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Eugene Field [1850-1895]
HOLY THURSDAY
'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green; Gray-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow.
Oh what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own. The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.
Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
William Blake [1757-1827]
A STORY FOR A CHILD
Little one, come to my knee! Hark, how the rain is pouring Over the roof, in the pitch-black night, And the wind in the woods a-roaring!
Hush, my darling, and listen, Then pay for the story with kisses; Father was lost in the pitch-black night, In just such a storm as this is!
High up on the lonely mountains, Where the wild men watched and waited; Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush, And I on my path belated.
The rain and the night together Came down and the wind came after, Bending the props of the pine-tree roof, And snapping many a rafter.
I crept along in the darkness, Stunned, and bruised, and blinded,— Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs, And a sheltering rock behind it.
There, from the blowing and raining, Crouching, I sought to hide me: Something rustled, two green eyes shone, And a wolf lay down beside me.
Little one, be not frightened; I and the wolf together, Side by side, through the long, long night, Hid from the awful weather.
His wet fur pressed against me; Each of us warmed the other; Each of us felt, in the stormy dark, That beast and man was brother.
And when the falling forest No longer crashed in warning, Each of us went from our hiding-place Forth in the wild, wet morning.
Darling, kiss me payment! Hark, how the wind is roaring; Father's house is a better place When the stormy rain is pouring!
Bayard Taylor [1825-1878]
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY
"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the Spider to the Fly. "'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy; The way into my parlor is up a winding stair, And I have many curious things to show when you are there." "Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain; For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."
"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high; Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly. "There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin; And if you like to rest a while, I'll snugly tuck you in!" "Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said, They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"
Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, "Dear friend, what can I do To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you? I have, within my pantry, good store of all that's nice; I'm sure you're very welcome—will you please to take a slice?" "Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "kind sir, that cannot be, I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"
"Sweet creature," said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise; How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes! I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf; If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself." "I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say, And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."
The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den, For well he knew the silly Fly would soon be back again; So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly, And set his table ready to dine upon the Fly. Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,— "Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing; Your robes are green and purple, there's a crest upon your head; Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead."
Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by: With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,— Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue; Thinking only of her crested head—poor foolish thing! At last, Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast. He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den Within his little parlor—but she ne'er came out again!
And now, dear little children, who may this story read, To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed; Unto an evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and eye, And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.
Mary Howitt [1799-1888]
THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER
We were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul would dare to sleep,— It was midnight on the waters, And a storm was on the deep.
'Tis a fearful thing in winter To be shattered by the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"
So we shuddered there in silence,— For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring And the breakers talked with death.
As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy with his prayers, "We are lost!" the captain shouted, As he staggered down the stairs.
But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, "Isn't God upon the ocean, Just the same as on the land?"
Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spake in better cheer, And we anchored safe in harbor When the morn was shining clear.
James Thomas Fields [1816-1881]
THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM
A nightingale, that all day long Had cheered the village with his song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when eventide was ended, Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appetite; When, looking eagerly around, He spied far off, upon the ground, A something shining in the dark, And knew the glow-worm by his spark; So, stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop. The worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus, right eloquent: "Did you admire my lamp," quoth he, "As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to do me wrong, As much as I to spoil your song; For 'twas the self-same Power Divine Taught you to sing, and me to shine; That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night." The songster heard his short oration, And warbling out his approbation, Released him, as my story tells, And found a supper somewhere else. Hence jarring sectaries may learn Their real interest to discern; That brother should not war with brother, And worry and devour each other; But sing and shine by sweet consent, Till life's poor transient night is spent, Respecting in each other's case The gifts of nature and of grace. Those Christians best deserve the name Who studiously make peace their aim; Peace both the duty and the prize Of him that creeps and him that flies.
William Cowper [1731-1808]
SIR LARK AND KING SUN: A PARABLE From "Adela Cathcart"
"Good morrow, my lord!" in the sky alone, Sang the lark, as the sun ascended his throne. "Shine on me, my lord; I only am come, Of all your servants, to welcome you home. I have flown right up, a whole hour, I swear, To catch the first shine of your golden hair."
"Must I thank you, then," said the king, "Sir Lark, For flying so high and hating the dark? You ask a full cup for half a thirst: Half was love of me, and half love to be first. There's many a bird makes no such haste, But waits till I come: that's as much to my taste."
And King Sun hid his head in a turban of cloud, And Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed; But he flew up higher, and thought, "Anon The wrath of the king will be over and gone; And his crown, shining out of its cloudy fold, Will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold."
So he flew—with the strength of a lark he flew; But, as he rose, the cloud rose too; And not one gleam of the golden hair Came through the depths of the misty air; Till, weary with flying, with sighing sore, The strong sun-seeker could do no more.
His wings had had no chrism of gold: And his feathers felt withered and worn and old; He faltered, and sank, and dropped like a stone. And there on her nest, where he left her, alone Sat his little wife on her little eggs, Keeping them warm with wings and legs.
Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing! Full in her face was shining the king. "Welcome, Sir Lark! You look tired," said he; "Up is not always the best way to me. While you have been singing so high and away, I've been shining to your little wife all day."
He had set his crown all about the nest, And out of the midst shone her little brown breast; And so glorious was she in russet gold, That for wonder and awe Sir Lark grew cold. He popped his head under her wing, and lay As still as a stone, till King Sun was away.
George Macdonald [1824-1905]
THE COURTSHIP, MERRY MARRIAGE, AND PICNIC DINNER OF COCK ROBIN AND JENNY WREN
It was a merry time When Jenny Wren was young, So neatly as she danced, And so sweetly as she sung, Robin Redbreast lost his heart: He was a gallant bird; He doffed his hat to Jenny, And thus to her he said:—
"My dearest Jenny Wren, If you will but be mine, You shall dine on cherry pie, And drink nice currant wine. I'll dress you like a Goldfinch, Or like a Peacock gay; So if you'll have me, Jenny, Let us appoint the day."
Jenny blushed behind her fan, And thus declared her mind: "Then let it be to-morrow, Bob, I take your offer kind— Cherry pie is very good! So is currant wine! But I will wear my brown gown, And never dress too fine."
Robin rose up early At the break of day; He flew to Jenny Wren's house, To sing a roundelay. He met the Cock and Hen, And bid the Cock declare, This was his wedding-day With Jenny Wren, the fair.
The Cock then blew his horn, To let the neighbors know, This was Robin's wedding-day, And they might see the show. And first came Parson Rook, With his spectacles and band, And one of Mother Hubbard's books He held within his hand.
Then followed him the Lark, For he could sweetly sing, And he was to be clerk At Cock Robin's wedding. He sang of Robin's love For little Jenny Wren; And when he came unto the end, Then he began again.
