When in foul weather I have been terrified at the motion of the vessel, as it rocked backwards and forwards, he would still my fears, and tell me that I used to be rocked so once in a cradle, and that the sea was God's bed, and the ship our cradle, and we were as safe in that greater motion, as when we felt that lesser one in our little wooden sleeping-places. When the wind was up, and sang through the sails, and disturbed me with its violent clamours, he would call it music, and bid me hark to the sea-organ, and with that name he quieted my tender apprehensions. When I have looked around with a mournful face at seeing all men about me, he would enter into my thoughts, and tell me pretty stories of his mother and his sisters, and a female cousin that he loved better than his sisters, whom he called Jenny, and say that when we got to England I should go and see them, and how fond Jenny would be of his little daughter, as he called me; and with these images of women and females which he raised in my fancy, he quieted me for a time. One time, and never but once, he told me that Jenny had promised to be his wife if ever he came to England, but that he had his doubts whether he should live to get home, for he was very sickly. This made me cry bitterly.

That I dwell so long upon the attentions of this Atkinson, is only because his death, which happened just before we got to England, affected me so much, that he alone of all the ship's crew has engrossed my mind ever since; though indeed the captain and all were singularly kind to me, and strove to make up for my uneasy and unnatural situation. The boatswain would pipe for my diversion, and the sailor-boy would climb the dangerous mast for my sport. The rough foremastman would never willingly appear before me, till he had combed his long black hair smooth and sleek, not to terrify me. The officers got up a sort of play for my amusement, and Atkinson, or, as they called him, Betsy, acted the heroine of the piece. All ways that could be contrived, were thought upon, to reconcile me to my lot. I was the universal favourite;—I do not know how deservedly; but I suppose it was because I was alone, and there was no female in the ship besides me. Had I come over with female relations or attendants, I should have excited no particular curiosity; I should have required no uncommon attentions. I was one little woman among a crew of men; and I believe the homage which I have read that men universally pay to women, was in this case directed to me, in the absence of all other woman-kind. I do not know how that might be, but I was a little princess among them, and I was not six years old.

I remember the first draw-back which happened to my comfort, was Atkinson's not appearing during the whole of one day. The captain tried to reconcile me to it, by saying that Mr. Atkinson was confined to his cabin;—that he was not quite well, but a day or two would restore him. I begged to be taken in to see him, but this was not granted. A day, and then another came, and another, and no Atkinson was visible, and I saw apparent solicitude in the faces of all the officers, who nevertheless strove to put on their best countenances before me, and to be more than usually kind to me. At length, by the desire of Atkinson himself, as I have since learned, I was permitted to go into his cabin and see him. He was sitting up, apparently in a state of great exhaustion, but his face lighted up when he saw me, and he kissed me, and told me that he was going a great voyage, far longer than that which we had passed together, and he should never come back; and though I was so young, I understood well enough that he meant this of his death, and I cried sadly; but he comforted me and told me, that I must be his little executrix, and perform his last will, and bear his last words to his mother and his sister, and to his cousin Jenny, whom I should see in a short time; and he gave me his blessing, as a father would bless his child, and he sent a last kiss by me to all his female relations, and he made me promise that I would go and see them when I got to England, and soon after this he died; but I was in another part of the ship when he died, and I was not told it till we got to shore, which was a few days after; but they kept telling me that he was better and better, and that I should soon see him, but that it disturbed him to talk with any one. Oh, what a grief it was, when I learned that I had lost my old ship-mate, that had made an irksome situation so bearable by his kind assiduities; and to think that he was gone, and I could never repay him for his kindness!

When I had been a year and a half in England, the captain, who had made another voyage to India and back, thinking that time had alleviated a little the sorrow of Atkinson's relations, prevailed upon my friends who had the care of me in England, to let him introduce me to Atkinson's mother and sister. Jenny was no more; she had died in the interval, and I never saw her. Grief for his death had brought on a consumption, of which she lingered about a twelvemonth, and then expired. But in the mother and the sisters of this excellent young man, I have found the most valuable friends which I possess on this side the great ocean. They received me from the captain as the little protegee of Atkinson, and from them I have learned passages of his former life, and this in particular, that the illness of which he died was brought on by a wound of which he never quite recovered, which he got in the desperate attempt, when he was quite a boy, to defend his captain against a superior force of the enemy which had boarded him, and which, by his premature valour inspiriting the men, they finally succeeded in repulsing. This was that Atkinson, who, from his pale and feminine appearance, was called Betsy. This was he whose womanly care of me got him the name of a woman, who, with more than female attention, condescended to play the hand-maid to a little unaccompanied orphan, that fortune had cast upon the care of a rough sea captain, and his rougher crew.



THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS



Showing how notably the Queen made her tarts, and how scurvily the Knave stole them away, with other particulars belonging thereunto

Printed for Thomas Hodgkins Hanway Street November 18 1805.



High on a Throne of state is seen She whom all Hearts own for their Queen. Three Pages are in waiting by; He with the umbrella is her Spy, To spy out rogueries in the dark, And smell a rat as you shall mark.



The Queen here by the King's commands, Who does not like Cook's dirty hands, Makes the court-pastry all herself. Pambo the knave, that roguish elf, Watches each sugary sweet ingredient, And slily thinks of an expedient.



Now first of May does summer bring, How bright and fine is every thing! After their dam the chickens run, The green leaves glitter in the sun, While youths and maids in merry dance Round rustic maypoles do advance.



When Kings and Queens ariding go, Great Lords ride with them for a show With grooms & courtiers, a great store; Some ride behind, & some before. Pambo the first of these does pass, And for more state rides on an Ass.



Thieves! Thieves! holla, you knavish Jack, Cannot the good Queen turn her back, But you must be so nimble hasty To come and steal away her pastry You think you're safe, there's one fees all, And understands, though he's but small



How like a thievish Jack he looks! I wish for my part all the cooks Would come and baste him with a ladle As long as ever they were able, To keep his fingers ends from itching After sweet things in the Queen's kitchen.



Behold the King of Hearts how gruff The monarch stands, how square, how bluff! When our eighth Harry rul'd this land, Just like this King did Harry stand; And just so amorous, sweet, and willing, As this Queen stands, stood Anna Bullen.



The meat removed and dinner done, The knives are wip'd and cheese put on. The King aloud for Tarts does bawl, Tarts, tarts, resound through all the Hall. Pambo with tears denies the Fact, But Mungo saw him in the act.



Behold the due reward of sin, See what a plight rogue Pambo's in. The King lays on his blows so stout, The Tarts for fear come tumbling out O King! be merciful as just, You'll beat poor Pambo into dust



How like he looks to a dog that begs In abject sort upon two legs! Good Mr. Knave, give me my due, I like a tart as well as you, But I would starve on good roast Beef, Ere I would look so like a thief.



The Knave brings back the tarts he stole. The Queen swears, that is not the whole. What should poor Pambo do? hard prest Owns he has eaten up the rest. The King takes back, as lawful debt, Not all, but all that he can get.



Lo! Pambo prostrate on the floor Vows he will be a thief no more. O King your heart no longer harden, You've got the tarts, give him his pardon. The best time to forgive a sinner Is always after a good dinner.



"How say you Sir? tis all a joke— Great Kings love tarts like other folk!" If for a truth you'll not receive it, Pray, view the picture, and believe it. Sly Pambo too has got a share, And eats it snug behind the chair.



Their Majesties so well have fed, The tarts have got up in their head. "Or may be 'twas the wine!"—hush, gipsey! Great Kings & Queens indeed get tipsey! Now, Pambo, is the time for you: Beat little Tell-Tale black & blue.



POETRY FOR CHILDREN

(1808-1809. Text of 1809)

ENVY

This rose-tree is not made to bear The violet blue, nor lily fair, Nor the sweet mignionet: And if this tree were discontent, Or wish'd to change its natural bent, It all in vain would fret.

And should it fret, you would suppose It ne'er had seen its own red rose, Nor after gentle shower Had ever smell'd it rose's scent, Or it could ne'er be discontent With its own pretty flower.

Like such a blind and senseless tree As I've imagin'd this to be, All envious persons are: With care and culture all may find Some pretty flower in their own mind, Some talent that is rare.



THE REAPER'S CHILD

If you go to the field where the Reapers now bind The sheaves of ripe corn, there a fine little lass, Only three months of age, by the hedge-row you'll find, Left alone by its mother upon the low grass.

While the mother is reaping, the infant is sleeping; Not the basket that holds the provision is less By the hard-working Reaper, than this little sleeper, Regarded, till hunger does on the babe press.

Then it opens its eyes, and it utters loud cries, Which its hard-working mother afar off will hear; She comes at its calling, she quiets its squalling, And feeds it, and leaves it again without fear.

When you were as young as this field-nursed daughter, You were fed in the house, and brought up on the knee; So tenderly watched, thy fond mother thought her Whole time well bestow'd in nursing of thee.

