"TOUCH HIM IF YOU DARE."

A TALE OF THE HEDGE.

HEDGE-PLANTS.

"Beware! We advise you to take care. He lodges with us, so we know him well, And can tell You all about him, And we strongly advise you not to flout him."

DANDELION.

"At my time of life," said the Dandelion, "I keep an eye on The slightest sign of disturbance and riot, For my one object is to keep quiet The reason I take such very great care," The old Dandy went on, "is because of my hair. It was very thick once, and as yellow as gold; But now I am old, It is snowy-white, And comes off with the slightest fright. As to using a brush— My good dog! I beseech you, don't rush, Go quietly by me, if you please You're as bad as a breeze. I hope you'll attend to what we've said; And—whatever you do—don't touch my head, In this equinoctial, blustering weather You might knock it off with a feather."

THISTLE.

Said the Thistle, "I can tickle, But not as a Hedgehog can prickle; Even my tough old friend the Moke Would find our lodger no joke."

DOG-ROSE.

"I have thorns," sighed the Rose, "But they don't protect me like those; He can pull his thorns right over his nose."

NETTLE.

"My sting," said the Nettle, "Is nothing to his when he's put on his mettle. No nose can endure it, No dock-leaves will cure it."

DOG.

"Bow-wow!" said the Dog: "All this fuss about a Hedgehog? Though I never saw one before— There's my paw! Good-morning, Sir! Do you never stir? You look like an overgrown burr. Good-day, I-say: Will you have a game of play? With your humped-up back and your spines on end, You remind me so of an intimate friend, The Persian Puss Who lives with us. How well I know her tricks! The dear creature! Just when you're sure you can reach her, In the twinkling of a couple of sticks She saves herself by her heels, And looks down at you out of the apple-tree, with eyes like catherine wheels. The odd part of it is, I could swear that I could not possibly miss Her silky, cumbersome, traily tail, And that's just where I always fail. But you seem to have nothing, Sir, of the sort; And I should be mortified if you thought That I'm stupid at sport; I assure you I don't often meet my match, Where I chase I commonly catch. I've caught cats, And rats, And (between ourselves) I once caught a sheep, And I think I could catch a weasel asleep."

HEDGE-PLANTS.

From the whole of the hedge there rose a shout, "Oh! you'll catch it, no doubt! But remember we gave you warning fair, Touch him if you dare!"

DOG.

"If I dare?" said the Dog—"Take that!" As he gave the Hedgehog a pat. But oh, how he pitied his own poor paw; And shook it and licked it, it was so sore.

DANDELION.

"It's much too funny by half," Said the Dandelion; "it makes me ill, For I cannot keep still, And my hair comes out if I laugh."

The Hedgehog he spoke never a word, And he never stirred; His peeping eyes, his inquisitive nose, And his tender toes, Were all wrapped up in his prickly clothes. A provoking enemy you may suppose! And a dangerous one to flout— Like a well-stocked pin-cushion inside out.

The Dog was valiant, the Dog was vain, He flew at the prickly ball again, Snapping with all his might and main, But, oh! the pain! He sat down on his stumpy tail and howled, Then he laid his jaws on his paws and growled.

DANDELION.

With laughter the Dandelion shook— "It passes a printed book; It's as good as a play, I declare, But it's cost me half my back hair!" The Dog he made another essay, It really and truly was very plucky— But "third times," you know, are not always lucky— And this time he ran away!

HEDGE-PLANTS.

Then the Hedge-plants every one Rustled together, "What fun! what fun! The battle is done, The victory won. Dear Hedge-pig, pray come out of the Sun."

The Hedge-pig put forth his snout, He sniffed hither and thither and peeped about; Then he tucked up his prickly clothes, And trotted away on his tender toes To where the hedge-bottom is cool and deep, Had a slug for supper, and went to sleep. His leafy bed-clothes cuddled his chin, And all the Hedge-plants tucked him in.

But the hairs and the tears that we shed Never can be recalled; And when he too went off, in hysterics, to bed, DANDELION was bald.



MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY REVIEW.

BROTHER BILL.

To have a good birthday for a grown-up person is very difficult indeed; We don't give it up, for Mother says the harder things are, the harder you must try till you succeed. Still, our birthdays are different; we want so many things, and choosing your own pudding, and even half-holidays are treats; But what can you do for people who always order the dinner, and never have lessons, and don't even like sweets? I know Mother does not. Baby put a big red comfit in her mouth, and I saw her take it out again on the sly; I don't believe she even enjoys going a-gypseying, for she gets neuralgia if she stands about where it isn't dry. And how can you boil the kettle if you're not near the brook? But it's the last time she shall go there, I told her so; I said, "What's the good of having five sons, except to mount guard over you, you Queen of all Mothers that ever were?" But she's not easy to manage, and she shams sometimes, and shamming is a thing I can't bear. She shammed about the red comfit, when she didn't think Baby could see her; And (because they're the only things we can think of for birthday presents for her) she shams wearing out a needle-book and a pin-cushion every year. The only things we can think of for Father are paper-cutters; but there's no sham about his wearing them out; He would always lose them, long before his next birthday, if Mother did not keep finding them lying about. Last year's paper-cutter was as big as a sword (not as big as Father's sword, but as big as a wooden one, like ours), And he left it behind in a railway-carriage, when he'd had it just thirty-six hours; So we knew he was ready for another. It was Mother's birthday that bothered us so;