Then came the bride and bridegroom; Quite plainly was she dressed, And blushed so much, her cheeks were As red as Robin's breast. But Robin cheered her up; "My pretty Jen," said he, "We're going to be married And happy we shall be."
The Goldfinch came on next, To give away the bride; The Linnet, being bride's maid, Walked by Jenny's side; And, as she was a-walking, She said, "Upon my word, I think that your Cock Robin Is a very pretty bird."
The Bulfinch walked by Robin, And thus to him did say, "Pray, mark, friend Robin Redbreast, That Goldfinch, dressed so gay; What though her gay apparel Becomes her very well, Yet Jenny's modest dress and look Must bear away the bell."
The Blackbird and the Thrush, And charming Nightingale, Whose sweet jug sweetly echoes Through every grove and dale; The Sparrow and Tom Tit, And many more, were there: All came to see the wedding Of Jenny Wren, the fair.
"O then," says Parson Rook, "Who gives this maid away?" "I do," says the Goldfinch, "And her fortune I will pay: Here's a bag of grain of many sorts, And other things beside; Now happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride!"
"And will you have her, Robin, To be your wedded wife?" "Yes, I will," says Robin, "And love her all my life." "And will you have him, Jenny, Your husband now to be?" "Yes, I will," says Jenny, "And love him heartily."
Then on her finger fair Cock Robin put the ring; "You're married now," says Parson Rook, While the Lark aloud did sing: "Happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride! And may not man, nor bird, nor beast, This happy pair divide."
The birds were asked to dine; Not Jenny's friends alone, But every pretty songster That had Cock Robin known. They had a cherry pie, Beside some currant wine, And every guest brought something, That sumptuous they might dine.
Now they all sat or stood To eat and to drink; And every one said what He happened to think: They each took a bumper, And drank to the pair: Cock Robin, the bridegroom, And Jenny Wren, the fair.
The dinner-things removed, They all began to sing; And soon they made the place Near a mile round to ring. The concert it was fine; And every bird tried Who best could sing for Robin And Jenny Wren, the bride.
Then in came the Cuckoo and made a great rout; He caught hold of Jenny and pulled her about. Cock Robin was angry, and so was the Sparrow, Who fetched in a hurry his bow and his arrow.
His aim then he took, but he took it not right; His skill was not good, or he shot in a fright; For the Cuckoo he missed, but Cock Robin killed!— And all the birds mourned that his blood was so spilled.
Unknown
THE BABES IN THE WOOD
Now ponder well, you parents dear, These words, which I shall write; A doleful story you shall hear, In time brought forth to light. A gentleman of good account In Norfolk dwelt of late, Who did in honor far surmount Most men of his estate.
Sore sick was he, and like to die, No help his life could save; His wife by him as sick did lie, And both possessed one grave. No love between these two was lost, Each was to other kind; In love they lived, in loved they died, And left two babes behind:
The one a fine and pretty boy, Not passing three years old; The other a girl more young than he, And framed in beauty's mold. The father left his little son, As plainly does appear, When he to perfect age should come, Three hundred pounds a year.
And to his little daughter Jane Five hundred pounds in gold, To be paid down on marriage-day, Which might not be controlled: But if the children chance to die, Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possess their wealth; For so the will did run.
"Now, brother," said the dying man, "Look to my children dear; Be good unto my boy and girl, No friends else have they here: To God and you I recommend My children dear this day; But little while be sure we have Within this world to stay.
"You must be father and mother both, And uncle all in one; God knows what will become of them, When I am dead and gone." With that bespake their mother dear, "O brother kind," quoth she, "You are the man must bring our babes To wealth or misery.
"And if you keep them carefully Then God will you reward; But if you otherwise should deal, God will your deeds regard." With lips as cold as any stone, They kissed their children small: "God bless you both, my children dear;" With that the tears did fall.
These speeches then their brother spake To this sick couple there, "The keeping of your little ones, Sweet sister, do not fear; God never prosper me nor mine, Nor aught else that I have, If I do wrong your children dear, When you are laid in grave."
The parents being dead and gone, The children home he takes, And brings them straight into his house, Where much of them he makes. He had not kept these pretty babes A twelvemonth and a day, But, for their wealth, he did devise To make them both away.
He bargained with two ruffians strong, Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children young, And slay them in a wood. He told his wife an artful tale, He would the children send To be brought up in fair London, With one that was his friend.
Away then went these pretty babes, Rejoicing at that tide, Rejoicing with a merry mind, They should on cock-horse ride. They prate and prattle pleasantly, As they rode on the way, To those that should their butchers be, And work their lives' decay:
So that the pretty speech they had, Made Murder's heart relent; And they that undertook the deed, Full sore did now repent. Yet one of them more hard of heart, Did vow to do his charge, Because the wretch that hired him, Had paid him very large.
The other won't agree thereto, So here they fall to strife; With one another they did fight, About the children's life: And he that was of mildest mood, Did slay the other there, Within an unfrequented wood; The babes did quake for fear!
He took the children by the hand, Tears standing in their eye, And bade them straightway follow him, And look they did not cry: And two long miles he led them on, While they for food complain: "Stay here," quoth he, "I'll bring you bread, When I come back again."
These pretty babes, with hand in hand, Went wandering up and down, But never more could see the man Approaching from the town; Their pretty lips with black-berries Were all besmeared and dyed, And, when they saw the darksome night, They sat them down and cried.
Thus wandered these poor innocents, Till death did end their grief; In one another's arms they died, As wanting due relief: No burial this pretty pair Of any man receives, Till Robin-red-breast piously Did cover them with leaves.
And now the heavy wrath of God Upon their uncle fell; Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, His conscience felt an hell: His barns were fired, his goods consumed, His lands were barren made, His cattle died within the field, And nothing with him stayed.
And in a voyage to Portugal Two of his sons did die; And, to conclude, himself was brought To want and misery: He pawned and mortgaged all his land Ere seven years came about, And now at length his wicked act Did by this means come out:
The fellow, that did take in hand These children for to kill, Was for a robbery judged to die, Such was God's blessed will: Who did confess the very truth As here hath been displayed: Their uncle having died in jail, Where he for debt was laid.
You that executors be made, And overseers eke Of children that be fatherless, And infants mild and meek; Take you example by this thing, And yield to each his right, Lest God with such like misery Your wicked minds requite.
Unknown
GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP
The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet: 'Twas a piteous sight to see, all around, The grain lie rotting on the ground.
Every day the starving poor Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door; For he had a plentiful last-year's store, And all the neighborhood could tell His granaries were furnished well.
At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day To quiet the poor without delay; He bade them to his great barn repair, And they should have food for the winter there.
Rejoiced such tidings good to hear, The poor folk flocked from far and near; The great barn was full as it could hold Of women and children, and young and old.