THE RIDE

Lately an Equipage I overtook, And help'd to lift it o'er a narrow brook. No horse it had except one boy, who drew His sister out in it the fields to view. O happy town-bred girl, in fine chaise going For the first time to see the green grass growing. This was the end and purport of the ride I learn'd, as walking slowly by their side I heard their conversation. Often she— "Brother, is this the country that I see?" The bricks were smoking, and the ground was broke, There were no signs of verdure when she spoke. He, as the well-inform'd delight in chiding The ignorant, these questions still deriding, To his good judgment modestly she yields; Till, brick-kilns past, they reach'd the open fields. Then as with rapt'rous wonder round she gazes On the green grass, the butter-cups, and daisies, "This is the country sure enough," she cries; "Is't not a charming place?" The boy replies, "We'll go no further." "No," says she, "no need; No finer place than this can be indeed." I left them gathering flow'rs, the happiest pair That ever London sent to breathe the fine fresh air,



THE BUTTERFLY

SISTER

Do, my dearest brother John, Let that Butterfly alone.

BROTHER

What harm now do I do? You're always making such a noise—

SISTER

O fie, John; none but naughty boys Say such rude words as you.

BROTHER

Because you're always speaking sharp: On the same thing you always harp. A bird one may not catch, Nor find a nest, nor angle neither, Nor from the peacock pluck a feather, But you are on the watch To moralise and lecture still.

SISTER

And ever lecture, John, I will, When such sad things I hear. But talk not now of what is past; The moments fly away too fast, Though endlessly they seem to last To that poor soul in fear.

BROTHER

Well, soon (I say) I'll let it loose; But, sister, you talk like a goose, There's no soul in a fly.

SISTER

It has a form and fibres fine, Were temper'd by the hand divine Who dwells beyond the sky. Look, brother, you have hurt its wing— And plainly by its fluttering You see it's in distress, Gay painted Coxcomb, spangled Beau, A Butterfly is call'd you know, That's always in full dress: The finest gentleman of all Insects he is—he gave a Ball, You know the Poet wrote. Let's fancy this the very same, And then you'll own you've been to blame To spoil his silken coat.

BROTHER

Your dancing, spangled, powder'd Beau, Look, through the air I've let him go: And now we're friends again. As sure as he is in the air, From this time, Ann, I will take care, And try to be humane.

THE PEACH

Mamma gave us a single Peach, She shar'd it among seven; Now you may think that unto each But a small piece was given.

Yet though each share was very small, We own'd when it was eaten, Being so little for us all Did its fine flavour heighten.

The tear was in our parent's eye, It seem'd quite out of season; When we ask'd wherefore she did cry, She thus explain'd the reason.

"The cause, my children, I may say, Was joy, and not dejection; The Peach, which made you all so gay, Gave rise to this reflection:

"It's many a mother's lot to share, Seven hungry children viewing, A morsel of the coarsest fare, As I this Peach was doing."

CHUSING A NAME

I have got a new-born sister; I was nigh the first that kiss'd her. When the nursing woman brought her To Papa, his infant daughter, How Papa's dear eyes did glisten!— She will shortly be to christen: And Papa has made the offer, I shall have the naming of her.

Now I wonder what would please her, Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa. Ann and Mary, they're too common; Joan's too formal for a woman; Jane's a prettier name beside; But we had a Jane that died. They would say, if 'twas Rebecca, That she was a little Quaker, Edith's pretty, but that looks Better in old English books; Ellen's left off long ago; Blanche is out of fashion now. None that I have nam'd as yet Are so good as Margaret. Emily is neat and fine. What do you think of Caroline? How I'm puzzled and perplext What to chuse or think of next! I am in a little fever. Lest the name that I shall give her Should disgrace her or defame her I will leave Papa to name her.

CRUMBS TO THE BIRDS

A bird appears a thoughtless thing, He's ever living on the wing, And keeps up such a carolling, That little else to do but sing A man would guess had he.

No doubt he has his little cares, And very hard he often fares, The which so patiently he bears, That, list'ning to those cheerful airs, Who knows but he may be

In want of his next meal of seeds? I think for that his sweet song pleads. If so, his pretty art succeeds. I'll scatter there among the weeds All the small crumbs I see.

THE ROOK AND THE SPARROWS

A little boy with crumbs of bread Many a hungry sparrow fed. It was a child of little sense, Who this kind bounty did dispense; For suddenly it was withdrawn, And all the birds were left forlorn, In a hard time of frost and snow, Not knowing where for food to go. He would no longer give them bread, Because he had observ'd (he said) That sometimes to the window came A great blackbird, a rook by name, And took away a small bird's share. So foolish Henry did not care What became of the great rook, That from the little sparrows took, Now and then, as 'twere by stealth, A part of their abundant wealth; Nor ever more would feed his sparrows. Thus ignorance a kind heart narrows. I wish I had been there; I would Have told the child, rooks live by food In the same way that sparrows do. I also would have told him too, Birds act by instinct, and ne'er can Attain the rectitude of man. Nay that even, when distress Does on poor human nature press, We need not be too strict in seeing The failings of a fellow being.

DISCONTENT AND QUARRELLING

JANE

Miss Lydia every day is drest Better than I am in my best White cambric-muslin frock. I wish I had one made of clear Work'd lawn, or leno very dear.— And then my heart is broke

Almost to think how cheap my doll Was bought, when hers cost—yes, cost full A pound, it did, my brother; Nor has she had it weeks quite five, Yet, 'tis as true as I'm alive, She's soon to have another.

ROBERT

O mother, hear my sister Jane, How foolishly she does complain, And teaze herself for nought. But 'tis the way of all her sex, Thus foolishly themselves to vex. Envy's a female fault.

JANE

O brother Robert, say not so; It is not very long ago, Ah! brother, you've forgot, When speaking of a boy you knew, Remember how you said that you Envied his happy lot.

ROBERT

Let's see, what were the words I spoke? Why, may be I was half in joke— May be I just might say— Besides that was not half so bad; For Jane, I only said he had More time than I to play.

JANE

O may be, may be, very well: And may be, brother, I don't tell Tales to mamma like you.

MOTHER

O cease your wrangling, cease, my dears; You would not wake a mother's fears Thus, if you better knew.

REPENTANCE AND RECONCILIATION

JANE

Mamma is displeased and looks very grave, And I own, brother, I was to blame Just now when I told her I wanted to have, Like Miss Lydia, a very fine name. 'Twas foolish, for, Robert, Jane sounds very well, When mamma says, "I love my good Jane." I've been lately so naughty, I hardly can tell If she ever will say so again.

ROBERT

We are each of us foolish, and each of us young, And often in fault and to blame. Jane, yesterday I was too free with my tongue, I acknowledge it now to my shame. For a speech in my good mother's hearing I made, Which reflected upon her whole sex; And now like you, Jenny, I am much afraid That this might my dear mother vex.

JANE

But yet, brother Robert, 'twas not quite so bad As that naughty reflection of mine, When I grumbled because Liddy Bellenger had Dolls and dresses expensive and fine. For then 'twas of her, her own self, I complain'd; Since mamma does provide all I have.

MOTHER

Your repentance, my children, I see is unfeign'd, You are now my good Robert, and now my good Jane; And if you never will be naughty again, Your fond mother will never look grave.

NEATNESS IN APPAREL

In your garb and outward clothing A reserved plainness use; By their neatness more distinguish'd Than the brightness of their hues.

All the colours in the rainbow Serve to spread the peacock's train; Half the lustre of his feathers Would turn twenty coxcombs vain.

Yet the swan that swims in rivers, Pleases the judicious sight; Who, of brighter colours heedless, Trusts alone to simple white.

Yet all other hues, compared With his whiteness, show amiss; And the peacock's coat of colours Like a fool's coat looks by his.

THE NEW-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, Ev'n 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 now talk 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; or 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.

MOTES IN THE SUN-BEAMS

The motes up and down in the sun Ever restlessly moving we see; Whereas the great mountains stand still, Unless terrible earthquakes there be.

If these atoms that move up and down Were as useful as restless they are, Than a mountain I rather would be A mote in the sun-beam so fair.

THE BOY AND SNAKE

Henry was every morning fed With a full mess of milk and bread. One day the boy his breakfast took, And eat it by a purling brook Which through his mother's orchard ran. From that time ever when he can Escape his mother's eye, he there Takes his food in th' open air. Finding the child delight to eat Abroad, and make the grass his seat, His mother lets him have his way. With free leave Henry every day Thither repairs, until she heard Him talking of a fine grey bird. This pretty bird, he said, indeed, Came every day with him to feed, And it lov'd him, and lov'd his milk, And it was smooth and soft like silk. His mother thought she'd go and see What sort of bird this same might be. So the next morn she follows Harry, And carefully she sees him carry Through the long grass his heap'd-up mess. What was her terror and distress, When she saw the infant take His bread and milk close to a snake! Upon the grass he spreads his feast, And sits down by his frightful guest, Who had waited for the treat; And now they both begin to eat. Fond mother! shriek not, O beware The least small noise, O have a care— The least small noise that may be made, The wily snake will be afraid— If he hear the lightest sound, He will inflict th' envenom'd wound. She speaks not, moves not, scarce does breathe, As she stands the trees beneath; No sound she utters; and she soon Sees the child lift up its spoon, And tap the snake upon the head, Fearless of harm; and then he said, As speaking to familiar mate, "Keep on your own side, do, Grey Pate:" The snake then to the other side, As one rebuked, seems to glide; And now again advancing nigh, Again she hears the infant cry, Tapping the snake, "Keep further, do; Mind, Grey Pate, what I say to you." The danger's o'er—she sees the boy (O what a change from fear to joy!) Rise and bid the snake "good-bye;" Says he, "Our breakfast's done, and I Will come again to-morrow day:" Then, lightly tripping, ran away.