And if it hadn't been for Dolly's Major (he's her Godfather, and she calls him "my Major"), what we should have done I really don't know! He said, "What's the matter?" And Dolly said, "Mother's birthday's the matter." And I said, "We can't think what to devise To give her a birthday treat that won't give her neuralgia, and will take her by surprise. Look here, Major! How can you give people treats who can order what they wish for far better than you? I wonder what they do for the Queen!—her birthday must be the hardest of all." But he said, "Not a bit of it! They have a review: Cocked hats and all the rest of it; and a salute, and a feu de joie, and a March-Past. That's the way we keep the Queen's Birthday; and every year the same as the last." So I settled at once to have a Mother's Birthday Review; and that she should be Queen, and I should be the General in command. I thought she couldn't come to any harm by sitting in a fur cloak and a birthday wreath at the window, and bowing and waving her hand. We did not tell her what was coming, we only asked for leave to have all the seven donkeys for an hour and a half; (We always hire them from the same old man)—two for the girls, and five for me and my brothers—I told him, "for me and my Staff." We could have managed with five, if the girls would only have been Maids of Honour, and stayed indoors with the Queen. Maggie would if I'd asked her; but Dolly will go her own way, and that's into the thick of everything, to see whatever there is to be seen. She's only four years old, but she's ridiculously like the picture of an ancient ancestress of ours Who defended an old castle in Cornwall, against the French, for hours and hours. Her husband was away, so she was in command, and all her household obeyed her; She made them strip the lead off the roofs, and they did, and she boiled it down and gave it very hot indeed to the French invader.[5] Maggie would have let the French in; she doesn't like me to say so, but I know she would,—you can get anything out of Maggie by talking.



She likes to hire a donkey, and then sham she'd rather not ride, for fear of being too heavy; and to take Spike out for a run, and then carry him to save him the trouble of walking. But she's very good; she made all our cocked hats, and at the review she and Dolly and Spike were the loyal crowd. Dick and Tom and Harry were the troops, and I was the General, and Mother looked quite like a Queen at the window, and bowed. The donkeys made very good chargers on the whole, and especially mine; Jem's was the only one that gave trouble, and neither fair means nor foul would keep him in line. Just when I'd dressed all their noses to a nice level (you can do nothing with their ears), then back went Jem's brute, And Jem caught him a whack with the flat of his sword (a thing you never see done on the Staff), and it rather spoilt the salute; But the spirit of the troops was excellent, and we'd a feu de joie with penny pistols (Jem's donkey was the only one that shied), and Dolly's Major says that, all things considered, he never saw a better March-Past; And Mother was delighted with her first Birthday Review, and she is none the worse for it, and says she only hopes that it won't be the last.

[Footnote 5: Dame Elizabeth Treffry (temp. Henry VI.) defended Place House, Fowey, Cornwall, in the circumstances and with the vigorous measures described. On his return her husband wisely "Embattled all the walls of the house, and in a manner made it a Castelle, and unto this day it is the glorie of the town building in Faweye."—Carew. The beauties of Place Castle remain to this day also.]

DOLLY.

They call me Dolly, but I'm not a doll, and I'm not a baby, though Baby is sometimes my name; I behave beautifully at meals, and at church, and I can put on my own boots, and can say a good deal of the Catechism, and ride a donkey, and play at any boys' game. I've ridden a donkey that kicks (at least I rode him as long as I was on), and a donkey that rolls, and an old donkey that goes lame. I mean to ride like a lady now, but that's because I ought, not because I easily can; For what with your legs and your pommels (I mean the saddle's pommels), it would be much easier always to ride like a man. Boys look braver, but I think it's really more dangerous to ride sideways, because of the saddle slipping round. (I didn't cry; I played at slipping round the world, and getting to New Zealand with my head upside down on the ground.) The reason the saddle is slippery is not because it's smooth, for it's rather rough; and there's a hard ridge behind, And the horse's hair coming through the donkey's back (I mean through his saddle) scratches you dreadfully; but I tuck my things under me, and pretend I don't mind. They work out again though, particularly when they are starched, and I think frocks get shorter every time they go to the wash; But I don't complain; if it's very uncomfortable, I make an ugly face to myself, and say, "Bosh!" We've all of us had a good deal of practice, so we ought to know how to ride; We've ridden a great deal since we came to live on the Heath, and we rode a good deal when Father was stationed at the sea-side. My Major taught me to ride sideways, and at first he would hold me on; But I don't like being touched; and I don't call it riding like a lady if you're held on by an officer, and I'd rather tumble off if I can't stick on by myself; so I sent him away, and the nasty saddle slipped round directly he was gone. I only crushed my sun-bonnet, and the donkey stood quite still. (We always call that one "the old stager.") I wasn't frightened, except just the tiniest bit; but he says he was dreadfully frightened. So I said, "Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself, considering all your medals, and that you're a Major." He likes me very much, and I like him, and when my fifth birthday comes, he says I'm to choose a donkey, and he'll buy it for me, but the saddle and bridle shall be quite new; So I've made up my mind to choose the one Brother Bill had for his charger at Mother's Birthday Review; And Maggie is so glad, she says her life is quite miserable with thinking how miserable other lives are, if only we knew. Maggie loves every creature that lives; she won't confess to black beetles, but she can't stamp on them (I've stamped out lots in my winter boots), and she doesn't even think a donkey ugly when he brays; And she says she shall buy a brush, out of her pocket-money, and brush my donkey every day till he looks like a horse, and that it shan't be her fault if there isn't one poor old brute beast who lives happily to the end of his days.