Then, when he saw it could hold no more, Bishop Hatto he made fast the door; And, while for mercy on Christ they call, He set fire to the barn, and burnt them all.
"I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he; "And the country is greatly obliged to me For ridding it, in these times forlorn, Of rats that only consume the corn."
So then to his palace returned he, And he sat down to supper merrily, And he slept that night like an innocent man; But Bishop Hatto never slept again.
In the morning, as he entered the hall, Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat like death all over him came, For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.
As he looked, there came a man from his farm,— He had a countenance white with alarm: "My Lord, I opened your granaries this morn, And the rats had eaten all your corn."
Another came running presently, And he was pale as pale could be. "Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly!" quoth he, "Ten thousand rats are coming this way,— The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"
"I'll go to my tower in the Rhine," replied he; "'Tis the safest place in Germany,— The walls are high, and the shores are steep, And the tide is strong, and the water deep."
Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away, And he crossed the Rhine without delay, And reached his tower, and barred with care All the windows, and doors, and loop-holes there.
He laid him down and closed his eyes, But soon a scream made him arise; He started, and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.
He listened and looked,—it was only the cat; But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that, For she sat screaming, mad with fear, At the army of rats that were drawing near.
For they have swum over the river so deep, And they have climbed the shores so steep, And now by thousands up they crawl To the holes and the windows in the wall.
Down on his knees the Bishop fell, And faster and faster his beads did he tell, As louder and louder, drawing near, The saw of their teeth without he could hear.
And in at the windows, and in at the door, And through the walls by thousands they pour; And down from the ceiling and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below,— And all at once to the Bishop they go.
They have whetted their teeth against the stones, And now they pick the Bishop's bones; They gnawed the flesh from every limb, For they were sent to do judgment on him!
Robert Southey [1774-1843]
THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN A Child's Story
I Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin was a pity.
II Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats.
III At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: "'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation,—shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking, To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation.
IV An hour they sat in council,— At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell; I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain,— I'm sure my poor head aches again, I've scratched it so, and all in vain. Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber-door but a gentle tap? "Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?" (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"
V "Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red, And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in; There was no guessing his kith and kin: And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as my great-grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"
VI He advanced to the council-table: And, "Please your honors," said he, I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self-same check, And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) "Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats; And as for what your brain bewilders,— If I can rid your town of rats, Will you give me a thousand guilders?" "One? fifty thousand!" was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.
VII Into the street the Piper stepped, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers; Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives,— Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser, Wherein all plunged and perished! —Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he, the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary, Which was: "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press's gripe,— And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks; And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, 'Oh rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!' And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, Already staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!'— I found the Weser rolling o'er me."
VIII You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple; "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles! Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!"—when suddenly, up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"
IX A thousand guilders! the Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation too. For council-dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Via-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! "Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something to drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty; A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"
X The Piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling! I can't wait! beside, I've promised to visit by dinner time Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the Head Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: With him I proved no bargain-driver; With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe after another fashion."
XI "How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brook Being worse treated than a Cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!"
XII Once more he stepped into the street; And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering; And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running: All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
XIII The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by,— And could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However, he turned from south to west, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. "He never can cross that mighty top! He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop!" When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed; And when all were in, to the very last, The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say, all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say,— "It's dull in our town since my playmates left! I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me; For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed, and fruit-trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings; And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!
XIV Alas, alas for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says that heaven's gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The Mayor sent East, West, North and South, To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, And piper and dancers were gone forever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, "And so long after what happened here On the Twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:" And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it, the Pied Piper's Street— Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labor. Nor suffered they hostlery or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people who ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbors lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why, they don't understand.
XV So, Willy, let me and you be wipers Of scores out with all men—especially pipers! And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
THE GLAD EVANGEL
A CAROL
He came all so still Where His mother was, As dew in April That falleth on the grass.
He came all so still Where His mother lay, As dew in April That falleth on the spray.
He came all so still To His mother's bower, As dew in April That falleth on the flower.
Mother and maiden Was never none but she! Well might such a lady God's mother be.
Unknown
"GOD REST YOU MERRY, GENTLEMEN"
God rest you merry, gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay, For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, Was born upon this day, To save us all from Satan's power When we were gone astray. O tidings of comfort and joy! For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, Was born on Christmas Day.
In Bethlehem, in Jewry, This blessed babe was born, And laid within a manger, Upon this blessed morn; The which His mother, Mary, Nothing did take in scorn.
From God our Heavenly Father, A blessed angel came; And unto certain shepherds Brought tidings of the same: How that in Bethlehem was born The Son of God by name.
"Fear not," then said the angel, "Let nothing you affright, This day is born a Saviour Of virtue, power, and might, So frequently to vanquish all The friends of Satan quite."
The shepherds at these tidings Rejoiced much in mind, And left their flocks a-feeding In tempest, storm, and wind, And went to Bethlehem straightway, This blessed babe to find.
But when to Bethlehem they came, Whereat this infant lay, They found Him in a manger, Where oxen feed on hay, His mother Mary kneeling, Unto the Lord did pray.
Now to the Lord sing praises, All you within this place, And with true love and brotherhood Each other now embrace; This holy tide of Christmas All others doth deface.
O tidings of comfort and joy! For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, Was born in Christmas Day.
Unknown
"O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM"
O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie! Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by; Yet in thy dark streets shineth The everlasting Light; The hopes and fears of all the years Are met in thee to-night.
For Christ is born of Mary, And, gathered all above, While mortals sleep, the angels keep Their watch of wondering love. O morning stars, together Proclaim the holy birth! And praises sing to God the King, And peace to men on earth.
How silently, how silently, The wondrous gift is given! So God imparts to human hearts The blessings of His heaven. No ear may hear His coming, But in this world of sin, Where meek souls will receive Him still, The dear Christ enters in.
O holy Child of Bethlehem! Descend to us, we pray; Cast out our sin, and enter in, Be born in us to-day. We hear the Christmas angels The great glad tidings tell; Oh come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel!
Phillips Brooks [1835-1893]
A CHRISTMAS HYMN Old Style: 1837
It was the calm and silent night! Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might, And now was Queen of land and sea. No sound was heard of clashing wars; Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain; Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars, Held undisturbed their ancient reign, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago.
'Twas in the calm and silent night! The senator of haughty Rome Impatient urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home. Triumphal arches gleaming swell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago!
Within that province far away Went plodding home a weary boor: A streak of light before him lay, Fall'n through a half-shut stable door Across his path. He passed—for naught Told what was going on within; How keen the stars! his only thought; The air how calm and cold and thin, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago!
O strange indifference!—low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares: The earth was still—but knew not why; The world was listening—unawares. How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world for ever! To that still moment none would heed, Man's doom was linked, no more to sever, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago.