THE FIRST TOOTH

SISTER

Through the house what busy joy, Just because the infant boy Has a tiny tooth to show. I have got a double row, All as white, and all as small; Yet no one cares for mine at all. He can say but half a word, Yet that single sound's preferr'd To all the words that I can say In the longest summer day. He cannot walk, yet if he put With mimic motion out his foot, As if he thought, he were advancing, It's prized more than my best dancing.

BROTHER

Sister, I know, you jesting are, Yet O! of jealousy beware. If the smallest seed should be In your mind of jealousy, It will spring, and it will shoot, Till it bear the baneful fruit. I remember you, my dear, Young as is this infant here. There was not a tooth of those Your pretty even ivory rows, But as anxiously was watched, Till it burst its shell new hatched, As if it a Phoenix were, Or some other wonder rare. So when you began to walk— So when you began to talk— As now, the same encomiums past. 'Tis not fitting this should last Longer than our infant days; A child is fed with milk and praise.

TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED

(Text of 1818)

Smiling river, smiling river, On thy bosom sun-beams play; Though they're fleeting and retreating, Thou hast more deceit than they.

In thy channel, in thy channel, Choak'd with ooze and grav'lly stones, Deep immersed and unhearsed, Lies young Edward's corse: his bones

Ever whitening, ever whitening, As thy waves against them dash; What thy torrent, in the current, Swallow'd, now it helps to wash.

As if senseless, as if senseless Things had feeling in this case; What so blindly, and unkindly, It destroy'd, it now does grace.

THE FIRST OF APRIL

"Tell me what is the reason you hang down your head; From your blushes I plainly discern, You have done something wrong. Ere you go up to bed, I desire that the truth I may learn."

"O mamma, I have long'd to confess all the day What an ill-natured thing I have done; I persuaded myself it was only in play, But such play I in future will shun.

"The least of the ladies that live at the school, Her whose eyes are so pretty and blue, Ah! would you believe it? an April fool I have made her, and call'd her so too.

"Yet the words almost choak'd me; and, as I spoke low, I have hopes that she might them not hear. I had wrapt up some rubbish in paper, and so, The instant the school-girls drew near,

"I presented it with a fine bow to the child, And much her acceptance I press'd; When she took it, and thank'd me, and gratefully smil'd, I never felt half so distress'd.

"No doubt she concluded some sweetmeats were there, For the paper was white and quite clean, And folded up neatly, as if with great care. O what a rude boy I have been!

"Ever since I've been thinking how vex'd she will be, Ever since I've done nothing but grieve. If a thousand young ladies a walking I see, I will never another deceive."

CLEANLINESS

Come my little Robert near— Fie! what filthy hands are here— Who that e'er could understand The rare structure of a hand, With its branching fingers fine, Work itself of hands divine, Strong, yet delicately knit, For ten thousand uses fit, Overlaid with so clear skin You may see the blood within, And the curious palm, disposed In such lines, some have supposed You may read the fortunes there By the figures that appear— Who this hand would chuse to cover With a crust of dirt all over, Till it look'd in hue and shape Like the fore-foot of an Ape? Man or boy that works or plays In the fields or the highways May, without offence or hurt, From the soil contract a dirt, Which the next clear spring or river Washes out and out for ever— But to cherish stains impure, Soil deliberate to endure, On the skin to fix a stain Till it works into the grain, Argues a degenerate mind, Sordid, slothful, ill inclin'd, Wanting in that self-respect Which does virtue best protect.

All-endearing Cleanliness, Virtue next to Godliness, Easiest, cheapest, needful'st duty, To the body health and beauty, Who that's human would refuse it, When a little water does it?

THE LAME BROTHER

My parents sleep both in one grave; My only friend's a brother. The dearest things upon the earth We are to one another.

A fine stout boy I knew him once, With active form and limb; Whene'er he leap'd, or jump'd, or ran, O I was proud of him!

He leap'd too far, he got a hurt, He now does limping go.— When I think on his active days, My heart is full of woe.

He leans on me, when we to school Do every morning walk; I cheer him on his weary way, He loves to hear my talk:

The theme of which is mostly this, What things he once could do. He listens pleas'd—then sadly says, "Sister, I lean on you."

Then I reply, "Indeed you're not Scarce any weight at all.— And let us now still younger years To memory recall.

"Led by your little elder hand, I learn'd to walk alone; Careful you us'd to be of me, My little brother John.

"How often, when my young feet tir'd, You've carried me a mile!— And still together we can sit, And rest a little while.

"For our kind master never minds, If we're the very last; He bids us never tire ourselves With walking on too fast."

GOING INTO BREECHES

Joy to Philip, he this day Has his long coats cast away, And (the childish season gone) Puts the manly breeches on. Officer on gay parade, Red-coat in his first cockade, Bridegroom in his wedding trim, Birthday beau surpassing him, Never did with conscious gait Strut about in half the state, Or the pride (yet free from sin) Of my little MANIKIN: Never was there pride, or bliss, Half so rational as his. Sashes, frocks, to those that need 'em— Philip's limbs have got their freedom— He can run, or he can ride, And do twenty things beside, Which his petticoats forbad: Is he not a happy lad? Now he's under other banners, He must leave his former manners; Bid adieu to female games, And forget their very names, Puss in Corners, Hide and Seek, Sports for girls and punies weak! Baste the Bear he now may play at, Leap-frog, Foot-ball, sport away at, Show his skill and strength at Cricket, Mark his distance, pitch his wicket, Run about in winter's snow Till his cheeks and fingers glow, Climb a tree, or scale a wall, Without any fear to fall. If he get a hurt or bruise, To complain he must refuse, Though the anguish and the smart Go unto his little heart, He must have his courage ready, Keep his voice and visage steady, Brace his eye-balls stiff as drum, That a tear may never come, And his grief must only speak From the colour in his cheek. This and more he must endure, Hero he in miniature! This and more must now be done Now the breeches are put on.

NURSING

O hush, my little baby brother; Sleep, my love, upon my knee. What though, dear child, we've lost our mother; That can never trouble thee.

You are but ten weeks old to-morrow; What can you know of our loss? The house is full enough of sorrow. Little baby, don't be cross.

Peace, cry not so, my dearest love; Hush, my baby-bird, lie still.— He's quiet now, he does not move, Fast asleep is little Will.

My only solace, only joy, Since the sad day I lost my mother, Is nursing her own Willy boy, My little orphan brother.

THE TEXT

One Sunday eve a grave old man, Who had not been at church, did say, "Eliza, tell me, if you can, What text our Doctor took to-day?"

She hung her head, she blush'd for shame, One single word she did not know, Nor verse nor chapter she could name, Her silent blushes told him so.

Again said he, "My little maid, What in the sermon did you hear; Come tell me that, for that may aid Me to find out the text, my dear."

A tear stole down each blushing cheek, She wish'd she better had attended; She sobbing said, when she could speak, She heard not till 'twas almost ended.

"Ah! little heedless one, why what Could you be thinking on? 'tis clear Some foolish fancies must have got Possession of your head, my dear.

"What thoughts were they, Eliza, tell, Nor seek from me the truth to smother."— "O I remember very well, I whisper'd something to my brother.

"I said, 'Be friends with me, dear Will;' We quarrell'd, Sir, at the church door,— Though he cried, 'Hush, don't speak, be still,' Yet I repeated these words o'er

"Sev'n or eight times, I have no doubt. But here comes William, and if he The good things he has heard about Forgets too, Sir, the fault's in me."

"No, Sir," said William, "though perplext And much disturbed by my sister, I in this matter of the text, I thank my memory, can assist her.

"I have, and pride myself on having, A more retentive head than she."— Then gracefully his right hand waving, He with no little vanity

Recited gospel, chapter, verse— I should be loth to spoil in metre All the good words he did rehearse, As spoken by our Lord to Peter.

But surely never words from heaven Of peace and love more full descended; That we should seventy times seven Forgive our brother that offended.

In every point of view he plac'd it, As he the Doctor's self had been, With emphasis and action grac'd it: But from his self-conceit 'twas seen

Who had brought home the words, and who had A little on the meaning thought; Eliza now the old man knew had Learn'd that which William never caught.

Without impeaching William's merit, His head but served him for the letter, Hers miss'd the words, but kept the spirit; Her memory to her heart was debtor.

THE END OF MAY

"Our Governess is not in school, So we may talk a bit; Sit down upon this little stool, Come, little Mary, sit:

"And, my dear play-mate, tell me why In dismal black you're drest? Why does the tear stand in your eye? With sobs why heaves your breast?