JACK ASS.

The dew falls over the Heath, Brother Donkeys, and the darkness falls, but still through the gathering night All around us spreads the Heath Bed-straw[6] in glimmering sheets of white. Dragged and trampled, and plucked and wasted, it patiently spreads and survives; Kicked and thwacked, and prodded and over-laden, we patiently cling to our lives. Hee-haw! for the rest and silence of darkness that follow the labours of light. Hee-haw! for the hours from night to morning, that balance the hours from morning to night. Hee-haw! for the sweet night air that gives human beings cold in the head. Hee-haw! for the civilization that sends human beings to bed. Rest, Brother Donkeys, rest, from the bit, the burden, the blow, The dust, the flies, the restless children, the brutal roughs, the greedy donkey-master, the greedier donkey-hirer, the holiday-maker who knows no better, and the holiday-makers who ought to know! When the odorous furze-bush prickles the seeking nose, and the short damp grass refreshes the tongue,—lend, Brother Donkeys, lend a long and attentive ear! Whilst I proudly bray Of the one bright day In our hard and chequered career. I've dragged pots, and vegetables, and invalids, and fish, and I've galloped with four costermongers to the races; I've carried babies, and sea-coal, and sea-sand, and sea-weed in panniers, and been sold to the gypsies, and been bought back for the sea-side, and ridden (in a white saddle-cloth with scarlet braid) by the fashionable visitors. (There was always a certain distinction in my paces, Though I say it who shouldn't) I've spent a summer on the Heath, and next winter near Covent Garden, and moved the following year to the foot of a mountain, to take people up to the top to show them the view. But how little we know what's before us! And how little I guessed I should ever be chief charger at a Queen's Birthday Review! Did I triumph alone? No, Brother Donkeys, no! You also took your place with the defenders of the nation; Subordinate positions to my own, but meritoriously filled, though a little more style would have well become so great an occasion. That malevolent old Moke—may his next thistle choke him!—disgraced us all with his jibbing—the ill-tempered old ass! Young Neddy is shaggy and shy, but not amiss, if he'd held his ears up, and not kept his eyes on the grass. Nothing is more je-june (I may say vulgar) than to seem anxious to eat when the crisis calls for public spirit, enthusiasm, and an elevated tone; And I wish, Brother Donkeys, I wish that all had felt as I felt, the responsibility of a March-Past the Throne! Respect and self-respect delicately blended; one ear up, and the other lowered to salute, as I passed the window from which we were seen (Unless I grievously misunderstood the young General this morning,) by no less a personage than her Most Gracious Majesty THE QUEEN. Sleep, Brother Donkeys, sleep! But I fancy you're sleeping already, for you make no reply; Not a quiver of your ears, not a sign from your motionless drooping noses, dark against the dusky night sky. As black and immovable as the silent fir-trees you solemnly slumber beneath, Whilst I wakefully meditate on a glorious past, and painfully ponder the future, as the dews fall over the Heath.

[Footnote 6: Heath bed-straw (Galium Saxatile). This white-flowered bed-straw grows profusely on Hampstead Heath.]



THE PROMISE.

CHILD.

Five blue eggs hatching, With bright eyes watching, Little brown mother, you sit on your nest.

BIRD.

Oh! pass me blindly, Oh! spare me kindly, Pity my terror, and leave me to rest.

CHORUS OF CHILDREN.

Hush! hush! hush! 'Tis a poor mother thrush. When the blue eggs hatch, the brown birds will sing— This is a promise made in the Spring.

CHILD.

Five speckled thrushes In leafy bushes Singing sweet songs to the hot Summer sky. In and out twitting, Here and there flitting, Happy is life as the long days go by.

CHORUS.

Hush! hush! hush! 'Tis the song of the thrush: Hatched are the blue eggs; the brown birds do sing— Keeping the promise made in the Spring.

Published in Aunt Judy's Magazine, July 1866, with music by Alexander Ewing.



CONVALESCENCE.