It is the calm and solemn night! A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness, charmed and holy now. The night that erst no name had worn, To it a happy name is given; For in that stable lay new-born The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago.
Alfred Domett [1811-1887]
"WHILE SHEPHERDS WATCHED THEIR FLOCKS BY NIGHT"
While shepherds watched their flocks by night, All seated on the ground, The angel of the Lord came down, And glory shone around.
"Fear not," said he, for mighty dread Had seized their troubled mind; "Glad tidings of great joy I bring To you and all mankind.
"To you, in David's town, this day Is born, of David's line, The Saviour, who is Christ the Lord, And this shall be the sign:
"The heavenly babe you there shall find To human view displayed, All meanly wrapped in swaddling bands, And in a manger laid."
Thus spake the seraph; and forthwith Appeared a shining throng Of angels, praising God, who thus Addressed their joyful song:
"All glory be to God on high, And to the earth be peace; Good will henceforth from Heaven to men Begin and never cease."
Nahum Tate [1652-1715]
CHRISTMAS CAROLS
It came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old, From angels bending near the earth To touch their harps of gold: "Peace on the earth, good will to men From heaven's all-gracious King"— The world in solemn stillness lay To hear the angels sing.
Still through the cloven skies they come With peaceful wings unfurled, And still their heavenly music floats O'er all the weary world; Above its sad and lowly plains They bend on hovering wing, And ever o'er its Babel-sounds The blessed angels sing.
But with the woes of sin and strife The world has suffered long; Beneath the angel-strain have rolled Two thousand years of wrong; And man, at war with man, hears not The love-song which they bring;— Oh, hush the noise, ye men of strife, And hear the angels sing!
And ye, beneath life's crushing load, Whose forms are bending low, Who toil along the climbing way With painful steps and slow, Look now! for glad and golden hours Come swiftly on the wing;— Oh, rest beside the weary road And hear the angels sing!
For lo! the days are hastening on By prophet bards foretold, When with the ever circling years Comes round the age of gold; When Peace shall over all the earth Its ancient splendors fling, And the whole world give back the song Which now the angels sing.
Edmund Hamilton Sears [1810-1876]
THE ANGELS From "Flowers of Sion"
Run, shepherds, run where Bethlehem blest appears. We bring the best of news; be not dismayed: A Saviour there is born more old than years, Amidst heaven's rolling heights this earth who stayed. In a poor cottage inned, a virgin maid, A weakling did him bear, who all upbears; There is he poorly swaddled, in manger laid, To whom too narrow swaddlings are our spheres: Run, shepherds, run, and solemnize his birth. This is that night—no, day, grown great with bliss, In which the power of Satan broken is: In heaven be glory, peace unto the earth! Thus singing, through the air the angels swarm, And cope of stars re-echoed the same.
William Drummond [1585-1649]
THE BURNING BABE
As I in hoary winter's night Stood shivering in the snow, Surprised I was with sudden heat Which made my heart to glow; And lifting up a fearful eye To view what fire was near, A pretty babe all burning bright Did in the air appear; Who, scorched with excessive heat, Such floods of tears did shed, As though His floods should quench His flames, Which with His tears were bred: "Alas!" quoth He, "but newly born In fiery heats I fry, Yet none approach to warm their hearts Or feel my fire but I!
"My faultless breast the furnace is; The fuel, wounding thorns; Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke; The ashes, shames and scorns; The fuel Justice layeth on, And Mercy blows the coals, The metal in this furnace wrought Are men's defiled souls: For which, as now on fire I am To work them to their good, So will I melt into a bath, To wash them in my blood." With this He vanished out of sight And swiftly shrunk away, And straight I called unto mind That it was Christmas Day.
Robert Southwell [1561?-1595]
TRYSTE NOEL
The Ox he openeth wide the Doore, And from the Snowe he calls her inne, And he hath seen her Smile therefor, Our Ladye without Sinne. Now soone from Sleep A Starre shall leap, And soone arrive both King and Hinde: Amen, Amen: But O, the Place co'd I but finde!
The Ox hath hushed his voyce and bent Trewe eyes of Pitty ore the Mow, And on his lovelie Neck, forspent, The Blessed layes her Browe. Around her feet Full Warme and Sweete His bowerie Breath doth meeklie dwell: Amen, Amen: But sore am I with Vaine Travel!
The Ox is host in Judah stall And Host of more than onelie one, For close she gathereth withal Our Lorde her littel Sonne. Glad Hinde and King Their Gyfte may bring, But wo'd to-night my Teares were there, Amen, Amen: Between her Bosom and His hayre!
Louise Imogen Guiney [1861-1920]
CHRISTMAS CAROL
As Joseph was a-waukin', He heard an angel sing, "This night shall be the birthnight Of Christ our heavenly King.
"His birth-bed shall be neither In housen nor in hall, Nor in the place of paradise, But in the oxen's stall.
"He neither shall be rocked In silver nor in gold, But in the wooden manger That lieth in the mould.
"He neither shall be washen With white wine nor with red, But with the fair spring water That on you shall be shed.
"He neither shall be clothed In purple nor in pall, But in the fair, white linen That usen babies all."
As Joseph was a-waukin', Thus did the angel sing, And Mary's son at midnight Was born to be our King.
Then be you glad, good people, At this time of the year; And light you up your candles, For His star it shineth clear.
Unknown
"BRIGHTEST AND BEST OF THE SONS OF THE MORNING"
Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!
Cold on His cradle the dewdrops are shining, Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall; Angels adore Him in slumber reclining, Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all!
Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, Odors of Edom and offerings divine? Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean, Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine?
Vainly we offer each ample oblation; Vainly with gifts would His favor secure: Richer by far is the heart's adoration; Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.
Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!
Reginald Heber [1783-1826]
CHRISTMAS BELLS
I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along The unbroken song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till, ringing, singing on its way, The world revolved from night to day, A voice, a chime, A chant sublime Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth The cannon thundered in the South, And with the sound The carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent The hearth-stones of a continent, And made forlorn The households born Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head; "There is no peace on earth," I said, "For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: "God is not dead, nor doth He sleep! The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men!"
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]
A CHRISTMAS CAROL
The Christ-child lay on Mary's lap, His hair was like a light. (O weary, weary were the world, But here is all aright.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary's breast, His hair was like a star. (O stern and cunning are the kings, But here the true hearts are.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary's heart, His hair was like a fire. (O weary, weary is the world, But here the world's desire.)
The Christ-child stood at Mary's knee, His hair was like a crown, And all the flowers looked up at Him, And all the stars looked down.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton [1874-1936]
THE HOUSE OF CHRISTMAS
There fared a mother driven forth Out of an inn to roam; In the place where she was homeless All men are at home. The crazy stable close at hand, With shaking timber and shifting sand, Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand Than the square stones of Rome.