"When we're in grief, it gives relief Our sorrows to impart; When you've told why, my dear, you cry, 'Twill ease your little heart."

"O, it is trouble very bad Which causes me to weep; All last night long we were so sad, Not one of us could sleep.

"Beyond the seas my father went, 'Twas very long ago; And he last week a letter sent (I told you so, you know)

"That he was safe in Portsmouth bay, And we should see him soon, Either the latter end of May, Or by the first of June.

"The end of May was yesterday, We all expected him; And in our best clothes we were drest, Susan, and I, and Jim.

"O how my poor dear mother smil'd, And clapt her hands for joy; She said to me, 'Come here, my child, And Susan, and my boy.

"'Come all, and let us think,' said she, 'What we can do to please Your father, for to-day will he Come home from off the seas.

"'That you have won, my dear young son, A prize at school, we'll tell, Because you can, my little man, In writing all excel;

"'And you have made a poem, nearly All of your own invention: Will not your father love you dearly, When this to him I mention?

"'Your sister Mary, she can say Your poetry by heart; And to repeat your verses may Be little Mary's part,

"'Susan, for you, I'll say you do Your needlework with care, And stitch so true the wristbands new, Dear father's soon to wear!'

"'O hark!' said James; 'I hear one speak; 'Tis like a seaman's voice.'— Our mother gave a joyful shriek; How did we all rejoice!

"'My husband's come!' 'My father's here! But O, alas, it was not so; It was not as we said: A stranger seaman did appear, On his rough cheek there stood a tear, For he brought to us a tale of woe, Our father dear was dead."

FEIGNED COURAGE

Horatio, of ideal courage vain, Was flourishing in air his father's cane, And, as the fumes of valour swell'd his pate, Now thought himself this Hero, and now that: "And now," he cried, "I will Achilles be; My sword I brandish; see, the Trojans flee. Now I'll be Hector, when his angry blade A lane through heaps of slaughter'd Grecians made! And now by deeds still braver I'll evince, I am no less than Edward the Black Prince.— Give way, ye coward French:—" as thus he spoke, And aim'd in fancy a sufficient stroke To fix the fate of Cressy or Poictiers; (The Muse relates the Hero's fate with tears) He struck his milk-white hand against a nail, Sees his own blood, and feels his courage fail. Ah! where is now that boasted valour flown, That in the tented field so late was shown! Achilles weeps, Great Hector hangs the head, And the Black Prince goes whimpering to bed.

THE BROKEN DOLL

An infant is a selfish sprite; But what of that? the sweet delight Which from participation springs, Is quite unknown to these young things. We elder children then will smile At our dear little John awhile, And bear with him, until he see There is a sweet felicity In pleasing more than only one Dear little craving selfish John.

He laughs, and thinks it a fine joke, That he our new wax doll has broke. Anger will never teach him better; We will the spirit and the letter Of courtesy to him display, By taking in a friendly way These baby frolics, till he learn True sport from mischief to discern.

Reproof a parent's province is; A sister's discipline is this, By studied kindness to effect A little brother's young respect. What is a doll? a fragile toy. What is its loss? if the dear boy, Who half perceives he's done amiss, Retain impression of the kiss That follow'd instant on his cheek; If the kind loving words we speak Of "Never mind it," "We forgive," If these in his short memory live Only perchance for half a day— Who minds a doll—if that should lay The first impression in his mind That sisters are to brothers kind? For thus the broken doll may prove Foundation to fraternal love.

THE DUTY OF A BROTHER

Why on your sister do you look, Octavius, with an eye of scorn, As scarce her presence you could brook?— Under one roof you both were born.

Why, when she gently proffers speech, Do you ungently turn your head? Since the same sire gave life to each; With the same milk ye both were fed.

Such treatment to a female, though A perfect stranger she might be, From you would most unmanly show; In you to her 'tis worse to see.

When any ill-bred boys offend her, Showing their manhood by their sneers, It is your business to defend her 'Gainst their united taunts and jeers.

And not to join the illiberal crew In their contempt of female merit; What's bad enough in them, from you Is want of goodness, want of spirit.

What if your rougher out-door sports Her less robustious spirits daunt; And if she join not the resorts, Where you and your wild playmates haunt:

Her milder province is at home; When your diversions have an end, When over-toil'd from play you come, You'll find in her an in-doors friend.

Leave not your sister to another; As long as both of you reside In the same house, who but her brother Should point her books, her studies guide?

If Nature, who allots our cup, Than her has made you stronger, wiser; It is that you, as you grow up, Should be her champion, her adviser.

It is the law that Hand intends, Which fram'd diversity of sex; The man the woman still defends, The manly boy the girl protects.

WASPS IN A GARDEN

The wall-trees are laden with fruit; The grape, and the plum, and the pear, The peach, and the nect'rine, to suit Ev'ry taste in abundance, are there.

Yet all are not welcome to taste These kind bounties of nature; for one From her open-spread table must haste, To make room for a more favour'd son:

As that wasp will soon sadly perceive, Who has feasted awhile on a plum; And, his thirst thinking now to relieve, For a sweet liquid draught he is come.

He peeps in the narrow-mouth'd glass, Which depends from a branch of the tree; He ventures to creep down,—alas! To be drown'd in that delicate sea.

"Ah say," my dear friend, "is it right, These glass bottles are hung upon trees: 'Midst a scene of inviting delight, Should we find such mementoes as these?"

"From such sights," said my friend, "we may draw A lesson, for look at that bee; Compar'd with the wasp which you saw, He will teach us what we ought to be.

"He in safety industriously plies His sweet honest work all the day, Then home with his earnings he flies; Nor in thieving his time wastes away."—

"O hush, nor with fables deceive," I replied; "which, though pretty, can ne'er Make me cease for that insect to grieve, Who in agony still does appear.

"If a simile ever you need, You are welcome to make a wasp do; But you ne'er should mix fiction indeed With things that are serious and true."

WHAT IS FANCY?

SISTER

I am to write three lines, and you Three others that will rhyme. There—now I've done my task.

BROTHER

Three stupid lines as e'er I knew. When you've the pen next time, Some Question of me ask.

SISTER

Then tell me, brother, and pray mind, Brother, you tell me true: What sort of thing is fancy?

BROTHER

By all that I can ever find, 'Tis something that is very new, And what no dunces can see.

SISTER

That is not half the way to tell What fancy is about; So pray now tell me more.

BROTHER

Sister, I think 'twere quite as well That you should find it out; So think the matter o'er.

SISTER

It's what comes in our heads when we Play at "Let's make believe," And when we play at "Guessing."

BROTHER

And I have heard it said to be A talent often makes us grieve, And sometimes proves a blessing.

ANGER

Anger in its time and place May assume a kind of grace. It must have some reason in it, And not last beyond a minute. If to further lengths it go, It does into malice grow. 'Tis the difference that we see 'Twixt the Serpent and the Bee. If the latter you provoke, It inflicts a hasty stroke, Puts you to some little pain, But it never stings again. Close in tufted bush or brake Lurks the poison-swelled snake, Nursing up his cherish'd wrath. In the purlieus of his path, In the cold, or in the warm, Mean him good, or mean him harm, Whensoever fate may bring you, The vile snake will always sting you.

BLINDNESS

In a stage-coach, where late I chanc'd to be, A little quiet girl my notice caught; I saw she look'd at nothing by the way, Her mind seem'd busy on some childish thought.

I with an old man's courtesy address'd The child, and call'd her pretty dark-eyed maid And bid her turn those pretty eyes and see The wide extended prospect. "Sir," she said,

"I cannot see the prospect, I am blind." Never did tongue of child utter a sound So mournful, as her words fell on my ear. Her mother then related how she found

Her child was sightless. On a fine bright day She saw her lay her needlework aside, And, as on such occasions mothers will, For leaving off her work began to chide.

"I'll do it when 'tis day-light, if you please; I cannot work, Mamma, now it is night." The sun shone bright upon her when she spoke, And yet her eyes receiv'd no ray of light.

THE MIMIC HARLEQUIN

"I'll make believe, and fancy something strange: I will suppose I have the power to change And make all things unlike to what they were, To jump through windows and fly through the air, And quite confound all places and all times, Like Harlequins we see in Pantomimes. These thread-papers my wooden sword must be, Nothing more like one I at present see. And now all round this drawing-room I'll range And every thing I look at I will change. Here's Mopsa, our old cat, shall be a bird; To a Poll Parrot she is now transferr'd. Here's Mamma's work-bag, now I will engage To whisk this little bag into a cage; And now, my pretty Parrot, get you in it, Another change I'll shew you in a minute."

"O fie, you naughty child, what have you done? There never was so mischievous a son. You've put the cat among my work, and torn A fine lac'd cap that I but once have worn."

WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF A CHILD'S MEMORANDUM-BOOK

My neat and pretty book, when I thy small lines see, They seem for any use to be unfit for me. My writing, all misshaped, uneven as my mind, Within this narrow space can hardly be confin'd. Yet I will strive to make my hand less aukward look; I would not willingly disgrace thee, my neat book! The finest pens I'll use, and wond'rous pains I'll take, And I these perfect lines my monitors will make. And every day I will set down in order due, How that day wasted is; and should there be a few At the year's end that shew more goodly to the sight, If haply here I find some days not wasted quite, If a small portion of them I have pass'd aright, Then shall I think the year not wholly was misspent, And that my Diary has been by some good Angel sent.