Hold my hand, little Sister, and nurse my head, whilst I try to remember the word, What was it?—that the doctor says is now fairly established both in me and my bird. C-O-N-con, with a con, S-T-A-N-stan, with a stan—No! That's Constantinople, that is The capital of the country where rhubarb-and-magnesia comes from, and I wish they would keep it in that country, and not send it to this. C-O-N-con—how my head swims! Now I've got it! C-O-N-V-A-L-E-S-C-E-N-C-E. Convalescence! And that's what the doctor says is now fairly established both in my blackbird and me. He says it means that you are better, and that you'll be well by and by. And so the Sea-captain says, and he says we ought to be friends, because we're both convalescents—at least we're all three convalescents, my blackbird, and the Captain and I. He's a sea-captain, not a land-captain, but, all the same, he was in the war, And he fought,—for I asked him,—and he's been ill ever since, and that's why he's not afloat, but ashore; And why somebody else has got his ship; and she behaved so beautifully in the battle, and he loves her quite as much as his wife, and rather better than the rest of his relations, for I asked him; and now he's afraid she will never belong to him any more. I like him. I've seen him three times out walking with two sticks, when I was driving in the bath-chair, but I never talked to him till to-day. He'd only one stick and a telescope, and he let me look through it at the big ship that was coming round the corner into the bay. He was very kind, and let me ask questions. I said, "Are you a sea-captain?" and he said, "Yes." And I said, "How funny it is about land things and sea things! There are captains and sea-captains, and weeds and sea-weeds, and serpents and sea-serpents. Did you ever meet one, and is it really like the dragons on our very old best blue tea-things?" But he never did. So I asked him, "Have you got convalescence? Does your doctor say it is fairly established? Do your eyes ache if you try to read, and your neck if you draw, and your back if you sit up, and your head if you talk? Don't you get tired of doing nothing, and worse tired still if you do anything; and does everything wobble about when you walk? Wouldn't you rather go back to bed? I think I would. Don't you wish you were well? Wouldn't you rather be ill than only better? I do hate convalescence, don't you?" Then I stopped asking, and he shut up his telescope, and sat down on the shingle, and said, "When you come to my age, little chap, you won't think 'What is it I'd rather have?' but, 'What is it I've got to do?' 'What have I got to do or to bear; and how can I do it or bear it best?' That's the only safe point to make for, my lad. Make for it, and leave the rest!" I said, "But wouldn't you rather be in battles than in bed, with your head aching as if it would split?" And he said, "Of course I would; so would most men. But, my little convalescent, that's not it. What would you think of a man who was ordered into battle, and went grumbling and wishing he were in bed?" "What should I think of the fellow? Why, I should know he was a coward," I said. "And if he were confined to bed," said the Sea-captain, "and lay grumbling and wishing he were in battle, I should give him no better a name; For the courage that dares, and the courage that bears, are really one and the same." Hold my hand, little Sister, and nurse my head, for I'm thinking, and I very much fear You've had no good of being well since I was ill; I've led you such a life; but indeed I am obliged to you, dear! Is it true that Nurse has got something the matter with her legs, and that Mary has gone home because she's worn out with nursing, And won't be fit to work for months? (will she be convalescent, because it was such hard work waiting on me?) and did Cook say, "So much grumbling and complaining is nigh as big a sin as swearing and cursing"? I wish I hadn't been so cross with poor Mary, and I wish I hadn't given so much trouble about my medicine and my food. I didn't think about her. I only thought what a bother it was. I wish I hadn't thought so much about being miserable, that I never thought of trying to be good. I believe the Sea-captain is right, and I shall tell him so to-morrow, when he comes here to tea; He's going to look at my blackbird's leg, and if it is really set, he wants me to let it go free. He says captivity is worse than convalescence, and so I should think it must be. Are you tired, little Sister? You feel shaky. Don't beg my pardon; I beg yours. I've not let you go out of my sight for weeks. Get your things on, and have a gallop on Jack. Ride round this way and let me see you. I won't say a word about wishing I was going too; and if my head gets bad whilst you're away, I will bear it my very best till you come back. Tell me one thing before you start. If I learn to be patient, shall I learn to be brave, do you think? The Sea-captain says so. He says, "Self-command is the making of a man," and he's a finely-made man himself, so he ought to know. Perhaps, if I try hard at Convalescence now, I may become a brave sea-captain hereafter, and take my beautiful ship into battle, and bring her out again with flying colours and fame, If the courage that dares, and the courage that bears, are really one and the same.





THE ADVENTURES OF AN ELF.

A PICTURE POEM FOR THE LITTLE ONES.

By Fedor Flinzer. Freely translated by J.H. Ewing.

I.

Dear children, listen whilst I tell What to a certain Elf befell, Who left his house and sallied forth Adventure seeking, south and north, And west and east, by path and field, Resolved to conquer or to yield. A thimble on his back he carried, With a rose-twig his foes he parried.



II.

It was a sunny, bright, spring day, When to the wood he took his way; He knew that in a certain spot A Bumble Bee his nest had got. The Bee was out, the chance was good, But just when grabbing all he could, He heard the Bee behind him humming, And only wished he'd heard him coming!



III.