For men are homesick in their homes, And strangers under the sun, And they lay their heads in a foreign land Whenever the day is done. Here we have battle and blazing eyes, And chance and honor and high surprise, But our homes are under miraculous skies Where the yule tale was begun.
A Child in a foul stable, Where the beasts feed and foam, Only where He was homeless Are you and I at home; We have hands that fashion and heads that know, But our hearts we lost—how long ago! In a place no chart nor ship can show Under the sky's dome.
This world is wild as an old wives' tale, And strange the plain things are, The earth is enough and the air is enough For our wonder and our war; But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings And our peace is put in impossible things Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings Round an incredible star.
To an open house in the evening Home shall men come, To an older place than Eden And a taller town than Rome. To the end of the way of the wandering star, To the things that cannot be and that are, To the place where God was homeless And all men are at home.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton [1874-1936]
THE FEAST OF THE SNOW
There is heard a hymn when the panes are dim, And never before or again, When the nights are strong with a darkness long, And the dark is alive with rain.
Never we know but in sleet and snow The place where the great fires are, That the midst of earth is a raging mirth, And the heart of the earth a star.
And at night we win to the ancient inn, Where the Child in the frost is furled, We follow the feet where all souls meet, At the inn at the end of the world.
The gods lie dead where the leaves lie red, For the flame of the sun is flown; The gods lie cold where the leaves are gold, And a Child comes forth alone.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton [1874-1936]
MARY'S BABY
Joseph, mild and noble, bent above the straw: A pale girl, a frail girl, suffering he saw; "O my Love, my Mary, my bride, I pity thee!" "Nay, Dear," said Mary, "all is well with me!" "Baby, my baby, O my babe," she sang. Suddenly the golden night all with music rang.
Angels leading shepherds, shepherds leading sheep: The silence of worship broke the mother's sleep. All the meek and lowly of all the world were there; Smiling, she showed them that her Child was fair, "Baby, my baby," kissing Him she said. Suddenly a flaming star through the heavens sped.
Three old men and weary knelt them side by side, The world's wealth forswearing, majesty and pride; Worldly might and wisdom before the Babe bent low: Weeping, maid Mary said, "I love Him so!" "Baby, my baby," and the Baby slept. Suddenly on Calvary all the olives wept.
Shaemas OSheel [1886-
GATES AND DOORS A Ballad of Christmas Eve
There was a gentle hostler (And blessed be his name!) He opened up the stable The night Our Lady came. Our Lady and St. Joseph, He gave them food and bed, And Jesus Christ has given him A glory round his head.
So let the gate swing open However poor the yard, Lest weary People visit you And find their Passage barred. Unlatch the door at midnight And let your lantern's glow Shine out to guide the traveler's feet To you across the snow.
There was a courteous hostler (He is in Heaven to-night) He held Our Lady's bridle And helped her to alight. He spread clean straw before her Whereon she might lie down, And Jesus Christ has given him An everlasting crown.
Unlock the door this evening And let your gate swing wide, Let all who ask for shelter Come speedily inside. What if your yard be narrow? What if your house be small? There is a Guest is coming Will glorify it all.
There was a joyous hostler Who knelt on Christmas morn Beside the radiant manger Wherein his Lord was born. His heart was full of laughter, His soul was full of bliss When Jesus, on His Mother's lap, Gave him His hand to kiss.
Unbar your heart this evening And keep no stranger out, Take from your soul's great portal The barrier of doubt. To humble folk and weary Give hearty welcoming, Your breast shall be to-morrow The cradle of a King.
Joyce Kilmer [1886-1918]
THE THREE KINGS
Three Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar; Three Wise Men out of the East were they, And they travelled by night and they slept by day, For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.
The star was so beautiful, large and clear, That all the other stars of the sky Became a white mist in the atmosphere; And by this they knew that the coming was near Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.
Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, Three caskets of gold with golden keys; Their robes were of crimson silk, with rows Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.
And so the Three Kings rode into the West, Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell, And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at some wayside well.
"Of the child that is born," said Baltasar, "Good people, I pray you, tell us the news, For we in the East have seen his star, And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, To find and worship the King of the Jews."
And the people answered, "You ask in vain; We know of no king but Herod the Great!" They thought the Wise Men were men insane, As they spurred their horses across the plain Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait.
And when they came to Jerusalem, Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem, And bring me tidings of this new king."
So they rode away, and the star stood still, The only one in the gray of morn; Yes, it stopped,—it stood still of its own free will, Right over Bethlehem on the hill, The city of David, where Christ was born.
And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, Through the silent street, till their horses turned And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard; But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, And only a light in the stable burned.
And cradled there in the scented hay, In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, The little child in the manger lay, The Child that would be King one day Of a kingdom not human, but divine.
His mother, Mary of Nazareth, Sat watching beside his place of rest, Watching the even flow of his breath, For the joy of life and the terror of death Were mingled together in her breast.
They laid their offerings at his feet: The gold was their tribute to a King; The frankincense, with its odor sweet, Was for the Priest, the Paraclete; The myrrh for the body's burying.
And the mother wondered and bowed her head, And sat as still as a statue of stone; Her heart was troubled yet comforted, Remembering what the Angel had said Of an endless reign and of David's throne.
Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, With a clatter of hoofs in proud array; But they went not back to Herod the Great, For they knew his malice and feared his hate, And returned to their homes by another way.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]
LULLABY IN BETHLEHEM
There hath come an host to see Thee, Baby dear, Bearded men with eyes of flame And lips of fear, For the heavens, they say, have broken Into blinding gulfs of glory, And the Lord, they say, hath spoken In a little wondrous story, Baby dear.
There have come three kings to greet Thee, Baby dear, Crowned with gold, and clad in purple, They draw near. They have brought rare silks to bind Thee, At Thy feet, behold, they spread them, From their thrones they sprang to find Thee, And a blazing star hath led them, Baby dear.
I have neither jade nor jasper, Baby dear, Thou art all my hope and glory, And my fear, Yet for all the gems that strew Thee, And the costly gowns that fold Thee, Yea, though all the world should woo Thee, Thou art mine—and fast I hold Thee, Baby dear.
Henry Howarth Bashford [1880-
A CHILD'S SONG OF CHRISTMAS
My counterpane is soft as silk, My blankets white as creamy milk. The hay was soft to Him, I know, Our little Lord of long ago.
Above the roofs the pigeons fly In silver wheels across the sky. The stable-doves they cooed to them, Mary and Christ in Bethlehem.
Bright shines the sun across the drifts, And bright upon my Christmas gifts. They brought Him incense, myrrh, and gold, Our little Lord who lived of old.
