The Fireside Encyclopedia of Poetry: Comprising the Best Poems of the Most ...

TWENTY-ONE.

GROWN to man's stature! O my little

child!

My bird that sought the skies so long ago!

My fair, sweet blossom, pure and undefiled,

How have the years flown since we laid thee low!

What have they been to thee? If thou wert here,

Standing beside thy brothers, tall and Was God, then, kinder unto thee than

fair,

With bearded lip, and dark eyes shining clear,

And glints of summer sunshine in thy. hair,

I should look up into thy face and say, Wavering, perhaps, between a tear and smile,

"O my sweet son, thou art a man today!"

And thou wouldst stoop to kiss my lips the while.

But-up in heaven-how is it with thee, dear?

them,

O thou whose little life was but a span? Ah, think it not! In all his diadem

No star shines brighter than the kingly

man,

Who nobly earns whatever crown he wears,

Who grandly conquers or as grandly dies, And the white banner of his manhood bears

Through all the years uplifted to the skies!

What lofty peans shall the victor greet! What crown resplendent for his brow be fit!

Art thou a man-to man's full stature O child, if earthly life be bitter-sweet,

grown?

Dost thou count time, as we do, year by

year?

And what of all earth's changes hast

thou known?

Thou hadst not learn'd to love me. Didst

thou take

Hast thou not something missed in missing it?

JULIA CAROLINE DORR.

THE CHILD MUSICIAN.

Any small germ of love to heaven with HE had played for his lordship's levee, thee,

He had played for her ladyship's whim,

That thou hast watch'd and nurtured for Till the poor little head was heavy,

my sake,

Waiting till I its perfect flower may see?

What is it to have lived in heaven always?
To have no memory of pain or sin?
Ne'er to have known in all the calm, bright
days

The jar and fret of earth's discordant din?

Thy brothers-they are mortal-they must tread

And the poor little brain would swim.

And the face grew peaked and eerie,

And the large eyes strange and bright, And they said-too late-" He is weary! He shall rest for at least to-night!"

But at dawn, when the birds were waking,
As they watched in the silent room,

Ofttimes in rough, hard ways, with bleed- With the sound of a strained cord breaking,

ing feet;

A something snapped in the gloom.

Again it weeps,

Softly her father stoop'd to lay

His rough hand down in loving way,
When dream or whisper made her stir,
Then huskily said John," Not her, not her!"
We stopp'd beside the trundle-bed,
And one long ray of lamplight shed
Athwart the boyish faces there,
In sleep so pitiful and fair;

I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek
A tear undried. Ere John could speak,
"He's but a baby, too," said I,

And kiss'd him as we hurried by.
Pale, patient Robbie's angel face
Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace.
"No, for a thousand crowns, not him!"

And God doth take it from the mother's We whisper'd, while our eyes were dim.

arms,

Poor Dick! bad Dick! our wayward son,

From present pain and future unknown Turbulent, reckless, idle one—

harms,

And baby sleeps.

SAMUEL HINDS.

WHICH SHALL IT BE?

"WHICH shall it be? Which shall it be?"
I look'd at John-John look'd at me
(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet
As well as though my locks were jet);
And when I found that I must speak,
My voice seem'd strangely low and weak:
"Tell me again what Robert said."
And then I, listening, bent my head.
"This is his letter: 'I will give

A house and land while you shall live,
If, in return, from out your seven,
One child to me for aye is given.'
I look'd at John's old garments worn,
I thought of all that John had borne
Of poverty and work and care,
Which I, though willing, could not share;
I thought of seven mouths to feed,
Of seven little children's need,
And then of this. "Come, John," said I,
"We'll choose among them as they lie
Asleep" so, walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I survey'd our band.
First to the cradle lightly stepp'd,
Where the new nameless baby slept.
"Shall it be Baby?" whispered John.
I took his hand, and hurried on
To Lily's crib. Her sleeping grasp
Held her old doll within its clasp;
Her dark curls lay like gold alight,
A glory 'gainst the pillow white.

Could he be spared? Nay; He who gave
Bids us befriend him to his grave;
Only a mother's heart can be
Patient enough for such as he;
"And so," said John, "I would not dare
To send him from her bedside prayer."
Then stole we softly up above
And knelt by Mary, child of love.
"Perhaps for her 'twould better be,"
I said to John. Quite silently
He lifted up a curl astray

Across her cheek in wilful way,

And shook his head: "Nay, love; not thee,"
The while my heart beat audibly.
Only one more, our eldest lad,
Trusty and truthful, good and glad-
So like his father. "No, John, no-
I cannot, will not, let him go."
And so we wrote, in courteous way,
We could not give one child away;
And afterward toil lighter seem'd,
Thinking of that of which we dream'd,
We miss'd from its accustom'd place ;
Happy in truth that not one face
Thankful to work for all the seven,
Trusting the rest to One in heaven.

ETHEL LYNN BEERS.

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight,

When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations,

That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:

Yet I know by their merry eyes

They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret

O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,

Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old moustache as I am

Is not a match for you all?

I have you fast in my fortress,

And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you for ever,
Yes, for ever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed;

Nane covers his cauld back or haps his bare head;

His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn,

An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless . bairn.

Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there

O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair;

But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an'

stern,

That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn!

Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly-rock'd

bed

Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid;

The father toils sair their wee bannock to

earn,

An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.

Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth,

Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth;

Recording in heaven the blessings they

earn

Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!

Oh, speak him na harshly,-he trembles the while,

He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile;

In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn

That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn!

WILLIAM THOM

THE MITHERLESS BAIRN.

WHEN a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame

By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'?

THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE.
STAY, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,

And hear a helpless orphan's tale;
Ah, sure my looks must pity wake,—
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale;

'T is the puir doited loonie,-the mitherless Yet I was once a mother's pride,

bairn!

And my brave father's hope and joy;

But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an orphan boy!

Poor, foolish child! how pleased was I,
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,

To see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought,-
She could not bear to hear my joy;
For with my father's life 'twas bought,—
And made me a poor orphan boy!

The people's shouts were long and loud;
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears;
"Rejoice! REJOICE!" still cried the crowd,-
My mother answer'd with her tears!
"Oh why do tears steal down your cheek,"
Cried I, "while others shout for joy ?”
She kiss'd me; and in accents weak,
She call'd me her poor orphan boy!

What is an orphan boy?" I said;
When suddenly she gasp'd for breath,
And her eyes closed! I shriek`d for aid,
But ah! her eyes were closed in death.
My hardships since I will not tell;

But now, no more a parent's joy, Ah, lady, I have learn'd too well

What 'tis to be an orphan boy!

Oh, were I by your bounty fed!

Nay, gentle lady, do not chide; Trust me, I mean to earn my bread,— The sailor's orphan boy has pride. Lady, you weep; what is't you say? You'll give me clothing, food, employ? Look down, dear parents! look and see Your happy, happy orphan boy!

AMELIA OPIE.

IN SCHOOL-DAYS.

STILL sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar sunning;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry-vines are running.

Within, the master's desk is seen,

Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife's carved initial;

The charcoal frescos on its wall; Its door's worn sill, betraying

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My pen among the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed.

Nor quality, nor reputation,

Forbid 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 lines 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.

A FAREWELL.

My fairest child, I have no song to give Before the thought comes that-he is not

first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy,

To Him who gave my boy,

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be Then comes the sad thought that he is not

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