MEMORY

"For gold could Memory be bought, What treasures would she not be worth! If from afar she could be brought, I'd travel for her through the earth!"

This exclamation once was made By one who had obtain'd the name Of young forgetful Adelaide: And while she spoke, lo! Memory came.

If Memory indeed it were, Or such it only feign'd to be— A female figure came to her, Who said, "My name is Memory:

"Gold purchases in me no share, Nor do I dwell in distant land; Study, and thought, and watchful care, In every place may me command.

"I am not lightly to be won; A visit only now I make: And much must by yourself be done, Ere me you for an inmate take.

"The only substitute for me Was ever found, is call'd a pen: The frequent use of that will be The way to make me come again."

THE REPROOF

Mamma heard me with scorn and pride A wretched beggar boy deride. "Do you not know," said I, "how mean It is to be thus begging seen? If for a week I were not fed, I'm sure I would not beg my bread." And then away she saw me stalk With a most self-important walk. But meeting her upon the stairs, All these my consequential airs Were chang'd to an entreating look. "Give me," said I, "the Pocket Book, Mamma, you promis'd I should have." The Pocket Book to me she gave; After reproof and counsel sage, She bade me write in the first page This naughty action all in rhyme; No food to have until the time, In writing fair and neatly worded, The unfeeling fact I had recorded. Slow I compose, and slow I write; And now I feel keen hunger bite. My mother's pardon I entreat, And beg she'll give me food to eat. Dry bread would be received with joy By her repentant Beggar Boy.

THE TWO BEES

But a few words could William say, And those few could not speak plain. Yet thought he was a man one day; Never saw I a boy so vain.

From what could vanity proceed In such a little lisping lad? Or was it vanity indeed? Or was he only very glad?

For he without his maid may go To the heath with elder boys, And pluck ripe berries where they grow: Well may William then rejoice.

Be careful of your little charge; Elder boys, let him not rove; The heath is wide, the heath is large, From your sight he must not move.

But rove he did: they had not been One short hour the heath upon, When he was no where to be seen; "Where," said they, "is William gone?"

Mind not the elder boys' distress; Let them run, and let them fly. Their own neglect and giddiness They are justly suffering by.

William his little basket fill'd With his berries ripe and red; Then, naughty boy, two bees he kill'd, Under foot he stamp'd them dead.

William had cours'd them o'er the heath, After them his steps did wander; When he was nearly out of breath, The last bee his foot was under.

A cruel triumph, which did not Last but for a moment's space, For now he finds that he has got Out of sight of every face.

What are the berries now to him? What the bees which he hath slain? Fear now possesses every limb, He cannot trace his steps again.

The poor bees William had affrighted In more terror did not haste, Than he from bush to bush, benighted And alone amid the waste.

Late in the night the child was found: He who these two bees had crush'd Was lying on the cold damp ground, Sleep had then his sorrows hush'd.

A fever follow'd from the fright, And from sleeping in the dew; He many a day and many a night Suffer'd ere he better grew.

His aching limbs while sick he lay Made him learn the crush'd bees' pain; Oft would he to his mother say, "I ne'er will kill a bee again."

THE JOURNEY FROM SCHOOL AND TO SCHOOL

O what a joyous joyous day Is that on which we come At the recess from school away, Each lad to his own home!

What though the coach is crammed full, The weather very warm; Think you a boy of us is dull, Or feels the slightest harm?

The dust and sun is life and fun; The hot and sultry weather A higher zest gives every breast, Thus jumbled all together.

Sometimes we laugh aloud aloud, Sometimes huzzah, huzzah. Who is so buoyant, free, and proud, As we home-travellers are?

But sad, but sad is every lad That day on which we come, That last last day on which away We all come from our home.

The coach too full is found to be: Why is it crammed thus? Now every one can plainly see There's not half room for us.

Soon we exclaim, O shame, O shame, This hot and sultry weather, Who but our master is to blame, Who pack'd us thus together!

Now dust and sun does every one Most terribly annoy; Complaints begun, soon every one Elbows his neighbour boy.

Not now the joyous laugh goes round, We shout not now huzzah; A sadder group may not be found Than we returning are.

THE ORANGE

The month was June, the day was hot, And Philip had an orange got. The fruit was fragrant, tempting, bright, Refreshing to the smell and sight; Not of that puny size which calls Poor customers to common stalls, But large and massy, full of juice, As any Lima can produce. The liquor would, if squeezed out, Have fill'd a tumbler thereabout—

The happy boy, with greedy eyes, Surveys and re-surveys his prize. He turns it round, and longs to drain, And with the juice his lips to stain. His throat and lips were parch'd with heat; The orange seem'd to cry, Come eat. He from his pocket draws a knife— When in his thoughts there rose a strife, Which folks experience when they wish, Yet scruple to begin a dish, And by their hesitation own It is too good to eat alone. But appetite o'er indecision Prevails, and Philip makes incision. The melting fruit in quarters came— Just then there passed by a dame— One of the poorer sort she seem'd, As by her garb you would have deem'd— Who in her toil-worn arms did hold A sickly infant ten months old; That from a fever, caught in spring, Was slowly then recovering. The child, attracted by the view Of that fair orange, feebly threw A languid look—perhaps the smell Convinc'd it that there sure must dwell A corresponding sweetness there, Where lodg'd a scent so good and rare— Perhaps the smell the fruit did give Felt healing and restorative— For never had the child been grac'd To know such dainties by their taste.

When Philip saw the infant crave, He straitway to the mother gave His quarter'd orange; nor would stay To hear her thanks, but tript away. Then to the next clear spring he ran To quench his drought, a happy man!

THE YOUNG LETTER-WRITER

Dear Sir, Dear Madam, or Dear Friend, With ease are written at the top; When those two happy words are penn'd, A youthful writer oft will stop,

And bite his pen, and lift his eyes, As if he thinks to find in air The wish'd-for following words, or tries To fix his thoughts by fixed stare.

But haply all in vain—the next Two words may be so long before They'll come, the writer, sore perplext, Gives in despair the matter o'er;

And when maturer age he sees With ready pen so swift inditing, With envy he beholds the ease Of long-accustom'd letter-writing.

Courage, young friend; the time may be, When you attain maturer age, Some young as you are now may see You with like ease glide down a page.

Ev'n then when you, to years a debtor, In varied phrase your meanings wrap, The welcom'st words in all your letter May be those two kind words at top.

THE THREE FRIENDS

(Text of 1818)

Three young maids in friendship met; Mary, Martha, Margaret. Margaret was tall and fair, Martha shorter by a hair; If the first excell'd in feature, Th' other's grace and ease were greater; Mary, though to rival loth, In their best gifts equall'd both. They a due proportion kept; Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept; Margaret joy'd when any good She of Martha understood; And in sympathy for either Mary was outdone by neither. Thus far, for a happy space, All three ran an even race, A most constant friendship proving, Equally belov'd and loving; All their wishes, joys, the same; Sisters only not in name.

Fortune upon each one smil'd, As upon a fav'rite child; Well to do and well to see Were the parents of all three; Till on Martha's father crosses Brought a flood of worldly losses, And his fortunes rich and great Chang'd at once to low estate; Under which o'erwhelming blow Martha's mother was laid low; She a hapless orphan left, Of maternal care bereft, Trouble following trouble fast, Lay in a sick bed at last.

In the depth of her affliction Martha now receiv'd conviction, That a true and faithful friend Can the surest comfort lend. Night and day, with friendship tried, Ever constant by her side Was her gentle Mary found, With a love that knew no bound; And the solace she imparted Sav'd her dying' broken-hearted.

In this scene of earthly things Not one good unmixed springs. That which had to Martha proved A sweet consolation, moved Different feelings of regret In the mind of Margaret. She, whose love was not less dear, Nor affection less sincere To her friend, was, by occasion Of more distant habitation, Fewer visits forc'd to pay her, When no other cause did stay her; And her Mary living nearer, Margaret began to fear her, Lest her visits day by day Martha's heart should steal away. That whole heart she ill could spare her, Where till now she'd been a sharer. From this cause with grief she pined, Till at length her health declined. All her chearful spirits flew, Fast as Martha gather'd new; And her sickness waxed sore, Just when Martha felt no more.

Mary, who had quick suspicion Of her alter'd friend's condition, Seeing Martha's convalescence Less demanded now her presence, With a goodness, built on reason, Chang'd her measures with the season; Turn'd her steps from Martha's door, Went where she was wanted more; All her care and thoughts were set Now to tend on Margaret. Mary living 'twixt the two, From her home could oft'ner go, Either of her friends to see, Than they could together be.

Truth explain'd is to suspicion Evermore the best physician. Soon her visits had the effect; All that Margaret did suspect, From her fancy vanish'd clean; She was soon what she had been, And the colour she did lack To her faded cheek came back. Wounds which love had made her feel, Love alone had power to heal.