Oh, soft and clear our mother sings Of Christmas joys and Christmas things. God's holy angels sang to them, Mary and Christ in Bethlehem.
Our hearts they hold all Christmas dear, And earth seems sweet and heaven seems near, Oh, heaven was in His sight, I know, That little Child of long ago.
Marjorie L. C. Pickthall [1883-1922]
JEST 'FORE CHRISTMAS
Father calls me William, sister calls me Will, Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill! Mighty glad I ain't a girl—ruther be a boy, Without them sashes, curls, an' things that's worn by Fauntleroy! Love to chawnk green apples an' go swimmin' in the lake— Hate to take the castor-ile they give for belly-ache! 'Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain't no flies on me, But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!
Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat; First thing she knows she doesn't know where she is at! Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide, 'Long comes the grocery cart an' we all hook a ride! But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross, He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss, An' then I laff an' holler, "Oh, ye never teched me!" But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!
Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man, I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother, Dan, As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon's Isle, Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile! But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West show, Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd know That Buff'lo Bill and cow-boys is good enough for me! Excep' jest 'fore Christmas, when I'm good as I kin be!
And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an' still, His eyes they keep a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?" The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's become Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum! But I am so perlite an' 'tend so earnestly to biz, That mother says to father: "How improved our Willie is!" But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me When jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be!
For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes an' toys, Was made, they say, for proper kids an' not for naughty boys; So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's an' q's, An' don't bust out yer pantaloons, an' don't wear out yer shoes; Say "Yessum" to the ladies, an' "Yessur" to the men, An' when they's company, don't pass yer plate for pie again; But, thinking of the things yer'd like to see upon that tree, Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be!
Eugene Field [1850-1895]
A VTSTT FROM ST. NICHOLAS
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!" As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face and a little round belly, That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."
Clement Clarke Moore [1779-1863]
CEREMONIES FOR CHRISTMAS
Come, bring with a noise, My merry, merry boys, The Christmas log to the firing; While my good dame, she Bids ye all be free; And drink to your hearts' desiring.
With the last year's brand Light the new block, and For good success in his spending, On your psaltries play, That sweet luck may Come while the log is a-tending.
Drink now the strong beer, Cut the white loaf here, The while the meat is a-shredding; For the rare mince-pie And the plums stand by To fill the paste that's a-kneading.
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY
This is the month, and this the happy morn Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.
That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-ta To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside; and, here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.
Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the Infant God? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain To welcome him to this his new abode, Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
See how from far, upon the eastern road, The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet! O run, prevent them with thy humble ode And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice unto the angel choir From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.
THE HYMN It was the winter wild While the heaven-born Child All meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies; Nature in awe to Him Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize: It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.
Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities.
But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing and amorous clouds dividing; And waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.
No war, or battle's sound Was heard the world around: The idle spear and shield were high uphung; The hooked chariot stood Unstained with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by.
But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began: The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kissed, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean— Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence; And will not take their flight For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warned them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.
And though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame The new-enlightened world no more should need; He saw a greater Sun appear Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear.
The shepherds on the lawn Or ere the point of dawn Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they then That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.
When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet As never was by mortal finger strook— Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took: The air, such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.
Nature, that heard such sound Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union.
At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light That with long beams the shamefaced night arrayed; The helmed Cherubim And sworded Seraphim Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, Harping in loud and solemn choir With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.
Such music (as 'tis said) Before was never made But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set And the well-balanced world on hinges hung; And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.
Ring out, ye crystal spheres! Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow; And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.
For if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; And speckled vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould; And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.
But wisest Fate says No; This must not yet be so; The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both himself and us to glorify: Yet first, to those ychained in sleep The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;
With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake: The aged Earth aghast With terror of that blast Shall from the surface to the centre shake, When, at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.
And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day The old Dragon under ground, In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
The oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving: No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
The lonely mountains o'er And the resounding shore A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; From haunted spring and dale Edged with poplar pale The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
In consecrated earth And on the holy hearth The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; In urns, and altars round A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat.
Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-battered god of Palestine; And mooned Ashtaroth Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn: In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.
And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue; In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue; The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.
Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove, or green, Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest; Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrelled anthems dark The sable stoled sorcerers bear his worshiped ark.
He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand; The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyen; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in His swaddling bands control the damned crew.
So, when the sun in bed Curtained with cloudy red Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail, Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave: And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.
But see! the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest; Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest teemed star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending: And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable.
John Milton [1608-1674]
FAIRYLAND
THE FAIRY BOOK
In summer, when the grass is thick, if mother has the time, She shows me with her pencil how a poet makes a rhyme, And often she is sweet enough to choose a leafy nook, Where I cuddle up so closely when she reads the Fairybook.
In winter, when the corn's asleep, and birds are not in song, And crocuses and violets have been away too long, Dear mother puts her thimble by in answer to my look, And I cuddle up so closely when she reads the Fairybook.
And mother tells the servants that of course they must contrive To manage all the household things from four till half-past five, For we really cannot suffer interruption from the cook, When we cuddle close together with the happy Fairybook.
Norman Gale [1862-
FAIRY SONGS
I From "A Midsummer-Night's Dream"
Over hill, over dale, Through bush, through brier, Over park, over pale, Through flood, through fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green: The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favors, In those freckles live their savors: I must go seek some dew-drops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
II From "A Midsummer-Night's Dream"
You spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong; Come not near our fairy queen.
Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good night, with lullaby.
Weaving spiders, come not here; Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence! Beetles black, approach not near; Worm nor snail, do no offence.
Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good-night, with lullaby.
III From "The Tempest"
Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: Court'sied when you have, and kissed,— The wild waves whist,— Foot it featly here and there; And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. Hark, hark! Bow, wow, The watch-dogs bark: Bow, wow. Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!
IV From "The Tempest"
Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily: Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
William Shakespeare [1564-1616]
QUEEN MAB From "The Satyr"
This is Mab, the Mistress-Fairy, That doth nightly rob the dairy And can hurt or help the churning, As she please without discerning.
She that pinches country wenches If they rub not clean their benches, And with sharper nails remembers When they rake not up their embers: But if so they chance to feast her, In a shoe she drops a tester.
This is she that empties cradles, Takes out children, puts in ladles: Trains forth old wives in their slumber With a sieve the holes to number; And then leads them from her burrows, Home through ponds and water-furrows.
She can start our Franklins' daughters, In their sleep, with shrieks and laughters: And on sweet Saint Anna's night Feed them with a promised sight, Some of husbands, some of lovers, Which an empty dream discovers.
Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]
THE ELF AND THE DORMOUSE
Under a toadstool crept a wee Elf, Out of the rain, to shelter himself.
Under the toadstool sound asleep, Sat a big Dormouse all in a heap.
