June, Oh! she dances around me so fairly! Oh! her laugh rings out so rarely! Oh! she coaxes, and nestles, and peers, and pries, THE SCULPTOR. GEORGE WASHINGTON Doane. CHISEL in hand stood the sculptor-boy, He carved the dream on that shapeless stone With Heaven's own light the sculpture shone : Sculptors of life are we as we stand Its heavenly beauty shall be our own, CHILD AND MOTHER. THOMAS HOOD. LOVE thy mother, little one! Gaze upon her living eyes, And mirror back her love for thee! Press her lips, the while they glow Oh, revere her raven hair, Although it be not silver gray! Pray for her at eve and morn, That Heaven may long the stroke defer; When thou wilt ask to die with her. MOTHER, WATCH! ANONYMOUS. MOTHER, watch the little feet Climbing o'er the garden-wall, Ranging cellar, shed, and hall. Never count the moments lost, Guide them, mother, while you may. Mother, watch the little hand Mother, watch the little heart Beating soft and warm for you; Keep, oh, keep that young heart true, Extricating every weed; Sowing good and precious seed, NOT A CHILD. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. "NOT a child; I call myself a boy," Says my king, with accents stern yet mild, Now nine years have brought him change of joy; "Not a child." |