In terror turned the tiny man, And now a famous fight began: The Bee flew round, and buzzed and stung, The Elf his prickly rose-staff swung. Now fiercely here, now wildly there, He hit the Bee or fought the air. At last one weighty blow descended: The Bee was dead—the fight was ended.



IV.

Exhausted quite, he took a seat. The honey tasted doubly sweet! The thimble-full had been upset, But still there were a few drops yet. He licked his lips and blessed himself, That he was such a lucky Elf, And now might hope to live in clover; But, ah! his troubles were not over!



V.

For at that instant, by his side, A beast of fearful form he spied: At first he thought it was a bear, And headlong fell in dire despair. He lost one slipper in the moss, And this was not his only loss. With paws and snout the beast was nimble, And very soon cleared out the thimble.



VI.

This rifling of his honey-pot Awoke our Elfin's wrath full hot. He made a rope of linden bast, By either end he held it fast, And creeping up behind the beast, Intent upon the honey feast, Before it had the slightest inkling, The rope was round it in a twinkling.



VII.

The mouse shrieked "Murder!" "Fire!" and "Thieves!" And struggled through the twigs and leaves. It pulled the reins with all its might, Our hero only drew them tight. Upon the mouse's back he leapt, And like a man his seat he kept. His steed was terribly affrighted, But he himself was much delighted.



VIII.

"Gee up, my little horse!" he cried, "I mean to have a glorious ride; So bear me forth with lightning speed, A Knight resolved on doughty deed. The wide world we will gallop round, And clear the hedges at one bound." The mouse set off, the hero bantered, And out into the world they cantered.



IX.

At last they rode up to an inn: "Good Mr. Host, pray who's within?" "My daughter serves the customers, Before the fire the Tom-cat purrs." For further news they did not wait— The mouse sprang through the garden-gate— They fled without a look behind them. The question is—Did Thomas find them?



SONGS FOR MUSIC



SERENADE.

I would not have you wake for me, Fair lady, though I love you! And though the night is warm, and all The stars are out above you; And though the dew's so light it could Not hurt your little feet, And nightingales in yonder wood Are singing passing sweet.

Yet may my plaintive strain unite And mingle with your dreaming, And through the visions of the night Just interweave my seeming. Yet no! sleep on with fancy free In that untroubled breast; No song of mine, no thought of me, Deserves to break your rest!



MAIDEN WITH THE GIPSY LOOK.

Maiden with the gipsy look, Dusky locks and russet hue, Open wide thy Sybil's book, Tell my fate and tell it true; Shall I live? or shall I die? Timely wed, or single be? Maiden with the gipsy eye, Read my riddle unto me!

Maiden with the gipsy face, If thou canst not tell me all, Tell me thus much, of thy grace, Should I climb, or fear to fall? Should I dare, or dread to dare? Should I speak, or silent be? Maiden with the gipsy hair, Read my riddle unto me!

Maiden with the gipsy hair, Deep into thy mirror look, See my love and fortune there, Clearer than in Sybil's book: Let me cross thy slender palm, Let me learn my fate from thee; Maiden with the gipsy charm, Read my riddle unto me.



AH! WOULD I COULD FORGET.

The whispering water rocks the reeds, And, murmuring softly, laps the weeds; And nurses there the falsest bloom That ever wrought a lover's doom. Forget me not! Forget me not! Ah! would I could forget! But, crying still, "Forget me not," Her image haunts me yet.

We wander'd by the river's brim, The day grew dusk, the pathway dim; Her eyes like stars dispell'd the gloom, Her gleaming fingers pluck'd the bloom. Forget me not! Forget me not! Ah! would I could forget! But, crying still, "Forget me not," Her image haunts me yet.

The pale moon lit her paler face, And coldly watch'd our last embrace, And chill'd her tresses' sunny hue, And stole that flower's turquoise blue. Forget me not! Forget me not! Ah! would I could forget! But, crying still, "Forget me not," Her image haunts me yet.

The fateful flower droop'd to death, The fair, false maid forswore her faith; But I obey a broken vow, And keep those wither'd blossoms now! Forget me not! Forget me not! Ah! would I could forget! But, crying still, "Forget me not," Her image haunts me yet.

Sweet lips that pray'd—"Forget me not!" Sweet eyes that will not be forgot! Recall your prayer, forego your power, Which binds me by the fatal flower. Forget me not! Forget me not! Ah! would I could forget! But, crying still, "Forget me not," Her image haunts me yet.



MADRIGAL.

Life is full of trouble, Love is full of care, Joy is like a bubble Shining in the air, For you cannot Grasp it anywhere.

Love is not worth getting, It doth fade so fast. Life is not worth fretting Which so soon is past; And you cannot Bid them longer last.

Yet for certain fellows Life seems true and strong; And with some, they tell us, Love will linger long; Thus they cannot Understand my song.



THE ELLEREE.[7]

A SONG OF SECOND SIGHT.