Trembled the wee Elf, frightened, and yet Fearing to fly away lest he get wet.
To the next shelter—maybe a mile! Sudden the wee Elf smiled a wee smile,
Tugged till the toadstool toppled in two. Holding it over him, gayly he flew.
Soon he was safe home, dry as could be. Soon woke the Dormouse—"Good gracious me!
"Where is my toadstool?" loud he lamented. —And that's how umbrellas first were invented.
Oliver Herford [1863-1935]
"OH! WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE THEIR HEADS?"
Oh! where do fairies hide their heads, When snow lies on the hills, When frost has spoiled their mossy beds, And crystallized their rills? Beneath the moon they cannot trip In circles o'er the plain; And draughts of dew they cannot sip, Till green leaves come again.
Perhaps, in small, blue diving-bells They plunge beneath the waves, Inhabiting the wreathed shells That lie in coral caves. Perhaps, in red Vesuvius Carousals they maintain; And cheer their little spirits thus, Till green leaves come again.
When they return, there will be mirth And music in the air. And fairy wings upon the earth, And mischief everywhere. The maids, to keep the elves aloof, Will bar the doors in vain; No key-hole will he fairy-proof When green leaves come again.
Thomas Haynes Bayly [1797-1839]
FAIRY SONG From "Amyntas"
We the Fairies, blithe and antic, Of dimensions not gigantic, Though the moonshine mostly keep us, Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.
Stolen sweets are always sweeter, Stolen kisses much completer, Stolen looks are nice in chapels, Stolen, stolen be your apples.
When to bed the world is bobbing, Then's the time for orchard-robbing; Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling Were it not for stealing, stealing.
Translated by Leigh Hunt from the Latin of Thomas Randolph [1605-1635]
DREAM SONG
I come from woods enchaunted, Starlit and pixey-haunted, Where 'twixt the bracken and the trees The goblins lie and take their ease By winter moods undaunted.
There down the golden gravel The laughing rivers travel; Elves wake at nights and whisper low Between the bracken and the snow Their dreamings to unravel.
Twisted and lank and hairy, With wanton eyes and wary, They stretch and chuckle in the wind, For one has found a mermaid kind, And one has kissed a fairy.
They know no melancholy, But fashion crowns of holly, And gather sleep within the brake To deck a kingdom when they wake, And bless the dreamer's folly.
Ah! would that I might follow The servants of Apollo! But it is sweet to heap the hours With quiet dreams and poppy-flowers, Down in the pixies' hollow.
Richard Middleton [1882-1911]
FAIRY SONG
Shed no tear! O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more! O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core. Dry your eyes! O, dry your eyes! For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies,— Shed no tear.
Overhead! look overhead! 'Mong the blossoms white and red,— Look up, look up! I flutter now On this flush pomegranate bough. See me! 'tis this silvery bill Ever cures the good man's ill,— Shed no tear! O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Adieu, adieu—I fly—adieu! I vanish in the heaven's blue,— Adieu, adieu!
John Keats [1795-1821]
QUEEN MAB
A little fairy comes at night, Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown, With silver spots upon her wings, And from the moon she flutters down.
She has a little silver wand, And when a good child goes to bed She waves her hand from right to left, And makes a circle round its head.
And then it dreams of pleasant things, Of fountains filled with fairy fish, And trees that bear delicious fruit, And bow their branches at a wish:
Of arbors filled with dainty scents From lovely flowers that never fade; Bright flies that glitter in the sun, And glow-worms shining in the shade:
And talking birds with gifted tongues, For singing songs and telling tales, And pretty dwarfs to show the way Through fairy hills and fairy dales.
But when a bad child goes to bed, From left to right she weaves her rings, And then it dreams all through the night Of only ugly horrid things!
Then lions come with glaring eyes, And tigers growl, a dreadful noise, And ogres draw their cruel knives, To shed the blood of girls and boys.
Then stormy waves rush on to drown, Or raging flames come scorching round, Fierce dragons hover in the air, And serpents crawl along the ground.
Then wicked children wake and weep, And wish the long black gloom away; But good ones love the dark, and find The night as pleasant as the day.
Thomas Hood [1799-1845]
THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON-LOW A Midsummer Legend
"And where have you been, my Mary, And where have you been from me?" "I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low, The midsummer night to see!"
"And what did you see, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Low?" "I saw the glad sunshine come down, And I saw the merry winds blow."
"And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Hill?" "I heard the drops of the water made, And the ears of the green corn fill."
"Oh, tell me all, my Mary— All—all that ever you know; For you must have seen the fairies Last night on the Caldon-Low!"
"Then take me on your knee, mother, And listen, mother of mine: A hundred fairies danced last night, And the harpers they were nine.
"And their harp-strings rang so merrily To their dancing feet so small; But, oh! the words of their talking Were merrier far than all!"
"And what were the words, my Mary, That you did hear them say?" "I'll tell you all, my mother, But let me have my way.
"Some of them played with the water, And rolled it down the hill; 'And this,' they said, 'shall speedily turn The poor old miller's mill.
"'For there has been no water Ever since the first of May; And a busy man will the miller be At the dawning of the day!
"'Oh! the miller, how he will laugh, When he sees the mill-dam rise! The jolly old miller, how he will laugh, Till the tears fill both his eyes!'
"And some they seized the little winds, That sounded over the hill, And each put a horn into his mouth, And blew both loud and shrill:
"'And there,' said they, 'the merry winds go Away from every horn; And they shall clear the mildew dank From the blind old widow's corn:
"'Oh, the poor blind widow— Though she has been blind so long, She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone, And the corn stands tall and strong!'
"And some they brought the brown linseed And flung it down the Low: 'And this,' said they, 'by the sunrise In the weaver's croft shall grow!
"'Oh, the poor lame weaver! How will he laugh outright When he sees his dwindling flax-field All full of flowers by night!'
"And then outspoke a brownie, With a long beard on his chin: 'I have spun up all the tow,' said he, 'And I want some more to spin.
"'I've spun a piece of hempen cloth And I want to spin another— A little sheet for Mary's bed, And an apron for her mother!'
"With that I could not help but laugh, And I laughed out loud and free; And then on the top of the Caldon-Low There was no one left but me.
"And all on the top of the Caldon-Low The mists were cold and gray, And nothing I saw but the mossy stones That round about me lay.
"But, coming down from the hill-top, I heard, afar below, How busy the jolly miller was, And how merry the wheel did go!
"And I peeped into the widow's field, And, sure enough, was seen The yellow ears of the mildewed corn All standing stout and green.
"And down the weaver's croft I stole, To see if the flax were sprung; And I met the weaver at his gate With the good news on his tongue!
"Now, this is all I heard, mother, And all that I did see; So, prithee, make my bed, mother, For I'm tired as I can be!"
