The Lost Boy. 307 THE LOST BOY. HE little boy wandered away, Nor thought what might betide him, With his faithful dog beside him; The flowers were gay, the leaves were green, The birds were singing on every spray, They rambled, rambled on, In many a pleasant path they run, But the sun has set, and a storm seems near, And the poor little boy is pale with fear: His mother is all alone, And sadly, sadly weeping; The father to seek the son is gone, She watches the clock, she watches the skies,- And where can he find a sheltered bed, The morning is fresh and fair, There's silver dew on the blossom, The mother she sits in her easy chair, "Oh, mother, dear mother, don't weep, I pray, PETER PARLEY. THE VILLAGE BOY. REE from the cottage corner, see how wild With every smell, and sound, and sight beguiled, That round the prospect meets his wondering eyes; As though he'd get them all,-now, tired of these, For some new flower his happy rapture sees,— Now, leering 'mid the bushes on his knees On woodland banks, for blue-bell flowers he creeps,- And now, while looking up among the trees, He spies a nest, and down he throws his flowers, The happiest object in the summer hours. JOHN CLARE. The Blind Boy. 309 THE SCULPTOR BOY. HISEL in hand stood a sculptor boy, And his face lit up, with a smile of joy, As an angel-dream passed o'er him : He carved it then on the yielding stone, With many a sharp incision; With heaven's own light the sculpture shone : Sculptors of life are we, as we stand, Its heavenly beauty shall be our own, Our lives, that angel-vision. BISHOP DOANE. THE BLIND BOY. SAY what is that thing called Light, What are the blessings of the sight, O tell your poor blind boy! You talk of wondrous things you see, You say the sun shines bright; I feel him warm, but how can he Or make it day or night? My day or night myself I make And could I ever keep awake With heavy sighs I often hear Then let not what I cannot have Although a poor blind boy. C. CIBBER. THE ENGLISH BOY. OOK from the ancient mountains down, My noble English boy! Thy country's fields around thee gleam In sunlight and in joy. Ages have rolled since foeman's march To freedom and to God! Gaze proudly on, my English boy, From every chainless wind. The English Boy. There in the shadow of old Time, The halls beneath thee lie, Which poured forth to the fields of yore Our England's chivalry. How bravely and how solemnly They stand midst oak and yew; Where Crecy's yeoman haply framed The bow, in battle true. 311 And round their walls the good swords hang, And shields of knighthood, pure from stain; Gaze where the hamlet's ivied church Or where the minster lifts the cross Martyrs have showered their free hearts' blood Unfettered to the skies. Along their aisles, beneath their trees, This earth's most glorious dust, Once fired with valour, wisdom, song, Is laid in holy trust. Gaze on-gaze further, further yet,— My gallant English boy; Yon blue sea bears thy country's flag The billow's pride and joy. |