Martha, who the frequent visit Now had lost, and sore did miss it, With impatience waxed cross, Counted Margaret's gain her loss: All that Mary did confer On her friend, thought due to her. In her girlish bosom rise Little foolish jealousies, Which into such rancour wrought, She one day for Margaret sought; Finding her by chance alone, She began, with reasons shown, To insinuate a fear Whether Mary was sincere; Wish'd that Margaret would take heed Whence her actions did proceed. For herself, she'd long been minded Not with outsides to be blinded; All that pity and compassion, She believ'd was affectation; In her heart she doubted whether Mary car'd a pin for either. She could keep whole weeks at distance, And not know of their existence, While all things remain'd the same; But, when some misfortune came, Then she made a great parade Of her sympathy and aid,— Not that she did really grieve, It was only make-believe, And she car'd for nothing, so She might her fine feelings shew, And get credit, on her part, For a soft and tender heart.

With such speeches, smoothly made, She found methods to persuade Margaret (who, being sore From the doubts she'd felt before, Was prepared for mistrust) To believe her reasons just; Quite destroy'd that comfort glad, Which in Mary late she had; Made her, in experience' spite, Think her friend a hypocrite, And resolve, with cruel scoff, To renounce and cast her off.

See how good turns are rewarded! She of both is now discarded, Who to both had been so late Their support in low estate, All their comfort, and their stay— Now of both is cast away. But the league her presence cherish'd, Losing its best prop, soon perish'd; She, that was a link to either, To keep them and it together, Being gone, the two (no wonder) That were left, soon fell asunder;— Some civilities were kept, But the heart of friendship slept; Love with hollow forms was fed, But the life of love lay dead:— A cold intercourse they held After Mary was expell'd.

Two long years did intervene Since they'd either of them seen, Or, by letter, any word Of their old companion heard,— When, upon a day, once walking, Of indifferent matters talking, They a female figure met;— Martha said to Margaret, "That young maid in face does carry A resemblance strong of Mary." Margaret, at nearer sight, Own'd her observation right: But they did not far proceed Ere they knew 'twas she indeed. She—but ah! how chang'd they view her From that person which they knew her! Her fine face disease had scarr'd, And its matchless beauty marr'd:— But enough was left to trace Mary's sweetness—Mary's grace. When her eye did first behold them, How they blush'd!—but, when she told them How on a sick bed she lay Months, while they had kept away, And had no inquiries made If she were alive or dead;— How, for want of a true friend, She was brought near to her end, And was like so to have died, With no friend at her bed-side;— How the constant irritation, Caus'd by fruitless expectation Of their coming, had extended The illness, when she might have mended,— Then, O then, how did reflection Come on them with recollection! All that she had done for them, How it did their fault condemn!

But sweet Mary, still the same, Kindly eas'd them of their shame; Spoke to them with accents bland, Took them friendly by the hand; Bound them both with promise fast, Not to speak of troubles past; Made them on the spot declare A new league of friendship there; Which, without a word of strife, Lasted thenceforth long as life. Martha now and Margaret Strove who most should pay the debt Which they ow'd her, nor did vary Ever after from their Mary.

ON THE LORD'S PRAYER

I have taught your young lips the good words to say over, Which form the petition we call the Lord's Pray'r, And now let me help my dear child to discover The meaning of all the good words that are there. "Our Father," the same appellation is given To a parent on earth, and the parent of all— O gracious permission, the God that's in heaven Allows his poor creatures him Father to call.

To "hallow his name," is to think with devotion Of it, and with reverence mention the same; Though you are so young, you should strive for some notion Of the awe we should feel at the Holy One's name.

His "will done on earth, as it is done in heaven," Is a wish and a hope we are suffer'd to breathe, That such grace and favour to us may be given, Like good angels on high we may live here beneath.

"Our daily bread give us," your young apprehension May well understand is to pray for our food; Although we ask bread, and no other thing mention, God's bounty gives all things sufficient and good.

You pray that your "trespasses may be forgiven, As you forgive those that are done unto you;" Before this you say to the God that's in heaven, Consider the words which you speak. Are they true?

If any one has in the past time offended Us angry creatures who soon take offence, These words in the prayer are surely intended To soften our minds, and expel wrath from thence.

We pray that "temptations may never assail us," And "deliverance beg from all evil" we find; But we never can hope that our pray'r will avail us, If we strive not to banish ill thoughts from our mind.

"For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, For ever and ever," these titles are meant To express God's dominion and majesty o'er ye: And "Amen" to the sense of the whole gives assent.

"SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN, AND FORBID THEM NOT, TO COME UNTO ME"

To Jesus our Saviour some parents presented Their children—what fears and what hopes they must feel! When this the disciples would fain have prevented, Our Saviour reprov'd their unseas'nable zeal.

Not only free leave to come to him was given, But "Of such" were the blessed words Christ our Lord spake, "Of such is composed the kingdom of heaven:" The disciples, abashed, perceiv'd their mistake.

With joy then the parents their children brought nigher, And earnestly begg'd that his hands he would lay On their heads; and they made a petition still higher, That he for a blessing upon them would pray.

O happy young children, thus brought to adore him, To kneel at his feet, and look up in his face; No doubt now in heaven they still are before him, Children still of his love, and enjoying his grace.

For being so blest as to come to our Saviour, How deep in their innocent hearts it must sink! 'Twas a visit divine; a most holy behaviour Must flow from that spring of which then they did drink.

THE MAGPYE'S NEST OR A LESSON OF DOCILITY

A FABLE

When the arts in their infancy were, In a fable of old 'tis exprest, A wise Magpye constructed that rare Little house for young birds, call'd a nest.

This was talk'd of the whole country round, You might hear it on every bough sung, "Now no longer upon the rough ground Will fond mothers brood over their young.

"For the Magpye with exquisite skill Has invented a moss-cover'd cell, Within which a whole family will In the utmost security dwell."

To her mate did each female bird say, "Let us fly to the Magpye, my dear; If she will but teach us the way, A nest we will build us up here.

"It's a thing that's close arch'd over head, With a hole made to creep out and in; We, my bird, might make just such a bed, If we only knew how to begin."

To the Magpye soon every bird went, And in modest terms made their request, That she would be pleas'd to consent To teach them to build up a nest.

She replied, "I will shew you the way, So observe every thing that I do. First two sticks cross each other I lay—" "To be sure," said the Crow; "why, I knew,

"It must be begun with two sticks, And I thought that they crossed should be." Said the Pye, "Then some straw and moss mix, In the way you now see done by me."

"O yes, certainly," said the Jack Daw, "That must follow of course, I have thought; Though I never before building saw, I guess'd that without being taught."

"More moss, straw, and feathers, I place, In this manner," continued the Pye. "Yes, no doubt, Madam, that is the case; Though no builder myself, even I,"

Said the Starling, "conjectur'd 'twas so; It must of necessity follow: For more moss, straw, and feathers, I know, It requires, to be soft, round, and hollow."

Whatever she taught them beside, In his turn every bird of them said, Though the nest-making art he ne'er tried, He had just such a thought in his head.

Still the Pye went on shewing her art, Till a nest she had built up half way; She no more of her skill would impart, But in anger went flutt'ring away.

And this speech in their hearing she made, As she perched o'er their heads on a tree, "If ye all were well skill'd in my trade, Pray, why came ye to learn it of me?"—

When a scholar is willing to learn, He with silent submission should hear. Too late they their folly discern; The effect to this day does appear:

For whenever a Pye's nest you see, Her charming warm canopy view, All birds' nests but hers seem to be A Magpye's nest just cut in two.

THE BOY AND THE SKY-LARK

A FABLE

"A wicked action fear to do, When you are by yourselves; for though You think you can conceal it, A little bird that's in the air The hidden trespass shall declare, And openly reveal it."

Richard this saying oft had heard, Until the sight of any bird Would set his heart a quaking; He saw a host of winged spies For ever o'er him in the skies, Note of his actions taking.

This pious precept, while it stood In his remembrance, kept him good When nobody was by him; For though no human eye was near, Yet Richard still did wisely fear The little bird should spy him.

But best resolves will sometimes sleep; Poor frailty will not always keep From that which is forbidden; And Richard one day, left alone, Laid hands on something not his own, And hop'd the theft was hidden.

His conscience slept a day or two, As it is very apt to do When we with pain suppress it; And though at times a slight remorse Would raise a pang, it had not force To make him yet confess it.

When on a day, as he abroad Walk'd by his mother, in their road He heard a sky-lark singing; Smit with the sound, a flood of tears Proclaim'd the superstitious fears His inmost bosom wringing.

His mother, wond'ring, saw him cry, And fondly ask'd the reason why; Then Richard made confession, And said, he fear'd the little bird He singing in the air had heard Was telling his transgression.

The words which Richard spoke below, As sounds by nature upwards go, Were to the sky-lark carried; The airy traveller with surprise To hear his sayings, in the skies On his mid journey tarried.

His anger then the bird exprest: "Sure, since the day I left the nest, I ne'er heard folly utter'd So fit to move a sky-lark's mirth, As what this little son of earth Hath in his grossness mutter'd.