Elleree! O Elleree! Seeing what none else may see, Dost thou see the man in grey? Dost thou hear the night hounds bay? Elleree! O Elleree! Seventh son of seventh son, All thy thread of life is spun, Thy little race is nearly run, And death awaits for thee!

Elleree! O Elleree! Coronach shall wail for thee; Get thee shrived and get thee blest, Get thee ready for thy rest, Elleree! O Elleree! That thou owest quickly give, What thou ownest thou must leave, And those thou lovest best shall grieve, But all in vain for thee!

"Bodach Glas!"[8] the chieftain said, "All my debts but one are paid, All I love have long been dead, All my hopes on Heaven are stay'd, Death to me can bring no dole;" Thus the Elleree replied;— But with ebbing of the tide As sinks the setting sun he died;— May Christ receive his soul!

[Footnote 7: "Elleree" is the name of one who has the gift of second sight.]

[Footnote 8: "Bodach Glas," the Man in Grey, appears to a Highland family with the gift of second sight, presaging death.]



OTHER STARS.

The night is dark, and yet it is not quite: Those stars are hid that other orbs may shine; Twin stars, whose rays illuminate the night, And cheer her gloom, but only deepen mine; For these fair stars are not what they do seem, But vanish'd eyes remember'd in a dream.

The night is dark, and yet it brings no rest; Those eager eyes gaze on and banish sleep; Though flaming Mars has lower'd his crimson crest, And weary Venus pales into the deep, These two with tender shining mock my woe From out the distant heaven of long ago.

The night is dark, and yet how bright they gleam! Oh! empty vision of a vanish'd light! Sweet eyes! must you for ever be a dream Deep in my heart, and distant from my sight? For could you shine as once you shone before, The stars might hide their rays for evermore!



FADED FLOWERS.

My love she sent a flower to me Of tender hue and fragrance rare, And with it came across the sea A letter kind as she was fair; But when her letter met mine eyes, The flower, the little flower, was dead: And ere I touched the tender prize The hues were dim, the fragrance fled.

I sent my love a letter too, In happy hope no more to roam; I bade her bless the vessel true Whose gallant sails should waft me home. But ere my letter reach'd her hand, My love, my little love, was dead, And when the vessel touch'd the land, Fair hope for evermore had fled.



SPEED WELL.

What time I left my native land, And bade farewell to my true love, She laid a flower in my hand As azure as the sky above. "Speed thee well! Speed well!" She softly whispered, "Speed well! This flower blue Be token true Of my true heart's true love for you!"

Its tender hue is bright and pure, As heav'n through summer clouds doth show, A pledge though clouds thy way obscure, It shall not be for ever so. "Speed thee well! Speed well!" She softly whisper'd, "Speed well! This flower blue Be token true Of my true heart's true love for you!"

And as I toil through help and harm, And whilst on alien shores I dwell, I wear this flower as a charm, My heart repeats that tender spell: "Speed thee well! Speed well!" It softly whispers, "Speed well! This flower blue Be token true Of my true heart's true love for you!"



HOW MANY YEARS AGO?

How many years ago, love, Since you came courting me? Through oak-tree wood and o'er the lea, With rosy cheeks and waistcoat gay, And mostly not a word to say,— How many years ago, love, How many years ago?

How many years ago, love, Since you to Father spoke? Between your lips a sprig of oak: You were not one with much to say, But Mother spoke for you that day,— How many years ago, love, How many years ago?

So many years ago, love, That soon our time must come To leave our girl without a home;— She's like her mother, love, you've said: —At her age I had long been wed,— How many years ago, love, How many years ago?

For love of long-ago, love, If John has aught to say, When he comes up to us to-day, (A likely lad, though short of tongue,) Remember, husband, we were young,— How many years ago, love, How many years ago?



"WITH A DIFFERENCE."

I'm weary waiting here, The chill east wind is sighing, The autumn tints are sere, The summer flowers are dying. The river's sullen way Winds on through vacant meadows, The dying light of day Strives vainly with the shadows.

A footstep stirs the leaves! The faded fields seem brighter, The sunset gilds the sheaves, The low'ring clouds look lighter. The river sparkles by, Not all the flowers are falling, There's azure in the sky, And thou, my love, art calling.



THE LILY OF THE LAKE.

Over wastes of blasted heather, Where the pine-trees stand together, Evermore my footsteps wander, Evermore the shadows yonder Deepen into gloom. Where there lies a silent lake, No song-bird there its thirst may slake, No sunshine now to whiteness wake The water-lily's bloom.

Some sweet spring-time long departed, I and she, the simple-hearted, Bride and bridegroom, maid and lover, Did that gloomy lake discover, Did those lilies see. There we wandered side by side. There it was they said she died. But ah! in this I know they lied! She will return to me!

Never, never since that hour Has the lake brought forth a flower. Ever harshly do the sedges Some sad secret from its edges Whisper to the shore. Some sad secret I forget. The lily though will blossom yet: And when it blooms I shall have met My love for evermore.



FROM FLEETING PLEASURES.

A REQUIEM FOR ONE ALIVE.