Mary Howitt [1799-1888]
THE FAIRIES
Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!
Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake.
High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lake, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. If any man so daring As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!
William Allingham [1824-1889]
THE FAIRY THRALL
On gossamer nights when the moon is low, And stars in the mist are hiding, Over the hill where the foxgloves grow You may see the fairies riding. Kling! Klang! Kling! Their stirrups and their bridles ring, And their horns are loud and their bugles blow, When the moon is low.
They sweep through the night like a whistling wind, They pass and have left no traces; But one of them lingers far behind The flight of the fairy faces. She makes no moan, She sorrows in the dark alone, She wails for the love of human kind, Like a whistling wind.
"Ah! why did I roam where the elfins ride, Their glimmering steps to follow? They bore me far from my loved one's side, To wander o'er hill and hollow. Kling! Klang! Kling! Their stirrups and their bridles ring, But my heart is cold in the cold night-tide, Where the elfins ride."
Mary C. G. Byron [1861-
FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES
Farewell, rewards and fairies! Good housewives now may say, For now foul sluts in dairies Do fare as well as they. And though they sweep their hearths no less Than maids were wont to do, Yet who of late, for cleanliness, Finds sixpence in her shoe?
Lament, lament, old abbeys, The fairies' lost command! They did but change priests' babies, But some have changed your land; And all your children sprung from thence, Are now grown Puritanes; Who live as changelings ever since, For love of your demains.
At morning and at evening both You merry were and glad; So little care of sleep or sloth These pretty ladies had; When Tom came home from labor, Or Ciss to milking rose, Then merrily merrily went their tabor And nimbly went their toes.
Witness those rings and roundelays Of theirs, which yet remain, Were footed in Queen Mary's days On many a grassy plain; But since of late, Elizabeth, And later, James came in, They never danced on any heath As when the time hath been.
By which we note the fairies Were of the old profession; Their songs were Ave-Maries, Their dances were procession. But now, alas! they all are dead, Or gone beyond the seas; Or farther for religion fled; Or else they take their ease.
A tell-tale in their company They never could endure; And whoso kept not secretly Their mirth, was punished sure; It was a just and Christian deed To pinch such black and blue: Oh, how the Commonwealth doth need Such justices as you!
Richard Corbet [1582-1635]
THE FAIRY FOLK
Come cuddle close in daddy's coat Beside the fire so bright, And hear about the fairy folk That wander in the night. For when the stars are shining clear And all the world is still, They float across the silver moon From hill to cloudy hill.
Their caps of red, their cloaks of green, Are hung with silver bells, And when they're shaken with the wind Their merry ringing swells. And riding on the crimson moth, With black spots on her wings, They guide them down the purple sky With golden bridle rings.
They love to visit girls and boys To see how sweet they sleep, To stand beside their cosy cots And at their faces peep. For in the whole of fairy-land They have no finer sight Than little children sleeping sound With faces rosy bright.
On tip-toe crowding round their heads, When bright the moonlight beams, They whisper little tender words That fill their minds with dreams; And when they see a sunny smile, With lightest finger tips They lay a hundred kisses sweet Upon the ruddy lips.
And then the little spotted moths Spread out their crimson wings, And bear away the fairy crowd With shaking bridle rings. Come, bairnies, hide in daddy's coat, Beside the fire so bright— Perhaps the little fairy folk Will visit you to-night.
Robert Bird [1867-
THE FAIRY BOOK
When Mother takes the Fairy Book And we curl up to hear, 'Tis "All aboard for Fairyland!" Which seems to be so near.
For soon we reach the pleasant place Of Once Upon a Time, Where birdies sing the hour of day, And flowers talk in rhyme;
Where Bobby is a velvet Prince, And where I am a Queen; Where one can talk with animals, And walk about unseen;
Where Little People live in nuts, And ride on butterflies, And wonders kindly come to pass Before your very eyes;
Where candy grows on every bush, And playthings on the trees, And visitors pick basketfuls As often as they please.
It is the nicest time of day— Though Bedtime is so near,— When Mother takes the Fairy Book And we curl up to hear.
Abbie Farwell Brown [1875-1927]
THE VISITOR
The white goat Amaryllis, She wandered at her will At time of daffodillies Afar and up the hill: We hunted and we holloa'd And back she came at dawn, But what d'you think had followed?— A little, pagan Faun!
His face was like a berry. His ears were high and pricked: Tip-tap—his hoofs came merry As up the path he clicked; A junket for his winning We set in dairy delf; He eat it—peart and grinning As Christian as yourself!
He stayed about the steading A fortnight, say, or more; A blanket for his bedding We spread beside the door; And when the cocks crowed clearly Before the dawn was ripe, He'd call the milkmaids cheerly Upon a reedy pipe!
That fortnight of his staying The work went smooth as silk: The hens were all in laying, The cows were all in milk; And then—and then one morning The maids woke up at day Without his oaten warning,— And found he'd gone away.
He left no trace behind him; But still the milkmaids deem That they, perhaps, may find him With butter and with cream: Beside the door they set them In bowl and golden pat, But no one comes to get them— Unless, maybe, the cat.
The white goat Amaryllis, She wanders at her will At time of daffodillies, Away up Woolcombe hill; She stays until the morrow, Then back she comes at dawn; But never—to our sorrow— The little, pagan Faun.
Patrick R. Chalmers [18
THE LITTLE ELF
I met a little Elf-man, once, Down where the lilies blow. I asked him why he was so small, And why he didn't grow. He slightly frowned, and with his eye He looked me through and through. "I'm quite as big for me," said he, "As you are big for you."
John Kendrick Bangs [1862-1922]
THE SATYRS AND THE MOON
Within the wood behind the hill The moon got tangled in the trees. Her splendor made the branches thrill And thrilled the breeze.
The satyrs in the grotto bent Their heads to see the wondrous sight. "It is a god in banishment That stirs the night."
The little satyr looked and guessed: "It is an apple that one sees, Brought from that garden of the West— Hesperides."
"It is a cyclops' glaring eye." "A temple dome from Babylon." "A Titan's cup of ivory." "A little sun."
The tiny satyr jumped for joy, And kicked hoofs in utmost glee. "It is a wondrous silver toy— Bring it to me!"
A great wind whistled through the blue And caught the moon and tossed it high; A bubble of pale fire it flew Across the sky.
The satyrs gasped and looked and smiled, And wagged their heads from side to side, Except their shaggy little child, Who cried and cried.
Herbert S. Gorman [1893-
THE CHILDREN
THE CHILDREN
When the lessons and tasks are all ended, And the school for the day is dismissed, The little ones gather around me, To bid me good night and be kissed; Oh, the little white arms that encircle My neck in their tender embrace! Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, Shedding sunshine of love on my face! |
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