"Dull fool! to think we sons of air On man's low actions waste a care, His virtues or his vices; Or soaring on the summer gales, That we should stoop to carry tales Of him or his devices!

"Our songs are all of the delights We find in our wild airy flights, And heavenly exaltation; The earth you mortals have at heart Is all too gross to have a part In sky-lark's conversation.

"Unless it be in what green field Or meadow we our nest may build, Midst flowering broom, or heather; From whence our new-fledg'd offspring may With least obstruction wing their way Up to the walks of ether.

"Mistaken fool! man needs not us His secret merits to discuss, Or spy out his transgression; When once he feels his conscience stirr'd, That voice within him is the bird That moves him to confession."

THE MEN AND WOMEN, AND THE MONKEYS

A FABLE

When beasts by words their meanings could declare, Some well-drest men and women did repair To gaze upon two monkeys at a fair:

And one who was the spokesman in the place Said, in their count'nance you might plainly trace The likeness of a wither'd old man's face.

His observation none impeach'd or blam'd, But every man and woman when 'twas nam'd Drew in the head, or slunk away asham'd.

One monkey, who had more pride than the other, His infinite chagrin could scarcely smother; But Pug the wiser said unto his brother:

"The slights and coolness of this human nation Should give a sensible ape no mort'fication; 'Tis thus they always serve a poor relation."

LOVE, DEATH, AND REPUTATION

A FABLE

Once on a time, Love, Death, and Reputation, Three travellers, a tour together went; And, after many a long perambulation, Agreed to part by mutual consent.

Death said: "My fellow tourists, I am going To seek for harvests in th' embattled plain; Where drums are beating, and loud trumpets blowing, There you'll be sure to meet with me again"

Love said: "My friends, I mean to spend my leisure With some young couple, fresh in Hymen's bands; Or 'mongst relations, who in equal measure Have had bequeathed to them house or lands."

But Reputation said: "If once we sever, Our chance of future meeting is but vain: Who parts from me, must look to part for ever, For Reputation lost comes not again."

THE SPARROW AND THE HEN

A Sparrow, when Sparrows like Parrots could speak, Addressed an old Hen who could talk like a Jay: Said he, "It's unjust that we Sparrows must seek Our food, when your family's fed every day.

"Were you like the Peacock, that elegant bird, The sight of whose plumage her master may please, I then should not wonder that you are preferr'd To the yard, where in affluence you live at your ease.

"I affect no great style, am not costly in feathers, A good honest brown I find most to my liking, It always looks neat, and is fit for all weathers, But I think your gray mixture is not very striking.

"We know that the bird from the isles of Canary Is fed, foreign airs to sing in a fine cage; But your note from a cackle so seldom does vary, The fancy of man it cannot much engage.

"My chirp to a song sure approaches much nearer, Nay, the Nightingale tells me I sing not amiss; If voice were in question I ought to be dearer; But the Owl he assures me there's nothing in this.

"Nor is it your proneness to domestication, For he dwells in man's barn, and I build in man's thatch, As we say to each other—but, to our vexation, O'er your safety alone man keeps diligent watch."

"Have you e'er learned to read?" said the Hen to the Sparrow. "No, Madam," he answer'd, "I can't say I have," "Then that is the reason your sight is so narrow," The old Hen replied, with a look very grave.

"Mrs. Glasse in a Treatise—I wish you could read— Our importance has shown, and has prov'd to us why Man shields us and feeds us: of us he has need Ev'n before we are born, even after we die."

WHICH IS THE FAVOURITE?

Brothers and sisters I have many: Though I know there is not any Of them but I love, yet I Will just name them all; and try, As one by one I count them o'er, If there be one a little more Lov'd by me than all the rest. Yes; I do think, that I love best My brother Henry, because he Has always been most fond of me. Yet, to be sure, there's Isabel; I think I love her quite as well. And, I assure you, little Ann, No brother nor no sister can Be more dear to me than she. Only, I must say, Emily, Being the eldest, it's right her To all the rest I should prefer. Yet after all I've said, suppose My greatest fav'rite should be Rose. No, John and Paul are both more dear To me than Rose, that's always here, While they are half the year at school; And yet that neither is no rule. I've nam'd them all, there's only seven; I find my love to all so even, To every sister, every brother, I love not one more than another.

THE BEGGAR-MAN

Abject, stooping, old, and wan, See yon wretched beggar man; Once a father's hopeful heir, Once a mother's tender care. When too young to understand He but scorch'd his little hand, By the candle's flaming light Attracted, dancing, spiral, bright, Clasping fond her darling round, A thousand kisses heal'd the wound. Now abject, stooping, old, and wan, No mother tends the beggar man.

Then nought too good for him to wear, With cherub face and flaxen hair, In fancy's choicest gauds array'd, Cap of lace with rose to aid, Milk-white hat and feather blue, Shoes of red, and coral too With silver bells to please his ear, And charm the frequent ready tear. Now abject, stooping, old, and wan, Neglected is the beggar man.

See the boy advance in age, And learning spreads her useful page; In vain! for giddy pleasure calls, And shews the marbles, tops, and balls. What's learning to the charms of play? The indulgent tutor must give way. A heedless wilful dunce, and wild, The parents' fondness spoil'd the child; The youth in vagrant courses ran; Now abject, stooping, old, and wan, Their fondling is the beggar man.

CHOOSING A PROFESSION

A Creole boy from the West Indies brought, To be in European learning taught, Some years before to Westminster he went, To a Preparatory School was sent. When from his artless tale the mistress found, The child had not one friend on English ground, She, ev'n as if she his own mother were, Made the dark Indian her peculiar care. Oft on her fav'rite's future lot she thought; To know the bent of his young mind she sought, For much the kind preceptress wish'd to find To what profession he was most inclin'd, That where his genius led they might him train; For nature's kindly bent she held not vain. But vain her efforts to explore his will; The frequent question he evaded still: Till on a day at length he to her came, Joy sparkling in his eyes; and said, the same Trade he would be those boys of colour were, Who danc'd so happy in the open air. It was a troop of chimney-sweeping boys, With wooden music and obstrep'rous noise, In tarnish'd finery and grotesque array, Were dancing in the street the first of May.

BREAKFAST

A dinner party, coffee, tea, Sandwich, or supper, all may be In their way pleasant. But to me Not one of these deserves the praise That welcomer of new-born days, A breakfast, merits; ever giving Cheerful notice we are living Another day refresh'd by sleep, When its festival we keep. Now although I would not slight Those kindly words we use "Good night," Yet parting words are words of sorrow, And may not vie with sweet "Good morrow," With which again our friends we greet, When in the breakfast-room we meet, At the social table round, Listening to the lively sound Of those notes which never tire, Of urn, or kettle on the fire. Sleepy Robert never hears Or urn, or kettle; he appears When all have finish'd, one by one Dropping off, and breakfast done. Yet has he too his own pleasure, His breakfast hour's his hour of leisure; And, left alone, he reads or muses, Or else in idle mood he uses To sit and watch the vent'rous fly, Where the sugar's piled high, Clambering o'er the lumps so white, Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.

WEEDING

As busy Aurelia, 'twixt work and 'twixt play, Was lab'ring industriously hard To cull the vile weeds from the flow'rets away, Which grew in her father's court-yard;

In her juvenile anger, wherever she found, She pluck'd, and she pull'd, and she tore; The poor passive suff'rers bestrew'd all the ground; Not a weed of them all she forbore.

At length 'twas her chance on some nettles to light (Things, till then, she had scarcely heard nam'd); The vulgar intruders call'd forth all her spite; In a transport of rage she exclaim'd,

"Shall briars so unsightly and worthless as those Their great sprawling leaves thus presume To mix with the pink, the jonquil, and the rose, And take up a flower's sweet room?"

On the odious offenders enraged she flew; But she presently found to her cost A tingling unlook'd for, a pain that was new, And rage was in agony lost.

To her father she hastily fled for relief, And told him her pain and her smart; With kindly caresses he soothed her grief, Then smiling he took the weed's part.

"The world, my Aurelia, this garden of ours Resembles: too apt we're to deem In the world's larger garden ourselves as the flow'rs, And the poor but as weeds to esteem.

"But them if we rate, or with rudeness repel, Though some will be passive enough, From others who're more independent 'tis well If we meet not a stinging rebuff."

PARENTAL RECOLLECTIONS

A child's a plaything for an hour; Its pretty tricks we try For that or for a longer space; Then tire, and lay it by.

But I knew one, that to itself All seasons could controul; That would have mock'd the sense of pain Out of a grieved soul.

Thou, straggler into loving arms, Young climber up of knees, When I forget thy thousand ways, Then life and all shall cease.

THE TWO BOYS

I saw a boy with eager eye Open a book upon a stall, And read as he'd devour it all: Which when the stall-man did espy, Soon to the boy I heard him call, "You, Sir, you never buy a book, Therefore in one you shall not look." The boy pass'd slowly on, and with a sigh He wish'd he never had been taught to read, Then of the old churl's books he should have had no need.