From fleeting pleasures and abiding cares, From sin's seductions and from Satan's snares, From woes and wrath to penitence and prayers, Veni in pace!

Sweet absolution thy sad spirit heal; To godly cares that end in endless weal, To joys man cannot think or speak or feel, Vade in pace!

From this world's ways and being led by them, From floods of evil thy youth could not stem, From tents of Kedar to Jerusalem, Veni in pace!

Blest be thy worldly loss to thy soul's gain, Blest be the blow that freed thee from thy chain, Blest be the tears that wash thy spirit's stain, Vade in pace!

Oh, dead, and yet alive! Oh, lost and found! Salvation's walls now compass thee around, Thy weary feet are set on holy ground. Veni in pace!

Death gently garner thee with all the blest, In heavenly habitations be thou guest; To light perpetual and eternal rest, Vade in pace!



THE RUNAWAY'S RETURN.

It was on such a night as this, Some long unreal years ago, When all within were wrapp'd in sleep, And all without was wrapp'd in snow, The full moon rising in the east, The old church standing like a ghost, That, shivering in the wintry mist, And breathless with the silent frost, A little lad, I ran to seek my fortune on the main; I marvel now with how much hope and with how little pain!

It is of such a night as this, In all the lands where I have been, That memory too faithfully Has painted the familiar scene. By all the shores, on every sea, In luck or loss, by night or day, My highest hope has been to see That home from which I ran away. For this I toil'd, to this I look'd through many a weary year, I marvel now with how much hope, and with how little fear.

On such a night at last I came, But they were dead I loved of yore. Ah, Mother, then my heart felt all The pain it should have felt before! I came away, though loth to come, I clung, and yet why should I cling? When all have gone who made it home, It is the shadow, not the thing. A homeless man, once more I seek my fortune on the main: I marvel with how little hope, and with what bitter pain.



FANCY FREE.

A GIRL'S SONG.

With bark and bound and frolic round My dog and I together run; While by our side a brook doth glide, And laugh and sparkle in the sun. We ask no more of fortune's store Than thus at our sweet wills to roam: And drink heart's ease from every breeze That blows about the hills of home. As, fancy free, With game and glee, We happy three Dance down the glen.

And yet they say that some fine day This vagrant stream may serve a mill; My doggy guard a master's yard; My free heart choose another's will. How this may fare we little care, My dog and I, as still we run! Whilst by our side the brook doth glide, And laugh and sparkle in the sun. For, fancy free, With game and glee, We happy three Dance down the glen.



MY LOVE'S GIFT.

You ask me what—since we must part— You shall bring home to me; Bring back a pure and faithful heart, As true as mine to thee. I ask not wealth nor fame, I only ask for thee, Thyself—and that dear self the same— My love, bring back to me!

You talk of gems from foreign lands, Of treasure, spoil, and prize. Ah, love! I shall not search your hands, But look into your eyes. I ask not wealth nor fame, I only ask for thee, Thyself—and that dear self the same— My love, bring back to me!

You speak of glory and renown, With me to share your pride, Unbroken faith is all the crown I ask for as your bride. I ask not wealth nor fame, I only ask for thee, Thyself—and that dear self the same— My love, bring back to me!

You bid me with hope's eager gaze Behold fair fortune come. I only dream I see your face Beside the hearth at home. I ask not wealth nor fame, I do but ask for thee! Thyself—and that dear self the same— May God restore to me!



ANEMONES.

If I should wish hereafter that your heart Should beat with one fair memory of me, May Time's hard hand our footsteps guide apart, But lead yours back one spring-time to the Lea. Nodding Anemones, Wind-flowers pale, Bloom with the budding trees, Dancing to every breeze, Mock hopes more fair than these, Love's vows more frail.

For then the grass we loved grows green again, And April showers make April woods more fair; But no sun dries the sad salt tears of pain, Or brings back summer lights on faded hair, Nodding Anemones, Wind-flowers pale, Bloom with the budding trees, Dancing to every breeze, Mock hopes more frail than these, Love's vows more frail.



AUTUMN LEAVES.

The Spring's bright tints no more are seen, And Summer's ample robe of green Is russet-gold and brown; When flowers fall to every breeze And, shed reluctant from the trees, The leaves drop down.

A sadness steals about the heart, —And is it thus from youth we part, And life's redundant prime? Must friends like flowers fade away, And life like Nature know decay, And bow to time?

And yet such sadness meets rebuke, From every copse in every nook Where Autumn's colours glow; How bright the sky! How full the sheaves! What mellow glories gild the leaves Before they go.

Then let us sing the jocund praise, In this bright air, of these bright days, When years our friendships crown; The love that's loveliest when 'tis old— When tender tints have turned to gold And leaves drop down.



HYMNS.



CONFIRMATION.

Long, long ago, with vows too much forgotten, The Cross of Christ was seal'd on every brow, Ah! slow of heart, that shun the Christian conflict; Rise up at last! The accepted time is now. Soldiers of Jesus! Blest who endure; Stand in the battle; the victory is sure.

Hark! hark! the Saviour's voice to each is calling— "I bore the Cross of Death in pain for thee; On thee the Cross of daily life is falling: Children! take up the Cross and follow Me." Soldiers of Jesus! &c.

Strive as God's saints have striven in all ages; Press those slow steps where firmer feet have trod: For us their lives adorn the sacred pages, For them a crown of glory is with God. Soldiers of Jesus! &c.

Peace! peace! sweet voices bring an ancient story, (Such songs angelic melodies employ,) "Hard is the strife, but unconceived the glory: Short is the pain, eternal is the joy." Soldiers of Jesus! &c.

On! Christian souls, all base temptations spurning, Drown coward thoughts in Faith's triumphant hymn; Since Jesus suffer'd, our salvation earning, Shall we not toil that we may rest with Him? Soldiers of Jesus! &c. Amen.



WHITSUNTIDE.

Come down! come down! O Holy Ghost! As once of old Thou didst come down In fiery tongues at Pentecost, The Apostolic heads to crown.

Come down! though now no flame divine, Nor heaven-sent Dove, our sight amaze; Our Church still shows the outward sign, Thou truly givest inward grace.

Come down! come down! on infancy, The babes whom Jesus deign'd to love; God give us grace by faith to see, Above the Font, the mystic Dove.

Come down! come down! on kneeling bands Of those who fain would strength receive; And in the laying on of hands Bless us beyond what we believe.

Come down! not only on the saint, Oh! struggle with the hard of heart, With wilful sin and inborn taint, Till lust, and wrath, and pride depart.

Come down! come down! sweet Comforter! It was the promise of the Lord. Come down! although we grieve Thee sore, Not for our merits—but His Word.

Come down! come down! not what we would, But what we need, O bring with Thee. Turn life's sore riddle to our good; A little while and we shall see. Amen.



CHRISTMAS WISHES.

A CAROL.

Oh, happy Christmas, full of blessings, come! Now bid our discords cease; Here give the weary ease; Let the long-parted meet again in peace; Bring back the far-away; Grant us a holiday; And by the hopes of Christmas-tide we pray— Let love restore the fallen to his Home; Whilst up and down the snowy streets the Christmas minstrels sing; And through the frost from countless towers the bells of Christmas ring.

Ah, Christ! and yet a happier day shall come! Then bid our discords cease; There give the weary ease; Let the long-parted meet again in peace; Bring back the far-away; Grant us a holiday; And by the hopes of Christmas-tide we pray— Let love restore the fallen to his Home; Whilst up and down the golden streets the blessed angels sing, And evermore the heavenly chimes in heavenly cadence ring.



TEACH ME.

Translated from the Danish of Oehlenschlaeger.

Teach me, O wood, to fade away, As autumn's yellow leaves decay A better spring impends,— Then green and glorious shall my tree Take deep root in eternity,— Whose summer never ends!

Teach me, O bird of passage, this, To seek, in faith a better bliss On other unknown shores! When all is winter here and ice, There ever-smiling Paradise Unfolds its happy doors.

Teach me, thou summer butterfly, To break the bonds which on me lie. With fetters all too firm. Ah, soon on golden purple wing The liberated soul shall spring, Which now creeps as a worm!

Teach me, O Lord, to yonder skies To lift in hope these weary eyes With earthly sorrows worn. Good Friday was a bitter day, But bright the sun's eternal ray Which broke on Easter morn.

THE END.

Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London & Bungay.

The present Series of Mrs. Ewing's Works is the only authorized, complete, and uniform Edition published.

It will consist of 18 volumes, Small Crown 8vo, at 2s. 6d. per vol., issued, as far as possible, in chronological order, and these will appear at the rate of two volumes every two months, so that the Series will be completed within 18 months. The device of the cover was specially designed by a Friend of Mrs. Ewing.

The following is a list of the books included in the Series—

1. MELCHIOR'S DREAM, AND OTHER TALES.

2. MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES.

3. OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY TALES.

4. A FLAT IRON FOR A FARTHING.

5. THE BROWNIES, AND OTHER TALES.

6. SIX TO SIXTEEN.

7. LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE, AND OTHER TALES.

8. JAN OF THE WINDMILL.

9. VERSES FOR CHILDREN, AND SONGS.

10. THE PEACE EGG—A CHRISTMAS MUMMING PLAY—HINTS FOR PRIVATE THEATRICALS, &c.

11. A GREAT EMERGENCY, AND OTHER TALES.

12. BROTHERS OF PITY, AND OTHER TALES OF BEASTS AND MEN.

13. WE AND THE WORLD, Part I.

14. WE AND THE WORLD, Part II.

15. JACKANAPES—DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOTE—THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

16. MARY'S MEADOW, AND OTHER TALES OF FIELDS AND FLOWERS.

17. MISCELLANEA, including The Mystery of the Bloody Hand—Wonder Stories—Tales of the Khoja, and other translations.

18. JULIANA HORATIA EWING AND HER BOOKS, with a selection from Mrs. Ewing's Letters.

S.P.C.K., NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, LONDON, W.C.

THE END