Of sufferings the poor have many, Which never can the rich annoy. I soon perceiv'd another boy Who look'd as if he'd not had any Food for that day at least, enjoy The sight of cold meat in a tavern larder. This boy's case, thought I, is surely harder, Thus hungry longing, thus without a penny, Beholding choice of dainty dressed meat: No wonder if he wish he ne'er had learn'd to eat.

THE OFFER

"Tell me, would you rather be Chang'd by a fairy to the fine Young orphan heiress Geraldine, Or still be Emily?

"Consider, ere you answer me, How many blessings are procur'd By riches, and how much endur'd By chilling poverty."

After a pause, said Emily: "In the words orphan heiress I Find many a solid reason why I would not changed be.

"What though I live in poverty, And have of sisters eight—so many, That few indulgences, if any, Fall to the share of me;

"Think you that for wealth I'd be Of ev'n the least of them bereft, Or lose my parent, and be left An orphan'd Emily?

"Still should I be Emily, Although I look'd like Geraldine; I feel within this heart of mine No change could worked be."

THE SISTER'S EXPOSTULATION ON THE BROTHER'S LEARNING LATIN

Shut these odious books up, brother— They have made you quite another Thing from what you us'd to be— Once you lik'd to play with me— Now you leave me all alone, And are so conceited grown With your Latin, you'll scarce look Upon any English book. We had us'd on winter eyes To con over Shakespeare's leaves, Or on Milton's harder sense Exercise our diligence— And you would explain with ease The obscurer passages, Find me out the prettiest places The poetic turns, and graces, Which alas! now you are gone, I must puzzle out alone, And oft miss the meaning quite, Wanting you to set me right. All this comes since you've been under Your new master. I much wonder What great charm it is you see In those words, musa, musae; Or in what they do excel Our word, song. It sounds as well To my fancy as the other. Now believe me, dearest brother, I would give my finest frock, And my cabinet, and stock Of new playthings, every toy, I would give them all with joy, Could I you returning see Back to English and to me.

THE BROTHER'S REPLY

Sister, fie, for shame, no more, Give this ignorant babble o'er, Nor with little female pride Things above your sense deride. Why this foolish under-rating Of my first attempts at Latin? Know you not each thing we prize Does from small beginnings rise? 'Twas the same thing with your writing, Which you now take such delight in. First you learnt the down-stroke line, Then the hair-stroke thin and fine, Then a curve, and then a better, Till you came to form a letter; Then a new task was begun, How to join them two in one; Till you got (these first steps past) To your fine text-hand at last. So though I at first commence With the humble accidence, And my study's course affords Little else as yet but words, I shall venture in a while At construction, grammar, style, Learn my syntax, and proceed Classic authors next to read, Such as wiser, better, make us, Sallust, Phaedrus, Ovid, Flaccus: All the poets (with their wit), All the grave historians writ, Who the lives and actions show Of men famous long ago; Ev'n their very sayings giving In the tongue they us'd when living.

Think not I shall do that wrong Either to my native tongue, English authors to despise, Or those books which you so prize; Though from them awhile I stray, By new studies call'd away, Them when next I take in hand, I shall better understand. For I've heard wise men declare Many words in English are From the Latin tongue deriv'd, Of whose sense girls are depriv'd 'Cause they do not Latin know.— But if all this anger grow From this cause, that you suspect By proceedings indirect, I would keep (as misers pelf) All this learning to myself; Sister, to remove this doubt, Rather than we will fall out, (If our parents will agree) You shall Latin learn with me.

NURSE GREEN

"Your prayers you have said, and you've wished Good night: What cause is there yet keeps my darling awake? This throb in your bosom proclaims some affright Disturbs your composure. Can innocence quake?

"Why thus do you cling to my neck, and enfold me, What fear unimparted your quiet devours?" "O mother, there's reason—for Susan has told me, A dead body lies in the room next to ours."

"I know it; and, but for forgetfulness, dear, I meant you the coffin this day should have seen, And read the inscription, and told me the year And day of the death of your poor old Nurse Green."

"O not for the wealth of the world would I enter A chamber wherein a dead body lay hid, Lest somebody bolder than I am should venture To go near the coffin and lift up the lid."

"And should they do so and the coffin uncover, The corpse underneath it would be no ill sight; This frame, when its animal functions are over, Has nothing of horror the living to fright.

"To start at the dead is preposterous error, To shrink from a foe that can never contest; Shall that which is motionless move thee to terror; Or thou become restless, 'cause they are at rest?

"To think harm of her our good feelings forbid us By whom when a babe you were dandled and fed; Who living so many good offices did us, I ne'er can persuade me would hurt us when dead.

"But if no endeavour your terrors can smother, If vainly against apprehension you strive, Come, bury your fears in the arms of your mother; My darling, cling close to me, I am alive."

GOOD TEMPER

In whatsoever place resides Good Temper, she o'er all presides; The most obdurate heart she guides.

Even Anger yields unto her power, And sullen Spite forgets to lour, Or reconciled weeps a shower;

Reserve she softens into Ease, Makes Fretfulness leave off to teaze, She Waywardness itself can please.

Her handmaids they are not a few: Sincerity that's ever true, And Prompt Obedience always new,

Urbanity that ever smiles, And Frankness that ne'er useth wiles, And Friendliness that ne'er beguiles,

And Firmness that is always ready To make young good-resolves more steady, The only safeguard of the giddy;

And blushing Modesty, and sweet Humility in fashion neat; Yet still her train is incomplete,

Unless meek Piety attend Good Temper as her surest friend, Abiding with her to the end.

MODERATION IN DIET

The drunkard's sin, excess in wine, Which reason drowns, and health destroys, As yet no failing is of thine, Dear Jim; strong drink's not given to boys.

You from the cool fresh steam allay Those thirsts which sultry suns excite; When choak'd with dust, or hot with play, A cup of water yields delight.

And reverence still that temperate cup, And cherish long the blameless taste; To learn the faults of men grown up, Dear Jim, be wise and do not haste.

They'll come too soon.—But there's a vice, That shares the world's contempt no less; To be in eating over-nice, Or to court surfeits by excess.

The first, as finical, avoid; The last is proper to a swine: By temperance meat is best enjoy'd; Think of this maxim when you dine.

Prefer with plain food to be fed, Rather than what are dainties styl'd; A sweet tooth in an infant's head Is pardon'd, not in a grown child.

If parent, aunt, or liberal friend, With splendid shilling line your purse, Do not the same on sweetmeats spend, Nor appetite with pampering nurse.

Go buy a book; a dainty eaten Is vanish'd, and no sweets remain; They who their minds with knowledge sweeten, The savour long as life retain.

Purchase some toy, a horse of wood, A pasteboard ship; their structure scan; Their mimic uses understood, The school-boy make a kind of man.

Go see some show; pictures or prints; Or beasts far brought from Indian land; Those foreign sights oft furnish hints, That may the youthful mind expand.

And something of your store impart, To feed the poor and hungry soul; What buys for you the needless tart, May purchase him a needful roll.

INCORRECT SPEAKING

Incorrectness in your speech Carefully avoid, my Anna; Study well the sense of each Sentence, lest in any manner It misrepresent the truth; Veracity's the charm of youth.

You will not, I know, tell lies, If you know what you are speaking.— Truth is shy, and from us flies; Unless diligently seeking Into every word we pry, Falsehood will her place supply.

Falsehood is not shy, not she,— Ever ready to take place of Truth, too oft we Falsehood see, Or at least some latent trace of Falsehood, in the incorrect Words of those who Truth respect.



CHARITY

O why your good deeds with such pride do you scan, And why that self-satisfied smile At the shilling you gave to the poor working man, That lifted you over the stile?

'Tis not much; all the bread that can with it be bought Will scarce give a morsel to each Of his eight hungry children;—reflection and thought Should you more humility teach.

Vain glory's a worm which the very best action Will taint, and its soundness eat thro'; But to give one's self airs for a small benefaction, Is folly and vanity too.

The money perhaps by your father or mother Was furnish'd you but with that view; If so, you were only the steward of another, And the praise you usurp is their due.

Perhaps every shilling you give in this way Is paid back with two by your friends; Then the bounty you so ostentatious display, Has little and low selfish ends.

But if every penny you gave were your own, And giving diminish'd your purse; By a child's slender means think how little is done, And how little for it you're the worse.

You eat, and you drink; when you rise in the morn, You are cloth'd; you have health and content; And you never have known, from the day you were born, What hunger or nakedness meant.

The most which your bounty from you can subtract Is an apple, a sweetmeat, a toy; For so easy a virtue, so trifling an act, You are paid with an innocent joy.

Give thy bread to the hungry, the thirsty thy cup; Divide with th' afflicted thy lot: This can only be practis'd by persons grown up, Who've possessions which children have not.

Having two cloaks, give one (said our Lord) to the poor; In such bounty as that lies the trial: But a child that gives half of its infantile store Has small praise, because small self-denial.

MY BIRTH-DAY

A dozen years since in this house what commotion, What bustle, what stir, and what joyful ado; Ev'ry soul in the family at my devotion, When into the world I came twelve years ago.